The luncheon was modest—roast chicken, honeyed carrots, and lemon syllabub—but she oversaw the preparation herself, and it was served precisely at one o'clock. Theo made sure to join them at the table, seated at the head as proper, while Juliet lounged at Nate's left and laughed a little too loudly at his drier asides.
"So," Juliet said as she sipped her syllabub, "tell me, Lady Harkort, do you enjoy crumbling manor houses and brooding husbands?"
"I enjoy a challenge. Greystone certainly qualifies. I found it responsive to effort."
"Have you found the ghost yet?"
"Not yet," Theo said, unblinking. "But I'm assured she's tasteful."
Juliet grinned, and for a moment Theo thought they might even like each other, if the woman weren't so clearly tangled in Nate's past.
After luncheon, Juliet requested a room for a night or two, and was given the blue guest chamber, the only one clean enough not to provoke alarm. Theodore retreated to her office to draft the beginnings of a proper staff rota.
And then, near dusk, she found Nate on the back terrace with a glass of brandy and his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow.
"Why didn't you tell me she was coming?" she asked.
He didn't look at her at first. "Because I didn't know."
"She's fond of you."
"She's fond of chaos, and I tend to provide it."
Theo crossed her arms. "Were you lovers?"
He turned at that. "Once. Briefly, years ago."
She nodded. "And now?"
"Now she visits when she's bored of London."
"And you let her."
"She doesn't ask permission. Neither do you, as I recall."
Theo said nothing. He studied her. "You're not angry."
"I don't waste anger on things that don't matter."
"Then what matters?"
She met his gaze, even and unflinching. "Order. Stability. A house that answers when it's called. A name that still means something. Those things matter. And me."
He didn't say it like a man seeking praise. He said it like a man daring her to look. She didn't blink.
"You," she said quietly, "are the chaos I'm learning to live with."
He laughed, low, surprised, and turned back to the garden. "You'll survive here, Theodosia."
She exhaled slowly. "Yes, but that isn't what I want. I intend to do more than survive."
They stood there in silence as the sun dipped behind the hills. From inside, Juliet's laughter rang out, light, practiced, and completely out of place.
The bell rang at seven. Not once, not twice, but in a firm, steady pattern that echoed through the long stone corridors and sleepy stairwells of Greystone Park like the first clear note in an overture. It was not loud, but it was deliberate, and unlike the lopsided peal the staff had grown accustomed to—rung by the last footman left standing, or sometimes no one at all—this one came from a hand that meant it.
Lady Theodosia stood in the front hall as the sound died away, a small notebook in one hand, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She had dressed with intention: a clean, pale blue morning gown, the collar crisp and narrow, with her golden-brown hair pinned into a smooth, unfussy coil at the back of her neck. No lace, no jewelry, only the thin silver watch chain clipped to her waistband and the sense, somehow, that the air itself had straightened in her presence.
By 7:15, the staff were assembled in the library. Theo had chosen the room not because it was ideal—it still smelled faintly of mildew and old paper—but because it had a table, chairs, and a door that closed. It would serve.
Cook Trenum arrived last, shoulders dusted with flour and temper already warm. He was followed by the makeshift butler, Mr. Elwell (formerly second footman), the head maid, Miss Poppy, and Mr. Davin, the gardener, still smelling faintly of compost. None of them looked particularly impressed. That was fine. Theo did not require their awe, only their attention.
"Good morning," she said calmly.
A few murmured greetings. Cook Trenum grunted.
"I've called this meeting," Theo said, "because it is time to stop surviving and begin functioning. Greystone Park is not a ruin. It is a sleeping house, and it is our job to wake it."
Miss Poppy blinked. Elwell stood frozen in place, clutching a silver-handled brush. Cook Trenum crossed his arms. "You've barely been here a week, my lady."
"That's correct," she nodded. "And I've walked every hallway and looked in every room. Half the estate is under dust covers. The guest wings are uninhabitable. There is no staff rota. The linen stores are unsorted. There is no clear hierarchy in the servants' hall. And breakfast, when it arrives at all, does so sometime after ten."
Cook Trenum flushed slightly. "We're understaffed."
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm hiring more, beginning today."
Now they blinked. Theo opened her notebook. "I will require full inventories of the kitchen stores, linen, silver, and china by the end of the week. Mr. Davin, you'll prioritize clearing the drive and trimming the front hedges. Miss Poppy, I'll be meeting with you this afternoon to go over which rooms we can bring back into use. And Mr. Elwell—" she paused. "You're now acting butler. If you'd like to keep the title, I suggest you act accordingly."
There was silence, and then, astonishingly, it was Miss Poppy who said, "Yes, my lady."
Theodore gave a short nod. "You are dismissed."
They filed out slowly. Cook Trenum lingered at the door, clearly wanting to argue, but whatever he saw in Theo's expression stopped him. "I make a good pheasant pie," he muttered instead.
"I have no doubt."