I left Miss Oleson's house a little while later with the contents of the letter swirling through my head. Like everyone else, I believed the bruises and cut on Mr Turner's face had been the cause of a fight, but that was based on rumours and stories. The reality was a whole lot worse.

My mind spun for the rest of the evening, trying to figure out what the best move would be knowing what I knew. Sarah had made me promise not to say anything about her or Mark, and I didn't intend to, but someone needed to know about Miss Bolton. Lord Turner appeared insistent that the match between her and Mr Turner was for the best, but it wasn't.

There was little I could do, though. If I made an attempt to voice my concerns to anyone, they would be dismissed. No one listened to servants, especially when it came to something that would be viewed as gossip. I could lose my position, land myself in danger, or worse. They still needed to know before something worse happened to Mr Turner.

"You're quiet this morning," Martha said. She lightly tapped my arm with a duster, pulling me from my reverie.

"Just thinking."

"Come to think of it, you've been quiet since you returned from the village yesterday. Everything alright?"

"Fine. It's just this whole thing with Mr Turner and the way he's not talking to anyone."

"He's just acting like a child. It happens." She shrugged. "I remember when Sarah was dismissed, he didn't come out of his room for two weeks. Lord Turner considered forcing the lock to get the door open. If it comes to it, they'll just do that again."

I nodded, tugging on my bottom lip. With everything I knew about Mr Turner's relationship with Sarah, it didn't surprise me all that much that he fell apart after her dismissal. What confused me was the way Martha made it seem as though he was throwing a tantrum rather than expressing genuine emotion. It was no wonder he acted out if no one ever trusted his true feelings.

His decision to hide away this time was entirely different. It wasn't because he was heartbroken or throwing a tantrum; it was out of fear for what Miss Bolton might do. I thought back to the morning after Mr Turner's trip to the public house and the way she had been lurking in the west wing. She shouldn't have been there on her own, not if she wanted to avoid a scandal of her own. The fact that was willing to take the risk surprised me, but she no doubt knew that Mr Turner would never tell anyone the truth.

I returned to my chores, but my mind refused to move on from Mr Turner and his struggles. How could I make Lord Turner see the truth? Perhaps I could ensure Miss Bolton got caught out, but how? She had been so careful in the past; she wasn't going to fall for whatever trick I tried to play.

The only other option was for Mr Turner to come clean, but I knew that wouldn't happen. His pride would never allow him.

Martha nudged me in the side with her elbow, gesturing to the door to the parlour where Miss Bolton stood. She narrowed her eyes at me, her hands clenched into fists. Dark bruises covered her knuckles.

I dropped into a slight curtsey. "Good morning, Miss Bolton."

"Have you seen my father? I cannot seem to find him."

"I haven't. He might be in Lord Turner's study."

"I shall check there, thank you."

Miss Bolton turned on her heel and disappeared, her footsteps disappearing up the stairs. Martha looked at me with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Did you see her knuckles? I wonder how she did that."

"I'd hate to think."

"Come on, we should finish before Mrs Folkestone comes to find us." She tapped me with the duster again and returned to the shelf behind her.

We spent the next half an hour moving through the downstairs room and ensuring they were dust-free before anyone came down, but I couldn't concentrate. All I could see were the bruises splattered across Miss Bolton's knuckles and the look on her face. She certainly didn't seem happy, not that she had the whole time she'd been staying with Lord Turner.

The bruises on her knuckles gave me more pause for thought than perhaps she realised. I thought back to the afternoon of the supper when I had been asked to light the fire in Miss Bolton's room. That afternoon, she kept her hand hidden from my view and it was the same day the bruises had appeared on Mr Turner's chest. Not only that, but it was the same night he refused to let Paul do his job as valet in helping him get ready for supper.

But I couldn't prove it. I could theorise all I wanted, make assumptions based on what was put in front of me, but none of it was confirmed as fact. It wouldn't be unless Mr Turner would tell them the truth once and for all.

"That man is starting to drive me up the wall," Paul said. He marched into the kitchen, a face like thunder, and crossed his arms over his chest. Everyone stopped to look at him, all half-amazed to see him talk about Mr Turner in such a way.

"What's he done?" Bertie asked.

"Refused me entry into his room. Again. He's locked the door and refuses to open it." Paul looked at me. "He said he'll only open it if Lily goes up to see him."

I frowned. "Why me?"

"I don't know, but it's hardly appropriate, and he knows it. After everything with Sarah, I'm surprised he is willing to take the risk."

"Can I go?" I looked at Mrs Folkestone, who stood in the corner of the room, staring at Paul. "He is asking for me, after all."

"I don't think that's wise, Lily. Not with his reputation."

"Nothing has happened between us, not in the way you're thinking of. If it's the only way to get him out of his room, surely it is something to consider. Everything else has failed."

Mrs Folkestone scratched her chin. I knew she didn't want a repeat of Sarah's dismissal, but it was either I go up there, or the door gets knocked down. "Alright, but you have ten minutes. If you're not down here by then, I'll send Paul up."

"Yes, ma'am."

I slipped out of the kitchen before anyone could protest, stopping by one of the storerooms to grab some bandages — just in case my theory proved to be correct. I threw myself up the stairs and to the west wing. The hallway was silent, with everyone downstairs and no one willing to cross Mr Turner in his current state.

His bedroom door was closed.

I lightly tapped my knuckles against the wood, listening for any sort of movement inside. "Mr Turner? It's Lily."

The lock clicked, and the door opened just enough for me to slip inside before it promptly slammed shut and locked again. I turned to look at Mr Turner.

He stood in nothing but a pair of content trousers, bruises covering his torso and face.

~~~

First Published - March 6th, 2024