“Come in.”
It was not the voice I expected—not old and gruff but mellow. Perhaps a bit nasal, but not at all mean. I opened the door, finding a round room that reminded me of some kind of cistern. Though I saw no leaks, the place felt warm and wet. Perhaps the spring on the grounds was responsible for the clamminess. I was at once struck by the number of standing birdcages filling the large office. They decorated the place in a semicircle around a long, tall desk. The cages stood at varying heights, each filled with a different bird. Some were simple English things I had seen myself in the country; others wore riotous colors, great crested plumes spilling over their heads. Strangely, it didn’t stink at all of animal, and stranger still, each and every bird was utterly silent, as if . . . commanded. Controlled.
Some noticed me; others groomed themselves, or slept with pointed heads under their wings. The master himself, Mr. Morningside, had noticed me, too. He stood tall and straight behind his desk, his pen down and at rest on a stack of papers. His right hand was tucked into his coat. It reminded me of something Jenny had said at Pitney, that her French aunt had shown her an illustration of Napoléon Bonaparte in the Times and bragged about how handsome and regal he was, standing there with his fingers hidden in the flap of his jacket. A flashy gold pin studded his cravat. And he was young. Disarmingly young. Older than myself or Lee, certainly, but not very.
“Tea, of course,” he said. His voice was deeper now that I heard it without the barrier of the door. There was already a lovely pot and set of cups prepared on his desk. As I approached, I saw the fine painting work on the porcelain was scenery of birds in flight.
He certainly has a theme.
He moved nimbly, smoothly, pouring out the fragrant tea with balletic grace. His coat was one of the most expensive I had ever seen, the lapels decorated with tiny vines and leaves. Hair as black as mine had been brushed back from his forehead, the ends curling under his ears. He wore it longer than was strictly in fashion, but the style suited him. His face was long, lean, with a prominent chin and equally prominent nose. Small golden eyes flashed up from the teacups, and I marveled at the thickness of his lashes, as lustrous as little raven feathers.
The silence felt suddenly heavy and awkward. I cast about for something to say, but it didn’t seem appropriate to bombard him with questions, despite my desire to do so.
“I trust you’ve eaten,” he said again with that low, calm voice. He was not at all in a hurry, though he moved efficiently enough, sliding the saucer across the desk toward me and indicating that I should drink. Unlike Chijioke’s, I could not at all place his accent. It sounded neither low class nor high, but bang in the middle.
“Yes, sir, Mrs. Haylam saw to that.” This tea was better than the stuff upstairs, richer, with a luxurious hint of bergamot. “I would like to thank you for offering me a place here.”
“Yes, yes.” He waved away my thanks impatiently. Then, placing his palms flat on the desk, he fixed me with a direct stare. “Do you fancy birds, Louisa Ditton?”
I sputtered a little over my tea. “Birds, sir?”
“It might be a bit of a fixation,” he said with a wry grin. “You have noticed the birds?”
“There’s no need to insult me,” I replied. God, impertinent already. I needed to learn when to clamp down on that. “Rather . . . I’ve seen the birds, sir. Gra—Mrs. Haylam and I delivered some just yesterday. Did they arrive safely?”
He nodded, ignoring his own cup of fresh tea. A single black curl fell over his forehead, swaying roguishly as he continued. “The green-breasted pitta from Africa survived, which was my only real concern. Golden feathers, a black mask like a highwayman. Magnificent creature. Much like you, I imagine.”
Me?
“You must be mistaken,” I said. No, my only ambition here was to work and go unnoticed. I simply needed to toil and save up some pay, then leave when I knew where it was I wanted to go. Ireland. America. Anywhere. Disappear. “I swear I’ve never been a highwayman.”
His smile deepened. “No? I seem to collect criminals and strays. Which you should know is not an insult.”
I flinched. “I was at Pitney School outside of Leeds before this, and I left because of how cruelly we were treated. Forgive me, I don’t mean to be so petulant, but I’m not accustomed to kindness.”
“A rare glimpse of honesty.” He nodded, and his eyes flashed with interest. “However you managed to keep yourself alive before you landed here is of no concern to me.”
“Even if I were hunted? What if the authorities wanted me?”
“Do they?” Greater interest. He leaned his weight onto his palms, easing toward me.
“No,” I said simply. “I’m no one.”
“Now, there you are wrong. Mrs. Haylam has long filled these halls with . . . personalities. She knows how to see through to what people truly are, and so she must have seen something intriguing in you, Louisa. When I took ownership of Coldthistle House, I gave her but one directive: ‘Hire and fire at your will, Mrs. Haylam, but never for a single instant bore me.’”
He had a way of starting a phrase sternly and ending it in amusement. And where that Rawleigh Brimble boy showed himself to be an open book, I could sense Mr. Morningside holding something close to the vest. He might have been smiling in my direction, but his gaze remained veiled.
“How did you come to be master of this place?”
One severely arched eyebrow lifted in surprise. Already I was doing a poor job of being forgettable and invisible.
“That was the wrong thing to ask,” I said. “Only, you seem quite young.”
“And thus unequal to the task?” Mr. Morningside watched me intently, and I knew then that he was attempting to read me as surely as I was trying to do the same to him. It made me curl inward, afraid; it was never comfortable to meet someone of similar or greater intellect. He made some kind of internal calculation, biting down slightly on his lower lip, and then cut me off before I could sputter out an apology. “Before you ask, and I know you will: I am not offended. Suffice it to say, the family that once owned this great house died quite suddenly and tragically. The place lay empty, and I had the means to acquire it. Mrs. Haylam does the real work, and she leaves me be with my books and my birds.”
I cast an eye around the office again, noticing now the recessed bookshelves overflowing with leather-bound manuscripts. The stack of papers on his desk was impressively tall.