Moss Manor, page 1
Moss Manor
MARTHA SWEENEY
Moss Manor written by Martha Sweeney
Copyright © 2022 Martha Sweeney
Publishing 2022 WWN Publishing Group
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Copy Editors: Martha Sweeney & Thomas Sweeney
Cover Design: Martha Sweeney
Background Photo by Jason Thompson on Unsplash
Woman Photo by ekaterina1922 on AdobeStock Extended License
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All rights reserved. This book was self-published by the author, Martha Sweeney, under WWN Publishing Group. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without the express written permission of the author. This includes reprints, excerpts, photocopying, recording, or any future means of reproducing text and stories.
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If you would like to do any of the above, please seek permission first by contacting the author at: www.marthasweeney.com
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Published in The United States by WWN Publishing Group
Moss Manor ISBN ebook: 9798201988388
Moss Manor ISBN paperback: 978-1-4583-7230-7
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
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Also by Martha Sweeney
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Thank you, my best friend, my partner, my lover, the love of my life, my husband, Thomas Sweeney, for being you and being in my life. Here’s to our love, our laughter, and our never-ending journey through the cosmos together. I love you!
A special thanks to Danielle Urban. Your support since the beginning means so much. Thank you for BETA reading this story.
Thank you, T. R. Cupak for your friendships and support! Please keep writing and sharing your stories. You will always have a fan in me!
Thank you, the reader, for reading my book(s), and thank you for being a part of this awesome book community!
Chapter One
“The new Lord and Lady are expected to arrive in three weeks’ time,” announces Mrs. Doyle, glancing back over the letter in her hand for the third time. She grins with excitement.
Mr. Jackson, the foreman, grunts in reply as he finishes his lunch.
“What is their name?” Britney inquires as she stirs the stew.
“Woolridge,” Mrs. Doyle confirms.
“It’ll be fun to have a new Lord and Lady in the house,” Rosemary states excitedly.
“We’ve gotten along well without any—“
“Hold your tongue, Mr. Jackson,” Mrs. Doyle warns. She turns her attention to the rest of the staff. “Lunch is over. Take what’s left with you. We have much to attend to in order to prepare the manor and grounds for the family.”
“Do you think they have any children?” inquires Nydia as she follows Minerva, Iris, Rosemary, and Britney out of the kitchen.
“Children would be lovely,” Britney returns as her voice fades in the next room.
The outside door slams shut after the last male worker exits the kitchen.
Mrs. Doyle turns sharply on her heels. “You need to learn to—“
“I need to do no such thing,” Mr. Jackson returns coldly.
“You are head of the farm,” Mrs. Doyle reminds. “You need to lead by example.”
Mr. Jackson does not reply as he stuffs the last few bites of his meal into his mouth.
Mrs. Doyle snatches the plate full of cookies before he’s able to take one. “We all miss Lord Quincy. He was a good man.”
Mr. Jackson snorts in reply, more at the fact that one of the few men he’d come to respect has passed away. He’s never had the same kind of respect for any other man in high society. “Inherited by city dwellers.”
Mrs. Doyle smacks him on the back of his head. “Did you honestly think Lord Quincy would have relinquished this property to you? You know that—“
“What do they know of farming?” he quips. “They are family who has never visited him once.”
“Not while you’ve been employed here,” Mrs. Doyle reminds. “I have been here much longer than you.”
Mr. Jackson rolls his eyes. Though he is the senior member of the staff by rank, Mrs. Doyle has almost fifteen years of service over him. When she turns her back, he stretches and snags a cookie from the plate that now rests on the counter.
“Would you honestly be able to give up your job to be the owner?” Not giving him a chance to reply she adds, “I cannot see you giving up the control you have to another person.”
“That, we agree on,” Mr. Jackson confirms.
“Then, perhaps it is best Lord Quincy’s estate was left to his nephew’s son,” she states.
Mr. Jackson is silent as he chews.
“He has no other family,” Mrs. Doyle reminds. “It is not uncommon—“
Mr. Jackson grunts loud enough that she stops speaking. They’re both silent long enough for him to retrieve another confection.
“Time for you to get back to work,” Mrs. Doyle directs. She swats at his hand when he reaches for a third cookie while also yanking the plate in the opposite direction.
His eyes narrow in protest though he doesn’t possess a single bone in his body that would lay a violent finger on a woman. He wouldn’t dare.
“Be gone with you,” Mrs. Doyle commands playfully.
“Woman,” Mr. Jackson grunts as he makes his way to the doorway.
Mrs. Doyle chuckles to herself. Despite his hard exterior, she knows the kindness that lies within the heart of Mr. Jackson. “That man needs a wife. That is what would settle him for the better.”
