“He said he don’t want to see nobody,” the butler reiterated. “I don’t think he’s much bothered by who ye are.”
Sara took an involuntary step back at his rude words, the ants once more appearing.
“Here now,” George spoke up on her behalf. “Yer not to be speaking to Miss Collins like that. She’s a liedy.”
The butler shrugged. “She don’t pay me wages.”
George continued to defend her, his voice increasing in volume and agitation, and Sara fought the urge to melt into one of the dust covers. She saw the men argue, one righteous in his indignation, the other uncaring. It was clear she had been forgotten.
Why did she ever think coming here was a good idea? Every encounter she had with Mr. Grant left her feeling insulted and demeaned.
In the corner of her eye, Sara glimpsed some movement. Pulling her eyes away from the fighting men, she saw that the movement had actually been herself in a mirror, the dust cover hanging haphazardly from one of the top corners.
A strange, almost hypnotic pull came over her and Sara took several slow steps until she was directly in front of the old mirror, the men’s voices fading from her consciousness. She absently placed the basket on the table beneath it and lifting her hand, she pulled the dust cover off, revealing the rest of the glass and frame.
The frame was a plain dark wood with little to recommend it; the glass was grimy, blurring her image. Yet Sara could not look away from the obscured face, unremarkable and forgettable. It was pale, a frightened look in its eyes, a sense of lacking emanating from the expression.
Was that how people saw her? Easily dismissed, easily frightened, easily forgotten? She was aware that people did not have high expectations of her, but did that give others the right to demean and insult her?
You ought to be ashamed of yourself, girl, thinking you are better than others. You are the vicar’s daughter and are supposed to be humble. You should be grateful they like to play with you. For shame, girl!
What shame was there in wanting to be treated with respect and courtesy? Sara saw the lips in the mirror tighten. Meeting the eyes, she saw a hard anger she had not seen in them before.
Why should she be subject to such treatment? What entitled others to insult her, treating her as a lesser being? She had been nothing but kind to Mr. Grant and this is how he repaid her. Her father had raised her to treat others the way she wanted to be treated; her mother had shown her how inappropriate behavior should be handled.
In the dirty mirror, Sara saw George was still arguing with the butler. Straightening her spine, she turned and walked down the corridor the butler had used several minutes earlier. It was darker than the foyer, but a single door was cracked open enough to provide some light and she knew he was in there.
Mr. Grant’s insolence would not be tolerated this time.
CHAPTER NINE
* * *
The door opened into a light-filled library. In contrast to the rest of the darkened, dirty house, this room glittered with attention.
The light was dazzling. The room stretched the length of two or three regular-sized rooms and floor-to-ceiling bow windows covered the south-facing outside wall; each window section boasted either a cushioned bench or a stuffed chair, ideally situated to make the most of the daylight. Interspersed between the windows were bookshelves no taller than Sara’s shoulder, each brimming with the printed word.
The inside walls had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves divided into two levels, creating a U-shaped display; staircases at either end gave access to the balcony level; both descended into hearth areas containing intimate arrangements of sofas, chairs and tables in front of the large marble fireplaces. Glancing up, Sara saw the balcony even stretched above the doorway. On either side of the lower level, rolling ladders had been attached to provide access to the higher shelves tucked underneath the balcony. Smaller shelves, identical to the ones along the window walls, created small corridors of books.
Stepping farther in, Sara felt overwhelmed by the contradictory sensations of comfort and awe the room inspired.
A hand holding an almost empty glass appeared from behind one of the armchairs facing a hearth. “Sawyer,” a voice barked. “The brandy is gone. Bring me whiskey.” The word was slurred, coming out as whish-key.