Calendar Hall ; Jacob Sartorius☽

Chapter 1

« England, 1870 »

There it was. Calendar Hall.

The small, cloaked figure rounded the bend in the road and caught first sight of the stone country house, standing imposingly large and stately in the sinking evening sun.

The girl's heart grew heavier with each step she took. Rock crunched underfoot as a lone breeze flattened her cloak against her legs, propelling her forward. The heat of the day had ebbed to a comforting warmth, though a brisk chill ran through it, holding the promise of colder nights to come.

The girl lifted her chin, relaxed her shoulders and ascended the stairs to the great front entrance.

-xxx-

Jacob Sartorius tossed the leather-bound book onto the wooden table, situated to the left of his wing chair. He approached the large fireplace in which a fire burned in the richly appointed room. He treasured his room, with its scarlet walls and deep walnut wainscoting. It was his favourite room for letter writing and reflection.

That particular night, Jacob struggled to concentrate. His earlier conversation with his brother, Jack, weighed heavily on his mind. The solution Jack had proposed was distasteful to Jacob. He shook his head, as if to clear his mind. The flickering light highlighted the boy's slender yet muscular frame, throwing golden light on his defined cheekbones.

He heard the efficient click clack of footsteps in the great hall, followed by the unmistakable sound of the latch and the front door swinging open.

"Miss Whitby?" Inquired a clipped voice.

"Yes ma'am," came the reply, almost too soft to be heard.

"In future, do not use the front entrance. Go around back to the servant's entrance."

"Pardon me," came the soft voice again. "I didn't know."

"You'll learn, follow me."

Two sets of footsteps crossed back through the great marble hall. Portraits of generations of Jacob's family stared down at the new arrival from their lofty spots on the walls. Absently, Jacob lifted his eyes from the wild flames to observe the figures walking swiftly through the hallway.

Jacob's housekeeper, Mrs. Pennington, stout and stern, strode along with a smaller figure following closely behind her. He watched her clutch at her small brown case, before she turned her head to look at Jacob. Two beautiful eyes stood out brightly in her lightly freckled face, her rosebud like lips pressed together, as if to keep some kind of emotion under control. Jacob's own mahogany eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting a fraction.

Who's that? he wondered.

Oh, yes, Mrs. Pennington mentioned a new housemaid.

-xxx-

The sound of footsteps echoed and disappeared as the two women exited the hall. Diana followed Mrs. Pennington and her flickering candle through a corridor, rich paintings and tapestries evenly lined across the walls. Diana imagined she would soon become familiar with what lay behind the doors. Floors that would need scrubbing and the mantles that would need dusting. Down a flight of stairs, things began to seem more plain, the complete opposite of the regal hallway. This was clearly the domain of those who hauled buckets of coal and emptied chamber pots for a living.

Mrs. Pennington turned into a doorway, Diana still following close behind. Inside was a room with long wooden tables, on which stood large baskets, the kind used for gathering potatoes, apples and pears. Two large brick ovens took up the opposite wall and dozens of copper pots and pans hung from racks, gleaming in the firelight.