Moss Manor, page 2
Miss Moss lets out a heavy breath as she contemplates her response. “Fine.” Without another word, she picks up her two bags and carries them over to one of the free horses that Mr. Jackson has had tied to his saddle horn.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Jackson inquires. When Miss Moss, ignores him, he gets down from his horse. “What the bloody hell are—“
“Do not swear, Mr. Jackson,” Miss Moss states sternly. “Clearly, my presence is an inconvenience so get back on your horse and let me—“
He yanks the bag out of her hands and secures it to the horse. Miss Moss stands with anger and shock laced in her expression that makes her begin to shake. Then, Mr. Jackson snatches the second bag off the ground and secures it as well.
Without a word, Miss Moss makes her way to the other horse and begins to put her foot into the stirrup. In the next moment, she lets out a noise as her body is hoisted up by that of a hand just below her rear-end. She lands hard on the saddle but rights herself quickly after swatting Mr. Jackson’s hand away.
“I am perfectly capa—“
He storms around to his horse and mounts it with only the use of his arms. He barely glances back at his riding companion. “Ready?”
Miss Moss extends her hand, expecting the arrogant man to give her the reins.
Mr. Jackson ignores her and clicks his tongue to direct the three horses to begin moving. The two ride in silence for a long while.
“How long is the ride?”
He does not reply.
“I asked—“
“I heard you.” Mr. Jackson waits a few seconds. “Another thirty minutes at least. We’ll make it before lunch.”
Miss Moss doesn’t reply as she carefully removes her hat. Once she has it secured on her closest bag, she shifts her dress and proceeds to move her left leg over the saddle.
“What the bloody hell do you—“
“Language, Mr. Jackson.”
He snorts his disapproval of being corrected again.
Once she’s settled on the saddle, Miss Moss states, “That is one of the most uncomfortable ways to ride a horse.”
“That ain’t ladylike…especially in a dress.”
She snickers. “Does it honestly matter to you if I ride like a proper lady?”
“No.”
“Then, mind your business.”
“Mind my business?” he quips.
She lifts her chin and peers off to the side of the dirt road. They ride in silence for some time. Miss Moss is too quiet which inspires Mr. Jackson to glance back to make sure she hasn’t vanished.
“Keep your eyes forward,” she directs, flicking her hand forward when he looks at her.
“Wasn’t anything to see.”
“Wouldn’t bother me if there was,” she replies snidely.
Mr. Jackson smirks, enjoying her wit.
“I will need to see to the papers and books to the—“
“You’ll see to nothing,” he interrupts.
“Lord and Lady Woolridge have clearly stated—“
“I bet you forged it,” he mumbles.
Miss Moss yanks on the reins which causes her horse to gallop up next to Mr. Jackson’s.
“What in the bloody hell do you—“
“I will not have some foreman tell me—“
“I won’t have some woman tell me—“
“That’s enough,” Miss Moss huffs.
She yanks at the reins, and on the first try, manages to break it from Mr. Jackson’s saddle horn. As it flies in the air, Mr. Jackson’s hand darts out and snags it. She takes hold as well and yanks it in her direction.
“Let go!” she commands fueled by emotions that are a result of several situations she’s dealt with the past week.
The two adults continue a tug-of-war for two more rounds before Mr. Jackson releases it. He regrets his choice instantly as he reaches to capture the arm of Miss Moss who is falling backward. Her body is farther than he realizes and his hand is two inches too short from getting a hold of her. She falls into a puddle of mud.
Mr. Jackson rushes off of his horse. “Apologies, Miss,” he says, regretting his actions. He offers her a hand, but she furiously refuses it as she stands.
She wipes the excess mud off of her dress and hands. Then, she mounts and rights herself atop her horse and continues forward, not giving him another glance.
“Wait!” he shouts more harshly than he intends.
She nudges her horse, and it picks up its speed. The two other horses follow her, leaving Mr. Jackson in their wake. He glances down at the ground and catches sight of a filigree comb that is cracked and missing a small portion of its corner. He lowers, picks it up, and wipes it off before placing it in his vest pocket. Then, Mr. Jackson rights himself before walking the remaining mile to the manor.
