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would be enough.”
    “Consider it done.” Bryce glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Why don’t we check with your mother, then set a time after lunch. How would that be?”
    “Splendid, sir.”
    Bryce looked past Peter, searching the crowd until he spied Cook. He was stunned to see tears gathered in her eyes. “Is that acceptable?” he asked.
    “You’re very kind, Mr. Lyndley. Thank you.”
    “You’re more than welcome Mrs. …” He paused in question.
    “Hayzeldenton,” the buxom woman supplied, dashing the moisture from her eyes and giving Bryce a warm smile. “Which is far too long and much too difficult to pronounce. So please call me Cook. Everyone at Nevon Manor does.” She sank into a curtsy, her bowed head disappearing into the pillow of her own bosom. “I’m honored to meet you, sir,” she declared as she rose.
    “I’m pleased to meet you as well, Cook.” Bryce was relieved to see that she was still breathing.
    “Excellent. Now you’ve met Cook,” Hermione said with a nod of approval. “Mrs. Gordon?” She gestured toward the housekeeper. “It’s your turn.”
    The stout woman with the twigs for hair marched forward. “How do you do, Mr. Lyndley?” she barked. “I trust your shoes are clean.”
    Bryce blinked. “Pardon me?”
    “Mrs. Gordon keeps an immaculate house,” Hermione supplied. “She believes in cleanliness …”
    “And discipline,” the housekeeper added.
    “Of course. And discipline,” Hermione amended. Lowering her gaze, she studied Bryce’s shoes intently. “I don’t think you need concern yourself, Mrs. Gordon,” she pronounced. “Mr. Lyndley is clearly neat as a pin.”
    With a suspicious glance at Bryce’s feet, the housekeeper gave a wary sniff. “I’m glad to hear that. I have enough trouble keeping things in order as it is. Take that rabbit for example. Why, I’m sure by now he’s covered Lily’s room with his tracks.”
    “I sympathize with your plight, Mrs. Gordon.” Bryce found himself studying his own shoes, grateful to see they were devoid of any offensive specks of dirt. “I’ll do my best not to contribute to your dilemma.”
    “See that you do.” With that, the housekeeper turned and strode back to her place.
    “Mrs. Gordon has been with me for one and thirty years,” Hermione explained to Bryce, showing not a trace of discomfort at her servant’s sharp tongue. “Ever since your mother left her position here in order to oversee my Bedford cottage and, of course, to raise you. I was so dependent on Mrs. Lyndley—I’d never have survived losing her had it not been for Mrs. Gordon’s ability to step right in and take charge. She’s been a lifesaver all these years.” Pausing, Hermione glanced over at Bryce, a flicker of amusement twinkling in her eyes. “You needn’t look so terrified,” she murmured for his ears alone. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”
    “I’ll try to remember that,” Bryce returned dryly.
    “Now then,” Hermione continued in a normal tone. “For the rest of the family. Wilson, as you’ve probably guessed, is our incomparable gardener. Over there”—she gestured toward the leathery fellow on the right—“is Reaney, who runs the stables as if they were Ascot, acting as groom, trainer, and stableman all in one … and that’s despite his advanced case of gout. Standing between Wilson and Reaney”—a wave toward the babbling fellow with the misbuttoned uniform—“is Goodsmith, the finest driver and storyteller in all of England. Say hello to Mr. Lyndley, gentlemen.”
    All three men complied.
    Before Bryce could catch his breath, Hermione launched onward, introducing a long line of footmen, maids, and serving girls whose names Bryce couldn’t retain but all of whom had two things in common: their unswerving loyalty—both to Hermione and to each other—and their obvious and assorted oddities, the essence of which clearly diminished their effectiveness as employees.
    And yet Hermione