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wouldn’t mind, until I can purchase suitable costumes locally.”
    “She won’t mind,” he said, through what could only be described as a sneer, Tessa decided, having been startled by it. His eyes had taken on a fiendish glare. “She’s dead, you see,” he went on drolly. “Folks hereabouts say I killed her.”

Chapter Three
    “You can sleep in this,” the house keeper said, laying a folded nightdress on the chiffonier. I’ll bring up a few frocks for your inspection first thing in the mornin’.”
    “Thank you, Dorcas,” Tessa said. “You are most kind.” The woman had settled her in what had been termed the Viridian Suite, the governess’s apartments, chosen for its close proximity to those of her charge. The walls were papered in pastoral scenes in shades of green, reminding Tessa of French toile; a guest suite no doubt, definitely a woman’s apartments on the third floor, with an adjoining sitting room and dressing room. The sight took Tessa’s breath away. She had never slept in a room so grand.
    “They used ta hold huntin’ parties at Longhollow Abbey in the old days,” Dorcas said, as if answering Tessa’s thoughts. “These rooms up here haven’t been in use since the master’s father was alive.”
    “It’s…beautiful,” Tessa murmured, gazing about at the frescoed ceiling, draped sleigh bed and white French lacquered furniture. “I have never seen the like.”
    “The Holland covers spared a lot o’ the furniture, and we put on fresh bedding, but these rooms want a good goin’ over. I’ll see ta that in the mornin’, too, whileyou’re with Master Monty. We’re short-staffed here since the mistress…died. There’s the maids Lettie and Lottie—sisters, don’t ya know—Rigby, the butler, Evers, the footman, Foster, the master’s valet, Cook, and Effie in the scullery, and meself. Oh, and there’s Able and Andy in the stables, but they keep to the loft out there in their own quarters.”
    “That is a short staff for such a house as this.”
    Dorcas shrugged. “We make do,” she said. “We don’t stand on ceremony here at Longhollow Abbey, not like the gentry does in Town. If a job needs doin’, a body’ll cross the line and do it if needs must, just so’s it gets done. Will ya be sendin’ for your things, then?”
    Tessa hesitated. “No,” she said. “The master doesn’t approve of my attire. I shall purchase new costumes here locally.”
    “Oh, pshaw!” Dorcas grumbled. “What would he know? None o’ his females wears any clothes at all!”
    Tessa suppressed a smile. “I’m sure I’ll find something suitable in Truro on my day off,” she said.
    “Well, I’ll have ta send one o’ the maids with ya when ya go,” Dorcas said. “It just ain’t safe, a woman on her own travelin’ about, and you’ll have old Able, too. This ain’t like London Town out here. There’s all sorts o’ mischief afoot.”
    Tessa wanted to say there was mischief afoot aplenty in London Town as well, but she held her peace. “That can wait for a bit,” she said. “Tell me a little about my charge. My employment here depends upon how we get on together, Master Monty and I.”
    Dorcas clouded. She began fidgeting with her pinafore, her stubby little fingers working over the top-stitched hem. She was a rotund, red-cheeked woman of middle age, with a pleasant though toil-worn countenance and what seemed like a good heart—the exact opposite of the servants Tessa had left behind at PooleHouse. It was a tremendous relief. At least that part of her prayer had been answered.
    “Well, I ain’t goin’ ta lie to ya,” the woman began. “He’s a handful, is Master Monty. Montclair Albert Montague III, though none o’ us ever calls him by any name but Monty, unless the master’s got him on the carpet. The master’ sister’s child, he is. Well, not really. The boy’s no blood kin to the Longworths. Montague was married afore, and young Monty was his son. When she died—the