Beeswax usually settles Nora’s nerves, but the acidic tang of wet mud is ruining the morning’s work. She has spent three hours on her knees scrubbing the checkered linoleum until it shone, only for a pair of caked work boots to drag the estate’s garden beds right across the kitchen. The intruder stands by the AGA, dripping onto the clean slate, his back to her as he helps himself to her fresh coffee. He wears a frayed waxed jacket that smells of pine-smoke, damp wool, and something sharp and warm that makes her pulse jump.
"The back door is for deliveries," Nora says, tightening her grip on the zinc bucket until her knuckles go white. "And the kitchen is for staff." He turns with agonizing slowness. He is not the grizzled groundskeeper she expected; he is young, with flint-colored eyes under a shelf of dark brow, and a week of shadow on his jaw. He doesn't startle. He simply drinks, watching her over the rim of the mug with a slow, quiet curiosity that heats the space between them. Of all the nerve. Nora marches forward, her damp apron snapping, and points a soapy finger toward the rain. He goes without a word, leaving only wet brown smears and the heavy, lingering memory of his gaze.
By noon, Mr. Hale is standing in the very same spot, his face the color of skimmed milk as Nora recounts the intrusion. The estate manager stares at the door, his hands trembling as he leans in to whisper the name.