Chapter Three
“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Mrs. Doyle chides, stomping out the front door when she sees Mr. Jackson rounding the corner of the brick wall. She’s been eyeing the entryway for the last twenty minutes.
“What?” he returns. “She left me.” He looks away sheepishly, aware that Mrs. Doyle knows exactly what happened.
“Why couldn’t you be on your best behavior? You have upset the Lady and—“
“What?”
“She’s barely said a word and I’m sure the Lady is contemplating firing—“
“The Lady is here?” he questions.
“Of course, she is, no thanks to you!” Mrs. Doyle barks. “You had one task and—“
“When did the Lady get here? She wasn’t at the station just—“
“That was the Lady,” Mrs. Doyle states with a warning stare.
“She said her name was Moss. Miss Moss,” Mr. Jackson replies, confused by what’s transpired. “Why would Lady Woolri—“
“Why would any woman revert to her maiden name?” Mrs. Doyle replies sharply.
“Oh,” he sighs, lowering his head.
“Oh? All you have to say is, oh?” She doesn’t give him a chance to apologize.
“I’ll make it right,” he promises, keeping his eyes on the ground.
“You better,” Mrs. Doyle returns heatedly before storming back inside the house. She mumbles and curses under her breath as she makes her way back to the master bedroom where the Lady is now bathing.
“Get back to work,” Mrs. Doyle commands when she sees several of the housemaids watching on. “There is much to do.”
The women scurry like mice back to their tasks without a single word.
“My apologies again, my Lady,” Mrs. Doyle says as she closes the bedroom door. “It will not happen again.”
“No, it won’t,” Lady Moss replies curtly as she fidgets with the ring on her right hand.
She couldn’t discard her wedding ring, but to her, it also didn’t feel right wearing it properly.
“Would you like more hot water, my Lady?” Mrs. Doyle reaches for the kettle that is starting to steam over the fire.
“Yes, thank you,” she returns, keeping her eyes on the blaze before her.
Mrs. Doyle carefully pours in the water. “When you’re ready, I can show you around the manor,” Mrs. Doyle informs. “The girls have done a wonderful job tending to the house.”
“Yes, I’m sure they have,” Lady Moss agrees, keeping her eyes on the flames.
“Should I tend to lunch?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
Mrs. Doyle’s mouth purses, concerned for the monotone responses of her Lady. She gathers that the death of Lord Woolridge is very recent which is why there was no mention of it in any of the letters as well as for the two-week delay of their original arrival. She heads to the kitchen, instructing Nydia to tend to their ladyship if she calls for assistance.
Right as Mrs. Doyle finishes setting out the lunch selection, Lady Moss appears in the kitchen. “Oh, my Lady. I’m—“
“I see lunch is ready.”
Mrs. Doyle smiles, pleased to see that her ladyship has her wits about her. Though, she is a bit confused by her attire. “Yes. I was just about to send for you.”
The other maids stare in awe at Lady Moss’ legs.
“What are—“
“Hush, Britney,” Mrs. Doyle commands.
Lady Moss smiles. “I say, they are much more comfortable than dresses.” She glances down at her legs.
“Trousers?” Britney giggles. “A woman wearing trousers.”
“A Lady wearing trousers,” snickers Iris.
“Hush now!” Mrs. Doyle declares.
“It’s okay,” Lady Moss soothes. “It is to be expected.”
“Why trousers, my Lady?” Iris inquires.
Lady Moss shrugs. “Why not? It makes doing things much easier…especially riding a horse. Plus, there’s no draft whatsoever. They keep my legs warm under dresses in the winter. I honestly don't know why women haven’t switched to wearing them sooner.”
The women stare at her blankly.
“Shall we?” Lady Moss gestures to the table, placing her writing tools down.
“We, my Lady?” Mrs. Doyle replies with a furrowed brow.
“Calling me Miss will do just fine,” she reminds with a half-hearted smile.
“Right. My deepest apology,” Mrs. Doyle says with a slight bow.
