The letter disappeared with the morning post and no one was any the wiser to who sent it. Relief flooded through me as it left, knowing no one could connect it back to me unless someone saw me slip it into the stack of post being sent that morning. Just having it on my person filled me with nerves and I struggled to sleep, knowing it was so close. Watching it disappear lifted a weight off my chest.

Still, my mind remained on the name scrawled on the front. It wasn't a name I recognised, but I'd managed to decipher the address and knew it was someone in the village. Why would Mr Turner be writing to someone in the village? More importantly, why would he be so secretive about it?

"Over a week since Mr Turner's return and the house is still standin'," Bertie said over breakfast. "I thought we'd starin' at a pile of rubble by now."

"Don't say that." Martha smacked him on the back of the hand.

"Wha'? It's true!"

"It might be, but if you say that it's all going to go wrong again, and if it doesn't, I'm going to blame you." She waved a spoon at Bertie, almost threatening him with it. "You know the rules. No saying things are going well because it only goes wrong afterwards."

"Nothin' is goin' to go wrong. Trust me." Bertie smiled as though he knew a secret no one else did.

Martha looked at me and rolled her eyes just as the bells rang to summon the upper servants to attend to the family. Those who answered the running bells glared at Bertie when they scrambled to their feet. It was a well-known superstition amongst servants that claiming everything was going well would turn the day on its head. Whatever calm had been in place would disappear.

After hastily eating the last remnants of our breakfasts, Martha and I split up to tackle the ground-floor rooms before the family emerged for the day. I started in the parlour, lighting the fire to fill the room with a warm heat to hopefully keep the winter air at bay. With the fire lit, I set about dusting the shelves and making the room presentable. It would be at least an hour before the family left their rooms.

I moved through the ground floor, lighting the fires and clearing what little dust had settled overnight. It was slow, monotonous work that left me alone with my thoughts, particularly those surrounding the mysterious letter.

At twenty-one years old, Mr Turner had the freedom to deliver the letter himself — though I suppose it would have come with rumours and gossip. He certainly seemed exacerbated by the countless rumours that followed him wherever he went. I didn't know what led to the list of rumours or gossip, and there may have been some truth to them, but he didn't like them.

Upstairs, loud voices echoed through the hallways. Mr Turner's voice carried more than anyone else's', but I couldn't make sense of anything that was said. Lord Turner's loud, booming voice followed. Somewhere, a door slammed.

"Bertie's dropped us in it," Martha said, poking her head around the door. "Mr Turner doesn't sound happy."

"No, he doesn't."

"Are either of you done?" Paul asked. He appeared in the doorway beside Martha, occasionally glancing up the stairs as though expecting something to happen. He tugged on his shirt collar.

"I am," I said, brushing soot and dust from my hands.

"Mr Turner is asking for the fire in his room to be lit. He's complaining it's cold in there, but be careful. He's not in the best of moods."

"We heard." Martha frowned. "What happened?"

"I don't know, not for certain. I'd already left the room before Lord Turner went in there and all I heard were snippets of conversations."

"Trust Bertie to get us all in trouble."

Martha pushed herself off the doorframe and disappeared down the hall, with Paul following a few seconds later. I checked my pockets to make sure I still had the matchbook tucked away.

My heart thumped in my chest as I slipped into the servant's staircase and made my way towards the west wing. I would have rather kept myself out of Mr Turner's way, especially given the raised voices, but I could hardly refuse to complete the task, especially if I wanted to keep my job.

I stepped out onto the west wing hallway, clutching the matchbook in my pocket. Mr Turner's bedroom door was wide open with no sign of him inside, something I was grateful for. At least I wouldn't have to worry about coming into contact with him when I lit the fire and I could make myself scarce long before he returned.

The fire in his fireplace flickered with small, almost invisible orange flames amongst the dark coals. I crouched down in front of it, pulling the matchbook from my pocket and placing it at the bottom. Using the fire poker, I prodded the coals to try to get them to catch, but the flame flickered and died away in seconds.

"Stupid thing. Just hurry up and light."

I sighed, grabbing the tongs. Beside the fireplace sat a metal container full of new coals and some balled-up pieces of paper that would allow the fire to catch. I stacked a few more coals onto the old ones and tucked several balls of old newspaper into the bottom that I hoped would catch with a new match.

Once they were settled, I lit a second match and placed it amongst the paper. It lit almost instantly. Orange flames danced amongst the coals, spreading throughout the fireplace until it became a roaring blaze amongst the black coals. I grabbed the poker to stoke the flames that little bit more.

"What are you doing in here? No one is supposed to be in my room!"

I jumped at the sound of the voice, jabbing the bottom of the fire with the poker with enough force to launch one of the burning balls of paper out of the grate. It flew towards me, catching the back of my hand.

~~~

First Published - February 24th, 2024