The Lost Ancestor Read Online Free Page A

in
executing their own duties.
    Mrs Cuff disappeared with the coats,
returning moments later.  ‘Ready, Miss Mercer?’
    Edith inhaled slowly, delighting in her
new title.  Miss Mercer.  All the years of slaving for her
mother and quietly absorbing the mechanisms of running a household had led to
this moment.  Miss Mercer, third housemaid at Blackfriars of
Winchelsea, Sussex.  With a slight nod of the head, Edith moved across
the kitchen.  ‘I’ve never been more ready, Mrs Cuff.’
    Mary, standing unobtrusively at the edge
of the room, went to wish her sister luck, but before she knew it, Edith had
been enveloped into the depths of the house without so much as a glance back at
her twin.  A few years ago Mary might have been irritated at her sister’s
indifference but, for some time since, Mary was growing used to her sister’s
increasing aloofness and detachment.  She supposed that was just what
happened to twins as they grew up and wanted to assert and be known for their
own personalities.
    Mary looked blithely around the kitchen,
wondering at the uses of the implements, pots and pans hanging from giant hooks
around the room.  To her, many of them looked like instruments of
torture.  A myriad iron pipes of varying sizes led from a giant black
range, leading to goodness only knew where.  A huge copper pot, larger
than anything that she had ever seen before, caught her attention.  She
went over to it, almost mesmerised by its splendour.  It was so perfectly
shiny and smooth that she could see her own curious face staring back at
her.  As she stared at the distorted bronzed-hued reflection, Mary
suddenly became aware of the stillness of the kitchen.  The orders had
stopped and the maids had all vanished.
    A stark shadow passed behind her and she
felt hot putrid breath on her neck.  She turned quickly to see the chef’s
quizzical face glaring at her.
    ‘ Prends ça à la bibliotèque,
maintenant! ’ he barked.
    Mary froze, staring at his harsh features,
only understanding fragments of his order. The chef thrust a steaming silver
coffee pot towards her.
    ‘ Prends !’ he repeated, his cold
eyes swelling intensely. ‘ Tiens! ’
    Did bibliotèque mean library?   Mary
wondered, struggling to recall her French lessons from school.  The idea
of even catching a glimpse of the wonderful, celebrated Blackfriars’ library
filled her with a joy that far outweighed the potential stupidity of her
decision to reach across and tentatively take the silver coffee pot. 
‘Biblotèque?’ she said softly.
    Angry yellow teeth appeared between the
chef’s cracked lips.  ‘Oui, la bibliotèque,’ he said, slowly repeating
each word.  Spit flew from his mouth on the final word.
    Mary gave a submissive nod of her head and
walked purposefully from the kitchen with the coffee pot.  ‘What a
disgusting creature!’ she mumbled to herself, entirely unsure of where she was
headed exactly.  Ahead of her a long, narrow corridor with plain,
whitewashed walls fed several closed doors.  She knew that she needed to
find a staircase which led to the east wing, having once caught sight of the grand
library during a summer fete.  As she reached the end of the corridor,
Mary shuddered from the cold, having left the reaches of the hot kitchen
ranges.  She found herself at a corridor which ran perpendicular to the
last.  Standing still, Mary closed her eyes and tried to imagine a birds’
eye view of Blackfriars.  If she was not mistaken, then she needed to take
a left turn into the bowels of the east wing, then search for a staircase to
the next floor.  The library should then be somewhere close by.
    As Mary began to walk along the flag-stone
floor, she quickly spotted a staircase and smiled.  She climbed the steps
and, at the top, she pushed open a heavy-set wooden door, appearing in a grand,
decadent hallway which stole her breath away.  Mary’s eyes flitted and
danced across the huge family portraits that hung on