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you still had your father,” Trevor noted.
    â€œNot really. Oh, he tried. Truly he did. But I think he simply could not go on without Mama. I am convinced that he died of a broken heart, not influenza.”
    She told him of her father’s losing his parish and being sent as a curate in a poorer district. Trevor, who had never in his life had to deal firsthand with deprivation, was astonished at her simple acceptance of the reduced circumstances she had endured. When her father died, she had gone to live as the proverbial “poor relation” in her uncle’s household.
    He expressed sympathy for her.
    â€œOh, you must not feel sorry for me,” she assured him. “I have not been trained to run a fine household, but I promise I can learn. I shall try to be a good wife to you.”
    Was this what had occupied her mind most of the day? She had been remarkably quiet during the journey.
    â€œI am sure it will work out fine,” he said with far more confidence than he felt.
    She was apparently determined to start her “good wife” project that very evening. She made no demur at sharing his bed—and in the next few days she willingly let him “have his way with her.” However, despite the release he found in her body, he came away from their encounters with a vague feeling of disappointment.
    Perhaps if he loved her, it would be different. But he knew he would never love her. He felt sorry for her and rather liked her, but, after all, she was not his type.
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    The day after their arrival at Atherton, Trevor planned to spend the morning examining the property with the steward, Mr. Felkins. After he left the breakfast table, Caitlyn asked the footman who had served them to send the housekeeper to her. It took some time, but eventually the woman, whom Caitlyn had met only briefly the night before, arrived.
    The housekeeper was a very plump female of indeterminate years with iron gray hair and dark eyes. She wore a dark dress and had a ring of keys hanging conspicuously at her belt.
    â€œYou wanted me, Mrs. Jeffries?”
    It was the first time Caitlyn had been addressed by her married name. She found herself inordinately pleased.
    â€œYes. It is Mrs. Bassett, is it not?” The woman nodded, eyed the new mistress, and then looked at nothing above Caitlyn’s head and waited. “I should like you to show me through the house. My husband tells me he, too, is unfamiliar with it.”
    â€œRight now?” Mrs. Bassett’s tone was slightly challenging. “I was just finishing me breakfast.”
    â€œOh. Well, then . . . in—say—fifteen minutes?” Caitlyn tried to sound firm.
    â€œVery well.” The woman turned to leave, the keys jangling as she waddled back to the kitchen.
    Twenty minutes later, Caitlyn glanced again at the mantel clock. The door opened and Mrs. Bassett came in, wiping her mouth with her bare hand.
    â€œOh, there you are,” Caitlyn said brightly. “I should like to begin with the kitchen, if you please.”
    The housekeeper shrugged. “Makes me no never-mind, but Perkins might not take too kindly to it.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œShe don’t like being interrupted when she’s baking, and Monday is her baking day.”
    â€œI see.” Caitlyn considered this for a moment. “Well. She will have to tolerate it today, will she not?”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    Even to Caitlyn’s unpracticed eye, the kitchen seemed to be run in a rather slipshod manner. True, the supper served the night before had been acceptable and this morning’s breakfast had been edible, if a bit spare in terms of variety. But she observed that pots piled in a tub to be washed seemed encrusted with long-dried food. Ashes from the hearth spilled over to the surrounding floor. Elsewhere there were dried splashes of Lord-knew-what on the slate slabs that made up the kitchen floor.
    The cook, Perkins, started