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house.”
    Mrs. Blake led them through the spacious Elizabethan hall, with its exposed beams and high windows designed to provide light to the vast space. Frances guessed that even on a clear day, the corners of the expansive room remained lost in shadow.
    Then up the stairs and onto a long corridor. “All three of you will be here. You in this room, Lady Frances, and my maid will be along to show your maid her room in the servants’ quarters. Gwen, your usual room is available, and you, Miss Calvin, will have an adjoining room. Now, I have things to see to, but if you want, you may gather later in the solar. I’ll have some refreshments sent there.”
    “A solar? You really have a solar here?” asked Frances. It was a gathering room in homes built centuries before. The term had long gone out of fashion.
    “It seems silly, I know,” said Mrs. Blake. “But an old house has old terms. We have a large drawing room, and the hall, which we rarely use, but we still like the old solar for family events.”
    “It could take days to get used to a house like this,” said Frances.
    “It takes years, I assure you. A lifetime,” said Mrs. Blake. “Again, welcome. Now Gwen, Miss Calvin, I’ll see you to your rooms.” She floated out.
    Frances found that her room was a large space for a guest room, with a view of the back lawn and the farmlands beyond. Again, Frances noted it had been immaculately cleaned and well-appointed. Footmen followed shortly with their luggage.
    Mallow was a practiced hand at unpacking, and soon had Frances’s clothes put away and her ladyship refreshed.
    “Mallow. I had a talk with Miss Calvin on the train. It seems that someone has been threatening her and Miss Kestrel, although Miss Calvin is the only one who knows.”
    “I am upset to hear that, my lady,” she said, her voice thick with indignation. “If I may say, there are no nicer ladies in London.”
    “I agree. I am going to try to find out who, and why. Miss Calvin was told not to come here this week, so it may be someone in the house. So just keep your ears open—if anything odd is happening here, or there is any gossip, let me know.”
    “Of course, my lady. And may I say I hope the local vicar is an effective preacher, so whoever did this will see the error of their ways this Sunday, and repent.”
    “I hope so too,” said Frances, although she had far less faith in religious conversion than her maid.
    Mallow had just finished unpacking when there was a knock on the door.
    “I am Jenkins, my lady, Mrs. Blake’s maid. I will show your maid to her room.” She cast an eye on Mallow, who stood straight and met her look right back. Jenkins was about the same age as her mistress and as tall—and not just tall. She was a large woman, built more like a cook than a maid , thought Frances.
    “This is my maid, Mallow.”
    Mallow tried to look serious, even haughty. Mallow was young for a lady’s maid, promoted when Frances went out on her own. She was sensitive about being taken seriously by older, more experienced maids.
    “Of course, you will be known as ‘Miss Ffolkes’ in the servants’ hall. We follow traditional ways here, and visiting servants are known by the names of their mistresses and masters, for simplicity.”
    “We follow the same customs in Seaforth Manor, country seat of the Marquess of Seaforth,” said Mallow with such clarity that Frances suspected she had rehearsed it. The meaning was clear: Jenkins may be lady’s maid to the mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie, but Mallow was lady’s maid in a noble household.
    Jenkins’s mouth gave a twitch, which Frances suspected was as close as she came to a smile. “Then there will be no confusion. We dine each evening promptly at eight o’ clock.” Mallow told her mistress she’d be back later to help her get ready for bed, then followed Jenkins. When they were gone, Frances grinned and shook her head. Her mother always said that even the greatest duchess in the