served it when one of the Marys was feeling out of sorts.
Skye's mind wandered quite easily from graveyard to ghost. She smiled weakly, remembering her attempt to show fear during the interview when the Granville ghost was mentioned. She could have made a more effective show of it now, she realized, watching angular fire shadows flicker on the ceiling. She turned her head quickly as the french doors shuddered against the rising wind and something scratched a pane of glass.
She laughed at herself, albeit a little uneasily. It must have been a tree limb she heard at the window, she told herself, or a stray cat looking for an entrance.
Skye rolled onto her side so she could face the fireplace. There was comfort in the snapping flames and glowing embers. The walnut wainscoting held a dull reflection of the fire, and Skye's thoughts strayed to how vibrant that reflection would be once the wood was polished. Amused by the notion, Skye smiled sleepily as she snuggled into her pillow and comforter.
Somewhere between rehearsing her speech to the staff and plotting revenge on her father, Mary Schyler Dennehy fell asleep.
* * *
"I'm Miss Dennehy," she said to the staff gathered in the kitchen. "As you know, Mr. Parnell hired me yesterday. You may not be aware that he has given me complete authority. I intend to use it to see that this home is restored."
Skye paused to purposely examine each face turned in her direction. Her eyes slipped over Annie quickly because she knew she had an ally there. Hank Ryder was sitting beside her. He was nodding slowly, his narrow face somber. He'd been helpful yesterday, Skye remembered, in getting their valises and packing the carriage. He required some direction and she suspected he was a little dull, but his movements were quick and efficient. Hank had a thin, wiry body that had already proved its strength by hauling Skye's baggage to her room as if it were so much fluff. He was also a willing worker. She didn't expect to have difficulty with him.
The twins were another matter. Daisy and Rose Farrow were robust young women with apple cheeks and cherub smiles. The expression in their eyes, though, was watchful and sly, and Skye reasoned they were reserving judgment until she proved herself. They might be willing to work hard for her if she took them in hand; if she faltered, they would be slackers. She suspected it was all they had been thus far.
Jenny Adams was in her fifties, older than anyone else in the room. She had a selection of mending in her lap and a thimble on one of her fingers. Her hands worked absently but competently as she returned Skye's stare. She was thin lipped and her eyes were narrowly spaced. The look she gave Skye was frankly skeptical.
When Skye's focus turned to Mrs. Reading, she felt the entire attention of the room shift with her.
Corina Reading was a petite, small-boned woman in her early thirties. Her features, from her bow mouth to her wide-lidded sloe eyes, were very nearly perfect. The slightness of her build, the sheer delicacy of her frame, gave the appearance of fragile femininity. Her thick ebony hair was pulled back off her face and captured in an attractive black netting. She wore a serviceable black gown that was tightly fit to her narrow shoulders and tiny waist.
Before meeting Mrs. Reading, Skye had never considered that a cook might look any different than Mrs. Cavanaugh, the woman of ample proportions who had been working for Moira and Jay Mac for better than twenty-five years. Corina Reading's hourglass figure made Skye wonder if the woman sampled anything she prepared or if what she prepared was any good at all. Acknowledging to herself that this was a narrow view, Skye still opted to withhold final judgment until she had sampled breakfast herself. The cup of warm milk and bread last evening was no test of Mrs. Reading's skills in the kitchen.
Corina Reading stood and offered a small smile in greeting. Her dark eyes fastened on Skye and didn't
Skye's mind wandered quite easily from graveyard to ghost. She smiled weakly, remembering her attempt to show fear during the interview when the Granville ghost was mentioned. She could have made a more effective show of it now, she realized, watching angular fire shadows flicker on the ceiling. She turned her head quickly as the french doors shuddered against the rising wind and something scratched a pane of glass.
She laughed at herself, albeit a little uneasily. It must have been a tree limb she heard at the window, she told herself, or a stray cat looking for an entrance.
Skye rolled onto her side so she could face the fireplace. There was comfort in the snapping flames and glowing embers. The walnut wainscoting held a dull reflection of the fire, and Skye's thoughts strayed to how vibrant that reflection would be once the wood was polished. Amused by the notion, Skye smiled sleepily as she snuggled into her pillow and comforter.
Somewhere between rehearsing her speech to the staff and plotting revenge on her father, Mary Schyler Dennehy fell asleep.
* * *
"I'm Miss Dennehy," she said to the staff gathered in the kitchen. "As you know, Mr. Parnell hired me yesterday. You may not be aware that he has given me complete authority. I intend to use it to see that this home is restored."
Skye paused to purposely examine each face turned in her direction. Her eyes slipped over Annie quickly because she knew she had an ally there. Hank Ryder was sitting beside her. He was nodding slowly, his narrow face somber. He'd been helpful yesterday, Skye remembered, in getting their valises and packing the carriage. He required some direction and she suspected he was a little dull, but his movements were quick and efficient. Hank had a thin, wiry body that had already proved its strength by hauling Skye's baggage to her room as if it were so much fluff. He was also a willing worker. She didn't expect to have difficulty with him.
The twins were another matter. Daisy and Rose Farrow were robust young women with apple cheeks and cherub smiles. The expression in their eyes, though, was watchful and sly, and Skye reasoned they were reserving judgment until she proved herself. They might be willing to work hard for her if she took them in hand; if she faltered, they would be slackers. She suspected it was all they had been thus far.
Jenny Adams was in her fifties, older than anyone else in the room. She had a selection of mending in her lap and a thimble on one of her fingers. Her hands worked absently but competently as she returned Skye's stare. She was thin lipped and her eyes were narrowly spaced. The look she gave Skye was frankly skeptical.
When Skye's focus turned to Mrs. Reading, she felt the entire attention of the room shift with her.
Corina Reading was a petite, small-boned woman in her early thirties. Her features, from her bow mouth to her wide-lidded sloe eyes, were very nearly perfect. The slightness of her build, the sheer delicacy of her frame, gave the appearance of fragile femininity. Her thick ebony hair was pulled back off her face and captured in an attractive black netting. She wore a serviceable black gown that was tightly fit to her narrow shoulders and tiny waist.
Before meeting Mrs. Reading, Skye had never considered that a cook might look any different than Mrs. Cavanaugh, the woman of ample proportions who had been working for Moira and Jay Mac for better than twenty-five years. Corina Reading's hourglass figure made Skye wonder if the woman sampled anything she prepared or if what she prepared was any good at all. Acknowledging to herself that this was a narrow view, Skye still opted to withhold final judgment until she had sampled breakfast herself. The cup of warm milk and bread last evening was no test of Mrs. Reading's skills in the kitchen.
Corina Reading stood and offered a small smile in greeting. Her dark eyes fastened on Skye and didn't
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