“We’ll need another plate if you are to join me, won’t we?”
Taken aback, it takes a few long moments for Mrs. Doyle to reply, “You…you wish for me to dine with you?”
“Yes. Is that a problem?” She takes the seat before her.
“No,” Mrs. Doyle replies, looking around at the other girls. “Perhaps you’d prefer the dining room, Miss?”
“Here is just fine,” she returns. She looks at the closest maid. “You.”
“Yes?” the girl replies nervously.
“What is your name?”
“Ny—Nydia, my Lady.”
“You all may call me Miss,” she informs.
The girls dare not disagree and look at each other as confusion and discomfort are seen on their faces.
“You have a beautiful name,” Lady Moss states.
Nydia blushes and curtsies as she says, “Thank you, my Lady. I mean Miss.”
“Would you be so kind as to grab plates for Mrs. Doyle and me?”
Nydia hesitantly glances up at Mrs. Doyle. Mrs. Doyle nods. Nydia looks back at her ladyship and smiles. “As you wish, Miss.”
No Lady or Lord has even dined in the kitchen. No servant has ever dined with the Lady or Lord of the house. No servant has ever called their Lady, Miss, either. The women are perplexed by the Lady before them.
“Thank you,” Lady Moss replies.
Mrs. Doyle hesitantly takes the seat opposite of Lady Moss and waits patiently for direction. Nydia scurries to set the table properly.
“It’s Greek, is it not?” Lady Moss inquires.
“What?” Mrs. Doyle asks, confused by the question.
“Nydia,” she states. “It’s also of Latin origin if I am not mistaken.”
“If you say so, Miss,” Nydia replies nervously.
Lady Moss offers her a kind smile. “We shall look it up later.”
Nydia smiles, nods, and retreats to the wall.
“You girls may be excused,” Lady Moss instructs. “Mrs. Doyle and I can tend to ourselves. Enjoy an early lunch for yourselves.”
The girls wait for Mrs. Doyle to approve which she does by way of a soft nod. “Good day, my Lady.” They curtsey. “Mrs. Doyle.” They scurry like mice in the next moment.
“Please, Mrs. Doyle,” she says, gesturing to the food before them. “Do not wait for me or else we shall be eating alone and that defeats the purpose.”
Mrs. Doyle does not speak but complies. She notices the appearance of what might have been Lady Moss’ wedding ring on the ring finger of her right hand.
“First things,” Lady Moss states as she places food on her plate. “You may call me Abigail. I hate informal names.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“No more calling me Miss from you, Mrs. Doyle. You are head of this manor.”
She nods as contention forms on her face.
“Second, I am not like most women, Mrs. Doyle. It is best that you learn that and learn it quickly.”
Mrs. Doyle nods again as confusion and intrigue surface in her expression.
Lady Moss offers a smile. “I may be from the city, but I am far from a city woman. I may have the clothes, but I lack, what many of them would call, the mindset, of one.” She takes her first bite and groans. “This is delicious.”
“Thank you, Miss.” Mrs. Doyle offers an apologetic expression at the improper pronoun for her ladyship.
“Third, I will need to learn how everything operates.”
“Of course.”
“Not only the house, but the farm as well,” Lady Moss informs.
Mrs. Doyle’s hand pauses in front of her mouth. When she realizes that she is staring, she takes a bite, smiles, and nods.
Lady Moss allows the woman to enjoy several more mouthfuls before continuing. She lifts her pen and dips it into the ink well. With her hand hovering over the paper, she inquires, “Now…I need the names of everyone who works at the manor and farm as well as their role.”
Dabbing her mouth, Mrs. Doyle begins. “You met Mr. Jackson at the…the train station.”
Lady Moss grunts disapprovingly as she writes.
“Mr. Jackson is the foreman. There is Nydia, as you’ve met, and the rest of the housemaids are Rosemary, Gale, Priscilla, Minerva, Iris, and Britney,” she informs.
“Many housemaids.”
“It is a large manor,” Mrs. Doyle states nervously. “Lord Quincy preferred the way women tended to things over men…particularly in the manor.”
