Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Floorboards
At six o'clock in the morning, the back door of the kitchen clicked open. Elise slipped in, shaking the slush from her worn winter boots. Her breath was still ragged from the brisk walk from the subway, but she moved with practiced silence. She knew the rhythm of the Ashford House by heart: chef arrived at six-thirty, the under-butler at seven, and Mrs. Crane descended at precisely seven-fifteen with her white gloves and inspection ledger.
Elise quickly tied her apron around her waist and began her chores. She filled the copper kettle, swept the pantry hall, and set out the silver tray for Mr. Ashford's morning espresso. Yet her thoughts were miles away, underneath the concrete bridge where the freezing river gnawed at the shoreline.
She could not shake the way Victor had held that envelope last night. The tremor in his hands, the faint yellow tint of his fingernails, the desperate hope in his clouded hazel eyes. For four weeks, she had been carrying his letters out of pity, promising to deliver them to the address he scrawled in trembling handwriting. Every time, the address was the same: Damian Ashford, Private Chambers, Linden Hill Manor.
Every time, she had smuggled them in, intending to slide them under Mr. Ashford's study door. But every time, the chilling presence of Mrs. Crane had stopped her. Mrs. Crane checked every corridor, inspected every mail tray, and questioned every paper that passed through the service doors. Elise had hidden Victor’s letters in her personal locker in the basement, terrified of losing the job that was currently paying off her mother's funeral debts.
"Five letters," she whispered to herself, scrubbing the marble counter. "Five months of him writing to his own son."
She hadn't believed the old man at first. Homeless men often spun grand tales of lost fortunes, royal blood, and stolen empires to keep the cold from eating their sanity. But last night had been different. Last night, Victor had described the exact layout of the Ashford master bedroom down to the hidden safe behind the portrait of the clipper ship. He had described the scar on Damian’s left collarbone from an errant fencing foil when he was twelve.
"He isn't crazy," Elise muttered, her hands trembling against the edge of the sink. "God help me, he’s telling the truth."
"Talking to yourself, Morrow?"
Elise gasped, spinning around. Odette Crane stood at the entrance of the pantry, dressed in charcoal wool, holding a cup of steaming black coffee. Her eyes were sharp, probing, missing nothing.
"Good morning, Mrs. Crane," Elise said quickly, lowering her eyes. "Just running through the day's schedule. The library needs dusting and the dining room draperies require steaming."
"The draperies can wait," Odette said, stepping into the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps. "Mr. Ashford has requested a thorough inventory of the attic archives. Boxes from the 2010 shipping mergers need cataloging."
Elise hesitated. "The attic, ma'am? I thought Mr. Felix handled the personal records."
"Mr. Felix is occupied with outside business today," Odette replied smoothly, taking a slow sip of her coffee. "You will begin after breakfast. And Elise?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
Odette stepped close, close enough that Elise could see the faint network of fine lines around her eyes and smell the bitter, chemical sharpness of her perfume. "Keep your mind on your work. There have been... discrepancies in the linen counts. Items disappearing from the service corridors. I would hate to see an earnest young woman like you end up in court over poor judgment."
Elise swallowed hard, keeping her expression flat. "I only take what is marked for disposal, Mrs. Crane."
"Of course," Odette murmured, a venomous smile playing on her lips. "Be that as it may, remember that everything in this house belongs to the Ashford name. Even the things we throw away."
Odette turned and glided out of the room, leaving the kitchen heavy with unspoken threats. Elise waited until the woman’s footsteps faded into the gallery before she bolted down the service staircase into the servants' basement.
Her locker was in the far corner, tucked behind the old water heaters. She used her brass key, wrenched the locker door open, and reached into the secret compartment beneath the false bottom where she kept her mother’s rosary.
May you like
The envelopes were there. Five thick, cream-colored envelopes, stained with river dirt and grease. She pulled the top one out, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. On the back of the envelope, written in faded pencil, Victor had added a single line she hadn't noticed the night before:
*Look under the third plank from the fireplace in the trophy room. The sea ledger will tell you what she did.*
