The servants’ quarters. Maggie felt as though she’d been slapped, and the high color of humiliation throbbed in her cheeks. Things certainly had a way of turning about, she thought to herself. Not more than forty-eight hours before, Reeve had asked her to be mistress of this house. Now she was being relegated to the servants’ quarters, doubtlessly a cramped, unventilated place on the uppermost floor. “Of course,” she replied airily, determined not to cry. There would be plenty of time for that later.

She made to move past Reeve, but he was still holding on to her arm. “I know you must have had finer accommodations at Duncan’s,” he told her in an angry whisper.

Inside, Maggie was seething, though she kept her outward appearance cool. “What are you implying?” she asked loftily.

“I’m implying nothing,” Reeve replied, thrusting her elbow free of his hand in one savage motion. “I’ll be at sea for a while,” he said. “If you need anything, ask Philip.”

Unconsciously, Maggie was rubbing her sore elbow. She was very near tears, though she prayed she could hold them off just long enough to get out of this man’s sight. “I shall,” she promised with a lift of her chin.

This time Reeve let her pass. She got as far as the kitchen before she cried.

* * *

Maggie’s room in the attic was hot and small, with ceilings that followed the slant of the roof. There was one tiny window, which overlooked the rear garden, but it was sealed shut.

The floor was bare, splintery wood, and there was no armoire here—only a series of pegs hanging on the back of the door. Maggie hadn’t the spirit to unpack her reticule, instead, she collapsed on the narrow cot tucked under the harsh line of the roof and buried her face in the coverless pillow.

Past weeping now—she had never been able to sustain a crying jag for more than a few tumultuous minutes—Maggie simply lay still, wishing that she’d never left England for this godforsaken place where beautiful birds had no song to sing and lush flowers no fragrance. She had been lost in her singular misery for some minutes when she heard the door of the garret open with a squeak.

Maggie stiffened, afraid to look. But the hope was there in her heart, the hope that Reeve had relented and decided to forgive her. It was dashed when she felt a tiny hand come to rest on her back.

Slowly, Maggie rolled over. Elisabeth was standing beside the cot, her lovely little face full of concern. Her dark hair glistened in the dusty attic light, and her blue-green eyes were wide.

Smiling despite everything that had happened to her in the past few days, Maggie took the child’s hand. “Hello, Elisabeth,” she said.