knew, simply knew, she would excel at her new position. “You’ll be the making of that young woman,”
her father had insisted. “Mark my words.”
It was nearly one o’clock as the train pulled into the small station at Penrith. Charlotte
alighted from the carriage and looked up and down the platform, wondering if Mr. Pringle
would be there or waiting outside the station. After a moment, she spotted a man dressed
in livery a few yards away, his back to her.
“Mr. Pringle?”
He turned around, a broad smile on his homely face, and came forward to take her valise
and carpetbag. “There you are, Miss Brown. I was looking out for you at the wrong
end of the train.”
“Lord Ashford was kind enough to send me a first-class ticket, otherwise I should
have been in the third-class carriages. How do you do?” She held out her hand, and
after a moment’s surprised hesitation, he set down her carpetbag and accepted her
greeting.
“I’m very well, thank you. We’re just outside on the forecourt, if you’ll follow me.”
Mr. Pringle helped her into a modest two-wheeled buggy, which had just enough room
for the two of them, and then strapped her bags to the back of the carriage. “Your
trunk arrived yesterday, so I decided to fetch you in this. Faster than the landau,
and old Bill here’s more reliable than any of his lordship’s motorcars.”
In only a few minutes they had left Penrith behind and were on the road to Ullswater.
On both sides the fells towered above them dramatically, their rugged slopes dotted
with boulders and the occasional cluster of bleating sheep. Raised in the south of
England, where the largest hills were little more than molehills in comparison, Charlotte
was used to more decorous landscapes. But this countryside had never been tamed, had
never been bent and shaped to the will of man, and she couldn’t help but find it a
trifle intimidating.
“Thank you for coming to collect me, Mr. Pringle.” It wouldn’t do to seem standoffish,
not with the first person she met today, and he did seem like a friendly sort.
“You can go ahead and call me John Pringle, just like everyone else does. Can’t remember
the last time someone called me Mr. Pringle.”
“Why both names?” she asked. Was this an idiosyncrasy of all aristocratic families,
or just the Cumberlands?
“Well, there were at least three or four men called John working on the estate when
I started, nigh on thirty years ago. And there were more than a few Pringles, too.
I suppose I could have picked another name, like some do. But I wanted to keep the
names my mum and dad gave me. So that’s why I’m John Pringle to everyone at Cumbermere
Hall—yourself included.”
“Very well, John Pringle it is. How far a drive is it to the hall?”
“Eight miles, more or less. Could have taken a shortcut, but I thought you’d like
a proper view of the great house for the first time you lay eyes on it.”
“I gather it’s very large.”
“That it is, but it’s beautiful all the same. My people have lived here, and worked
for the earls, for more’n a hundred years now. Feels like our home, too.”
They sat in silence for another few minutes; though Charlotte was brimming over with
questions, she didn’t want to test John Pringle’s patience or loyalty to his employers.
It wouldn’t do to offend him with impertinent questions—and what if such questions
were reported to Lord Ashford or his parents? It was a risk she didn’t care to take.
The carriage was slowing; from what she could tell they were still in the middle of
nowhere, the only sign of human habitation a lattice of low fieldstone walls fencing
in pastureland and the road itself. She looked to John Pringle, concerned that something
was amiss.
“We’re coming up to the entrance to the park, Miss Brown. Just past this bend.”
The gates seemed to appear out of nowhere, but then they had been hidden
her father had insisted. “Mark my words.”
It was nearly one o’clock as the train pulled into the small station at Penrith. Charlotte
alighted from the carriage and looked up and down the platform, wondering if Mr. Pringle
would be there or waiting outside the station. After a moment, she spotted a man dressed
in livery a few yards away, his back to her.
“Mr. Pringle?”
He turned around, a broad smile on his homely face, and came forward to take her valise
and carpetbag. “There you are, Miss Brown. I was looking out for you at the wrong
end of the train.”
“Lord Ashford was kind enough to send me a first-class ticket, otherwise I should
have been in the third-class carriages. How do you do?” She held out her hand, and
after a moment’s surprised hesitation, he set down her carpetbag and accepted her
greeting.
“I’m very well, thank you. We’re just outside on the forecourt, if you’ll follow me.”
Mr. Pringle helped her into a modest two-wheeled buggy, which had just enough room
for the two of them, and then strapped her bags to the back of the carriage. “Your
trunk arrived yesterday, so I decided to fetch you in this. Faster than the landau,
and old Bill here’s more reliable than any of his lordship’s motorcars.”
In only a few minutes they had left Penrith behind and were on the road to Ullswater.
On both sides the fells towered above them dramatically, their rugged slopes dotted
with boulders and the occasional cluster of bleating sheep. Raised in the south of
England, where the largest hills were little more than molehills in comparison, Charlotte
was used to more decorous landscapes. But this countryside had never been tamed, had
never been bent and shaped to the will of man, and she couldn’t help but find it a
trifle intimidating.
“Thank you for coming to collect me, Mr. Pringle.” It wouldn’t do to seem standoffish,
not with the first person she met today, and he did seem like a friendly sort.
“You can go ahead and call me John Pringle, just like everyone else does. Can’t remember
the last time someone called me Mr. Pringle.”
“Why both names?” she asked. Was this an idiosyncrasy of all aristocratic families,
or just the Cumberlands?
“Well, there were at least three or four men called John working on the estate when
I started, nigh on thirty years ago. And there were more than a few Pringles, too.
I suppose I could have picked another name, like some do. But I wanted to keep the
names my mum and dad gave me. So that’s why I’m John Pringle to everyone at Cumbermere
Hall—yourself included.”
“Very well, John Pringle it is. How far a drive is it to the hall?”
“Eight miles, more or less. Could have taken a shortcut, but I thought you’d like
a proper view of the great house for the first time you lay eyes on it.”
“I gather it’s very large.”
“That it is, but it’s beautiful all the same. My people have lived here, and worked
for the earls, for more’n a hundred years now. Feels like our home, too.”
They sat in silence for another few minutes; though Charlotte was brimming over with
questions, she didn’t want to test John Pringle’s patience or loyalty to his employers.
It wouldn’t do to offend him with impertinent questions—and what if such questions
were reported to Lord Ashford or his parents? It was a risk she didn’t care to take.
The carriage was slowing; from what she could tell they were still in the middle of
nowhere, the only sign of human habitation a lattice of low fieldstone walls fencing
in pastureland and the road itself. She looked to John Pringle, concerned that something
was amiss.
“We’re coming up to the entrance to the park, Miss Brown. Just past this bend.”
The gates seemed to appear out of nowhere, but then they had been hidden
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