She replaced it on the mantel and saw the doorway to a second room. She crossed the room and opened the door. And perhaps because this door was closed and because, therefore, one did not know what was contained within—though one might guess—she held back even as she pushed open the door and viewed the room beyond. It was a bedroom, as of course it must be, and she understood that this was the reason for her reluctance. This second room was much smaller, though a bay window with a cushioned seat built into it and overlooking the garden below gave it a charm and sense of proportion. A large fireplace opposite the window was similarly swept clean with a mantel similarly free of objects. And between was a chest of drawers and a bureau with one or two books on it, a trunk on the floor near the door, and a bed.

The bed. It was a simple enough affair, the bedstead and footer made of plain iron struts painted black and topped with brass, and a counterpane heavily embroidered. Another counterpane beneath it and the corners of a rug testified to how cold the room got in these winter months—particularly if one did not light the fire. Eleanor had not moved from the doorway. Aside from her mother’s she had never set foot in another woman’s bedroom—unless one considered the servants’ quarters in attics, which one rarely had occasion to visit and were not the same thing at all. And so the utter strangeness of it struck her. Even the smell was different in here. It smelled more of her and less of the house, of other people’s furnishings. But what was it? Soap again and rose water or lavender or some kind of potpourri and a smell of both washed bodies and unwashed bodies. She looked at the bed and felt faintly nauseated. Its plain iron bedstead and embroidered counterpane swam before her eyes.

In a rush she went to the bed and flung back the covers, layer after layer, until she had revealed the mattress. Stains—were they? Or just shadows, just laundry marks? She could not decide. She turned away and put her hands to her face and found her face cold and her hands cold too. She pressed her fingers into her eyes until lights danced before her. She dropped her hands to her sides. She made herself turn around and face the chaotic pile of covers, the pillows spilled onto the floor, the mattress, laid shockingly bare, exposing a part of someone’s life that only a servant should ever see. And slowly, methodically she replaced the covers, she retrieved the discarded pillows, she returned the bed to its original state, and what did it matter if a stranger had viewed your most intimate secrets if you never found out about it?