Lady Moss smiles. “Men can be dirty and gruff, can’t they?”
“Indeed,” she agrees hesitantly. “The girls help with the cooking and the small garden that is for the house aside from their other duties.”
As she writes, Lady Moss nods. “Where is the butler?”
“There hasn’t been one for a few years,” Mrs. Doyle shares.
Lady Moss glances up from her paper.
“He died a few years before Lord Quincy and his lordship never bothered to replace him,” she explains. “I know of many fine men who would—“
“There is no need for a butler,” Lady Moss informs. “Not unless there is a Lord in this manor which I do not see occurring in the foreseeable future.”
Mrs. Doyle purses her lips and nods.
“You will tend to such duties, should there be the need,” Lady Moss informs. “I will pay you extra for the responsibilities.”
“I have been tending to them since—“
“All the more reason to have the same pay as the title,” Lady Moss declares. She takes another bite before readying herself to write more.
Mrs. Doyle continues, “There’s Mr. Joel who is director of the livestock. He and the rest of the men report directly to Mr. Jackson. Mr. Joel also assists Mr. Jackson with breeding. Then, there’s Mr. Kurt who is head of the farmhands which includes Mr. Martin, Oscar, and Reuben. When the season is in full bloom, many of the other staff, including the girls and myself will assist…even if it’s just taking care of the animals so the men can pick the fields. Lord Quincy would allow Mr. Jackson to hire a few extra hands during the busy season if the crops yielded well. Mr. Sheldon is in charge of all maintenance. The men, even Mr. Jackson, help him when the need arises.”
“We’ve already discussed my responsibilities,” Mrs. Doyle states.
“You are a fantastic cook,” Lady Moss praises. “You should be very proud.”
Mrs. Doyle smiles.
“Is that everyone?”
“Yes.”
“I will need to see the books for the house as well as for the farm. Will that be a challenge?”
“Not at all, Miss…I mean Abigail.”
“Good.” She places her pen down and takes another bite of food. “How long has everyone worked for the manor?”
Mrs. Doyle lets out a heavy breath once she finishes her bite. “I’m the second most senior staff member. Mr. Sheldon has been here for fifty years. I’ve been here at the manor for forty-four years. Mr. Joel has been here for twenty-nine. He worked over at the Sutton Manor before it burnt down.”
“Was anyone hurt?” Lady Moss inquires with concern.
“None, thankfully.”
“Good.” She lets out a sigh. “What of the property?”
Mrs. Doyle shrugs. “What do you mean?”
“Did someone purchase it?”
She thinks for a moment. “I am not aware. I do know that the family didn’t have the finances to rebuild.”
Lady Moss nods and jots down a note about the property. “Please, continue."
“Mr. Joel may look old, but the man has many more years. He’s as sharp as a tack mentally and physically. I’d say he can last just as long as the rest of the fellows on any day.”
“Good,” Lady Moss replies.
“Mr. Jackson has been here for twenty-eight years. He started when he was a small lad.”
Lady Moss stops writing and glances up at her companion.
“Mr. Kurt has been here for twenty years. Took over after his father passed. Mr. Martin has been here about the same time as Mr. Kurt. Oscar and Reuben are newer, but I’d suspect you’d reckon that considering their age.”
Lady Moss nods as she takes another bite.
“Rosemary has been here the longest, though she is young. She took over when her mother could no longer perform her duties. The rest…well, they’re a bit young but will follow instruction. Lord Quincy enjoyed a change in the female staff a few years after Lady Quincy passed. At first, I questioned it, but it did bring much back regarding the energy of the manor. There was never any ill behavior between them nor—“
Lady Moss’ hand rises. “Lord Quincy’s dealings are not of my concern.”
Mrs. Doyle nods. “They made him happy again, at least for his last five years. I hope that this doesn’t sway your—“
“Why would it have any sway?” Lady Moss inquires.
Mrs. Doyle’s mouth opens, but she is uncertain how to reply.
“As I said, Lord Quincy’s dealings were his own. I may be the new owner, but that is it.”