“Who are you talking to or about?” Gale, one of the housemaids, inquires as she enters the kitchen.
“God,” Mrs. Doyle replies. “You girls should have more conversations with God at night, rather than playing those silly card games.”
Gale shrugs. “It’s more fun.”
“Is that so?”
Gale nods. “God never speaks back. It’s a boring, one-way conversation.”
“Maybe you’re not listening hard enough?” Mrs. Doyle states with her hand on her hip.
Gale’s head sways. “I may only be twenty-two years of age, but if God hasn’t spoken to me by now, then I doubt he’ll start.”
Mrs. Doyle lets out a snort-like chuckle. “What do you need, girl?”
“Rosemary wanted to know if we should set out all of the good pieces for the arrival of the new family.”
Mrs. Doyle nods. “Yes. Everything needs to be cleaned and presented well. Send Priscilla and Iris to come clean the kitchen and I’ll come help you girls get what needs to be gotten.”
“Mr. Joel says he smells rain on the horizon,” she informs.
Mrs. Doyle glances out the window and contemplates for a moment. “Did he say how much?”
Gale shrugs. “A day or two.”
With a nod, Mrs. Doyle replies, “There’s much we can prepare and wait to do the good linens after the rain has gone.”
Gale curtsies and leaves Mrs. Doyle without another word.
“Lord help this manor,” Mrs. Doyle requests, looking out the window. “You know we need it.”
Chapter Two
“They’re here!” shouts Iris, running through the house. “They’re here! The new Lord and Lady are here!”
The rest of the house staff rush to finish or tidy their workspaces before heading out the front door to greet the new family.
Mrs. Doyle rights the girls’ attire before standing at the top of the five-step stairway that leads into the house.
“Can you imagine riding on a train?” Minerva asks.
“Not at all,” Rosemary replies. “Those contraptions aren’t safe.”
“How would you know?” Iris asks.
“Hush,” Mrs. Doyle commands.
The workers fall silent, but only momentarily.
“Do you think she’s pretty?” Britney asks eagerly.
“I’m sure she is,” Iris replies. “What lady from the city wouldn’t be?”
“What will her clothes look like?” Priscilla asks. “I bet they’re grand.”
“I bet she has some of the finest silks from India,” Minerva speculates.
“How do you know what silk from India looks like?” Gale inquires.
Minerva shrugs. “I’ve heard ladies in town speak of it.”
“The shop is hoping to get some,” Rosemary states. “I heard Mrs.—”
“Hush,” Mrs. Doyle scolds as the sound of the horse and buggy gets closer.
The click and clatter of horse hooves striking the ground increase in volume and suddenly they breach the corner of the high stone wall that defines the inner courtyard of the main home. When Mr. Jackson doesn’t dismount his horse, Mrs. Doyle’s face falls while she watches the carriage pulled toward the barn.
“Where is the new Lord and Lady?” Mrs. Doyle inquires with concern as she steps off her perch.
“There’s apparently a delay,” Mr. Jackson declares with irritation.
“Delay?” Mrs. Doyle repeats. “What kind of a delay?”
“How am I to know?” he barks. “I’ve wasted half of the morning for nothing.”
“I’m sure they sent word,” Mrs. Doyle assumes. “I’m certain. They’ve been diligent with all other correspondence.”
“Doesn’t matter since it hasn’t reached us,” Mr. Jackson returns sharply.
“What shall we do with their things?” Nydia asks.
Mr. Joel stops the cart just before the main doors.
Mrs. Doyle contemplates their options. “We’ll carry them into the foyer. When our Lady arrives, she’ll direct us what goes where.”
“Why don’t we just look to see—“
“Would you wish for a stranger to go through your things, Britney?”
“No, ma’am,” she replies bashfully. “My apologies.”
Mrs. Doyle offers a curt nod, knowing that this is the first home Britney has ever served.
The house staff return to their duties as Mr. Jackson continues past the house and heads straight for the barn. He unhooks the cart with the aid of Mr. Joel. Instead of stalling the horse, Mr. Jackson continues to ride out into the pastures to check on Mr. Kurt, Oscar, and Reuben who are moving the cattle to the new pasture.
The next two weeks for the farm and manor are nothing out of the ordinary as the staff patiently wait for the arrival of the family. The extra time affords them the ability to be beyond prepared as well as get a few extra tasks completed with the weather being nicer than usual for this time of year.
“Don’t be late,” Mrs. Doyle directs.
“I’ll leave when I’m good and ready,” Mr. Jackson states, taking his time finishing his breakfast.
