The Strange Case of Finley Jayne (Steampunk Chronicles 0.5)(5)

The driver of the carriage stood on the sidewalk. He immediately came forward to take Finley’s bags and the trunk and loaded them onto the back of the vehicle. While he was doing this, Silas turned to Finley and offered her a small, paper-wrapped package.

“What’s this?” she asked, plucking at the string tied around the paper. Of course it was a book. Silas always gave her books on what he considered important occasions.

“Just a little something,” he replied with a warm smile. “I know how much you like the gothic ones. I reckon you’re old enough for this now.”

Finley arched a brow. “It must be truly frightening then.”

“Your mother certainly thought so when she read it. I found it an interesting and provoking look at human nature.”

Her lips curved. “Now you make it sound utterly boring.”

Laughing, he patted her shoulder. “You’ll like it. Of that I’m certain.” His smile faded, but the loving glint in his eye did not. “Take care of yourself, my dear girl. If it’s not what you want, you can always come back here and work with me in the shop.”

Finley hugged him. “I will, thank you.” But they both knew she wouldn’t. Silas managed to make a comfortable living for himself and her mother with just the two of them working in the store. It wouldn’t impinge upon them much if she did work there and lived at home, but she wanted to support herself. Silas had always been good to her, but there were situations when she was painfully aware that she wasn’t really his daughter—this was one of those.

He released her and she turned toward the coachman who had put down the steps and held the carriage door open for her. He assisted her into the carriage and then closed the door.

The vehicle was as fine inside as out, lined with rich, maroon velvet. Finley ran her palms over the fabric. The seat was so soft she sank into it. She’d slept in beds that weren’t as comfortable.

As the carriage lurched forward, so did she, peering out the window to wave goodbye—first to Silas, then to her mother, who was still in the upstairs window, a crushed handkerchief in her hand.

Poor Mama. Finley wiped at her own eyes, which were inexplicably starting to water, and leaned back to enjoy the drive to Mayfair.

The rhythmic noise of the engine was strangely relaxing. She leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She must have dozed because it seemed like she had been in the carriage for only a few minutes before it came to a stop. Jerking upright, she peeked out the window and saw a grand, gray stone mansion looming in front of her.

The carriage door opened. This time there was a footman to lower the steps and assist her to the gravel drive.

“Welcome to Morton Manor, miss,” he greeted her cordially. “Mrs. Gale will show you to the parlor where Lady Morton will receive you. I’ll see to your belongings.”

Mrs. Gale had to be the housekeeper. “Thank you,” Finley said. She turned toward the house. It was huge. Stately. Silas’s shop could fit dozens of times over into this grand estate—one of many the family probably owned.

Even if Lady Morton’s daughter turned out to be a cow, living in a house this fine was definitely a benefit.

Mayfair was like a different world from the bustling area around Silas’s shop. That was in Russell Square, where people lived, worked and shopped. Mayfair was where rich people idled through their days, entertained in the evening and let other people clean up after them.

Perhaps she had inherited some of her mother’s prejudice, but that didn’t make her opinion wrong.

Before she reached the top step leading up to the servants’ entrance, the door opened to reveal the kind face of a woman old enough to be Finley’s grandmother. She wore a black-and-white dress and a white cap that identified her as the housekeeper.

“Good morning, dear. I trust you had a comfortable journey?”

“Good morning,” Finley replied. “I did, yes. Are you Mrs. Gale?”

Apple cheeks lifted in a smile. “I am indeed. Come in, come in.”

Finley moved past her, into the foyer. It was small, but clean and smelled of freshly baked bread.

“Kitchen’s down below,” Mrs. Gale said, nodding at a partially opened door that led down a flight of stairs. Finley could hear the clang of pots and chattering voices.

“Smells wonderful,” she commented.

“You go down there when you’re settled in and Cook will give you bread and molasses. I declare it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Now, follow me.”

Finley trailed after the portly woman. Along the way they ran into various other staff, who nodded and said hello. Mrs. Gale introduced her to all of them, and Finley tried to remember all their names.

“I’ll show you to your room, then take you to Lady Morton,” Mrs. Gale informed her, her sturdy form moving with surprising speed toward what had to be the servants’ staircase. It was fairly wide and well-worn, partially hidden not far from what Mrs. Gale told her was the door to the corridor that led to the laundry building.

“Her ladyship requested that you be given a room on the family floor.”

There was no censure in the older woman’s voice, but Finley was uncomfortable all the same. At her last job she’d slept on the top floor, in a room she shared with three of the other maids.

“Why?” she asked.