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to growl at their entrance, but on being introduced to the new mistress, merely scowled instead. Caitlyn surmised the woman had worn the same apron for a week.
    â€œWhere does that door lead?” Caitlyn asked, pointing to one of the four besides the one through which she had just entered.
    â€œThat one goes to Cook’s quarters,” Bassett said. “They are private quarters, of course.” Again there seemed a slight challenge in her tone.
    â€œOf course,” Caitlyn agreed with a glance at the still scowling Perkins.
    â€œThat one is the pantry. Silver is stored there. And that one”—Bassett pointed at each—“goes down to the cellar. The other opens to the back garden and out to the stables.”
    â€œI shall see the pantry and the cellar,” Caitlyn said firmly.
    The housekeeper made a production of unlocking each of the doors. Caitlyn knew when she saw it that the disordered mess of the pantry should not be surprising after the slovenly care of the kitchen, but it was. The cellar was filthy and smelled of stale wine and rodent droppings.
    â€œGood heavens. When was this cellar cleaned last?”
    â€œAll cellars gather dust, miss—uh, ma’am.” The housekeeper sounded both condescending and defensive.
    Caitlyn said nothing, but vowed that this cellar would have a thorough cleaning in the very near future. Before she gave such an order, though, she wanted to see more of her new home.
    By the time she had been through the rest of the house—and it took the whole morning, with the housekeeper ostentatiously rattling keys as she unlocked and relocked each door—Caitlyn was overwhelmed by what it would take to set it to rights. Even the master suite, which last night had seemed passable, was in dire need of a thorough cleaning.
    A thick coating of dust rested on furniture in rarely used rooms, and one could see exactly which corridors were used most by the trails through dust in halls and on stairs.
    Mrs. Bassett became more quietly defensive in her attitude as the inspection progressed. “As you can see, ma’am, we have not enough help for this big house.”
    â€œHmm,” was Caitlyn’s noncommittal response.
    â€œThere has not been a proper mistress here since Lady Bennington passed on—more than three years gone now. She was ill a long, long time before that, you see.”
    Caitlyn was of the opinion that there had not been a proper housekeeper in all that time, either, but she kept this thought to herself. No sense in alienating members of the staff just yet.
    â€œWhere are the household ledgers?” she asked when the tour was finished.
    â€œI . . . uh . . . they are in my quarters.” Bassett sounded a bit hesitant, but her voice was more firm as she added, “I take care of the books.”
    Caitlyn was suddenly aware of her extreme youth. And she knew the fact that she appeared even younger than she was often misled others into underestimating her. She suspected that was the case with the housekeeper.
    â€œMrs. Bassett.”
    â€œYes, ma’am?”
    â€œYou will bring those ledgers to me in the library after lunch. You will also see that I have a set of those keys with each of them properly labeled.”
    â€œWell, now. That might take some time, Mrs. Jeffries.”
    Caitlyn merely raised an eyebrow at the slighting intonation the other woman put on her name. “After our luncheon,” she said firmly.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
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    That evening Caitlyn shared her concerns about the state of the household with Trevor.
    â€œSomehow your report does not surprise me,” he told her, “for, indeed, the whole place is in need of attention.”
    â€œThis is such a lovely area.” Caitlyn’s voice was almost plaintive.
    â€œAye. It is. East Anglia is said to have some of the most productive land in all of England. But this place has been let go to ruin. It will take