“His lordship and her ladyship are set to arrive at the station by—“
“I’m well aware,” he states. “Mind your own business.”
“Do not start this house off wrong just because you have a stick up your arse,” Mrs. Doyle accuses.
“I won’t be late,” he claims.
“If you—“
“I promise,” Mr. Jackson says reassuringly.
Mrs. Doyle regards him for a moment. “I will have your head on a spit and I’ll feed it to the pigs.”
He chuckles and finishes his drink. “I’m going, wench.”
“Wench?” Mrs. Doyle balks, kicking toward his bottom.
Mr. Jackson swats her foot away, but Mrs. Doyle maintains her balance.
“Dunderhead,” Mrs. Doyle quips.
With a chuckle, he states, “Now you’re showing your age, old maid.”
“I will—“
Mr. Jackson rushes out of the kitchen faster than a fox in a hen house, avoiding the wrath of Mrs. Doyle. He laughs to himself, glad for the moment of reprieve with her spryness. Mrs. Doyle is the only person who can stand her own against him. If she wasn’t as old as his mother, but he guesses she could be a bit older, she’d be the only woman he would consider marrying. He enjoys their conversations, she cooks good food, and she keeps him sharp when they play cards or other games.
As he sits at the station, Mr. Jackson lets out a heavy breath after he checks his small pocket watch once more. The train is late, but he’s uncertain if it is common. Most fieldworkers haven’t traveled by train because it’s too expensive. Plus, most are afraid of the rumors. It’s been said that one’s own head can be rattled so hard from the speed that it becomes mush and they’re dead not long after.
Regardless of what may cause a delay, he imagines that it is the fault of the new family given their track record thus far.
Off in the distance, the train whistles and Mr. Jackson rights himself on his horse. He didn’t bother bringing the carriage nor a cart. This is his little slight toward the new family for making him and the rest of the staff wait without a word until the day prior regarding their new arrival time.
Once the train pulls to a halt, the passengers disembark one by one. Mr. Jackson keeps his eye out for a husband and a wife, but all pass by and go along their merry way as he calls out the family name in vain.
“Lord Woolridge?” He glances back and forth and even rides around to the opposite side of the building. “Lord Woolridge.”
“Excuse me,” a woman inquires as she approaches him.
Mr. Jackson pays her no attention and continues past her on horseback. “Lord Woolridge.” Anger begins to rise inside him.
“Excuse me,” the woman repeats.
Mr. Jackosn barely glances down, yet her beauty captures his attention enough to catch him slightly off guard. “Unless you know Lor—“
“I do,” the woman interrupts. “He and Lady Woolridge sent me. I have been—“
Mr. Jackson scoffs.
“Is there a problem?” the woman asks, unafraid of showing her displeasure.
“I am to escort you back to the house?” he inquires looking her up and down.
She is in proper clothing, but nothing that would make it challenging for her to ride.
“Yes,” she confirms, revealing part of a piece of paper. She slips it back inside her jacket. “I’m…Miss Moss. I have been sent to tend to the manor.”
“There was no mention of anyone other than—“
“Do you dare question the direction of Lord Woolridge?”
Mr. Jackson’s eyes narrow. “You’re telling me that Lord Woolridge is temporarily leaving the dealings of his land to you?”
“What is your name?”
“I don’t see how that is of your concern.”
Miss Moss takes a confident step toward him. “Judging by Lord Woolridge’s letters, you are Mr. Jackson, foreman of the farm, correct?”
“The one and only ma’am.” He lifts his hat an inch or two above his head for a brief second before returning it.
“Regardless of your role at the manor—“
“Farm,” he corrects.
She squares her shoulders. “Regardless of your role at the farm,” she begins, accentuating her last word. “The dealings of Lord and Lady Woolridge are for you to do as they please and not to question it.”
His eyes narrow. “No woman oversees a—“
“Plenty oversee a home,” Miss Moss quips. “I’ve heard that Mrs. Doyle has done an excellent job doing so for many years for Lord Quincy.”
“What is your relation to Lord Quincy and Lord Woolridge?”
Her eyes narrow. “I do not see how that is any of your business. How dare you speak to me in such a way.”
“It’s my business as foreman,” he returns coldly.
Taking a step forward, Miss Moss inquires, “You dare speak to a close friend of Lord and Lady Woolridge as such?”
Mr. Jackson swallows hard, hating how she’s calling him out. He knows it is not his place. Lord Quincy would have words with him if he were to find out.
“Where is the carriage?” She glances past him in search of it.
He lifts his chin with a hint of spite. “Just the horses today, ma’am.”
