Page 3 of Tangwystle
“He was,” Baz admits. “He died last month.”
Fucking stars.
“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on throwing the staff out,” Baz added immediately. “A manor this large, it wouldn’t do to toss away the very people running the place.”
If he meant to placate me, it failed when he glanced around the cold, empty room, and a prickle of nerves ran down my skin.
“Who are you?” I asked. How did Blackwell Manor pass from some old great-nephew to. . . this young gentleman?
The snowflakes in his hair had melted. When he ran a hand through his wet hair, dark strands stuck up in a funny manner. “Blackwell’s great-nephew was my guardian. Most of his property passed to his son, but as a courtesy, I was given Blackwell Manor.”
Courtesy. Given.
My boots remained solid against the floor, but I swear the floor tilted in that moment. How nice it must be to just begivena property such as Blackwell Manor.
I’d always suspected the great-nephew had to be even more well off than the former Master Blackwell. Otherwise, he’d have come here in a scurry. There aren’t many that would turn down a place such as this.
Manors with a hint of magic in one of the biggest cities are a sign of affluence most don’t pass up. No wonder Baz had shown up to take possession the moment he could.
“I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat, not liking how attentively he stared at me. His facial expressions were too expressive. Too open. “For your loss.”
His head quirked to the side, and my fingers curled into my skirts. “Thank you,” he replied after a moment. Had he thought I might be rude and not offer my condolences? “How long have you worked here?”
“Seven years.”
“Making you the housemistress?”
I nodded.
“And the valet? The footmen?” His head swiveled around.
“They’ve moved on.”
He frowned. “My guardian continued to pay their wages.”
I got a half-penny every quarter, a pittance compared to what a man might get. The roof over my head and the safety from other men were what I was supposed to be appreciative of.
“They have not collected a wage for a while,” I clarified. His brow drew together. “Master Blackwell preferred a quiet manor.”
Peace and quiet, he used to always say. I couldn’t have agreed more.
“Boswell passed on a month after Master Blackwell,” I explained. He’d worked in the Manor for almost fifty years. I focused on the housework and cooking, and Boswell did everything else. I’d always appreciated his efficiency.
“Close the door,” Baz ordered.
Seven bags remained on the front steps. I hurried back and forth and then pushed the door closed, the metal groaning.
Having the door shut didn’t exactly warm the place up. The snowflakes Baz let in had only added to the deep chill that had settled over the place the past six months.
“Are there no fires?” he asked.
“I’ll start one. This way to the parlor.”
“So I can freeze in some ghastly, empty room?” He stepped around me, exploring the place. “Is there any tea?”
“Your coat is dripping.” I rushed after him. With the amount of luggage he’d brought, he’d certainly gotten a carriage. Yet somehow his clothes appeared to be soaked through. And I’m ashamed I didn’t see it at first.
But then again, how could I with his blue eyes never leaving mine? I could barely look away, even for a second.
