Secrets In The Light

CHAPTER 2

No, there is no chance, whatsoever, that this woman knows his name. The name that nobody uses anymore. The name that only his mother called him when he was a little boy, back when Emily remembered her own children.

For years, nobody has called him 'Harry'. And now here comes this stranger, claiming to have known his father well enough that the old man confided in her at some point. It's not him, it's his father. He's the reason he would never even talk to people like her, because his paternal figure never did.

He was well aware that the death of George Savile could bring nothing but greedy men to his door, but never in a million years could he imagine that a woman with a yellow scarf would want to benefit from it. He had to admit to himself that he is a bit disappointed to realize somebody who seemed a possible friend a few hours ago turned out just like all the other people at the funeral.

However, he did not have the time to wait around for an explanation from an old woman whose name he doesn't even know yet. He does not have the time to fall pawn in a game he is not destined to. The only thing he can do to honour his father is jump in a car and be in London in no time to prepare the Hotel for tomorrow's delightful event.

The Savile Hotel is going to be the first one to be having electricity in all London. Many people are going to be there not only for the event itself, but also to be presenting their respects for the late Earl. There was a rumor the Queen herself may pay a visit at some point, but nobody could neither confirm nor deny.

The responsabilities started to come one after the other. After all, he did not have the time to mourn hit father, but maybe fulfilling his wishes regarding the electricity in the hotel might give him some closure.

George started the project and he managed to finish it, but never got the chance to see it fully developed. It is now the burden on Harold's shoulders to take care of the inauguration.

For his father.

This time, he decided to not listen to his gut and even though his mind was telling him to leave the old woman alone, he chose not to.

On the long ride to London, he's found out her name is Margaret Doyle and she is an old friend of his father's. She hasn't shared much, but he knew the reason she decided to keep things for herself is because she couldn't trust him yet.

Harold might be the son of an Earl, but he was no hypocrite. Trust must be earned, just like his father told him. And sometimes, winning someone over could turn out to be a lost war, just like the relationship between the old man and Anne-Rose, his daughter, could have never been based on anything but blood.

For the time being, he decided to hire this woman as a cook in his hotel, now that more people are going to come to enjoy the luxury of electric lights. Help is needed everywhere. And from this point forward, he could simply try to win her trust. Only time will tell.

Their conversation was short, lost somewhere around the repeated lines of 'Your father was a great man' and 'He would love to see this hotel brought to life.'

Margaret Doyle was a calm woman. Her age could speak for itself given she knew very well what to say and when to say it. Something was telling Harold that she was being polite just because of his title, but then again, if it weren't for the title he holds, she wouldn't have been here, neither would he.

The entrance of the hotel was filled with with people, some stopped to pay their condolences to the new Earl, some simply looked strangely at him, like he was brand new hatched from a giant egg in front of their eyes. And some didn't look at all. Maybe because they didn't know him, or maybe because they wanted to respect his privacy, something too rare, something an Earl cannot afford.

After a few minutes of chatting, he walked to the reception, throwing glances at the receptionist who seems surprised to see the young man here instead of his father.

"Martin, give Lady Doyle a key to a servant's room, please. She will be working with us from now on. Thank you." Harold asked with a polite smile on his face.

The young boy behind the desk was surprised at his new master's voice and words. He hasn't been working here long but he knew Mr. George Savile quite well and never has the dead man ever spoke to him with 'please' or 'thank you'. But what has shocked him the most was the way Harold used the word 'us'. There was never an us. It has always been the Savile family and the servants.

However, when his eyes landed on the woman next to his master, the one who has been presented to him as Margaret Doyle, something seemed too familiar to him. Maybe the yellow scarf she was wearing. He could have sworn he had seen it somewhere before.

"Of course, My Lord. Welcome to the Savile Hotel, Lady Doyle. And welcome home, Sir.", Martin politely bowed to the two of them, but Margaret couldn't hold back the smile and the giggles from escaping her mouth.

Nobody has ever bowed to her.

'Perhaps that should change these days.', she told herself still with a bright smile on her lips.

Margaret's room was small, but spacious enough for all her belongings to be put together in a corner. The supposed white on the walls is now an old yellow with stains from place to place, but it didn't bother her at all. She was happy to finally be here again. Harry promised to send for her bags as soon as possible. She thinks she could trust him sooner rather than later. He looks more like his mother than his father.

That's a good thing.

On the other side of the hotel, Harold is finally able to sit on a bed, in a room put aside just for him. The whisky in the bottle he had ordered two hours ago is long gone. Now, he is lying with his suit jacket thrown somewhere around the room, one of his shoes still on his right foot and his curly hair a mess more than usual.

This wasn't him, he knew that. But then who was he? The Earl of Essex? Did that suit him better? Did he ever know who he was or he simply knew what he was supposed to be and simply bowed his head? Well, it's too bad he's asking himself this just now, because the other person capable of answering these besides himself is his dead father.

Tomorrow was going to be the big day to commemorate the man who built the entire hotel in its glory. Tomorrow was about finding some peace in something other than alcohol. Tomorrow was about giving some light to the darkness that seemed to surround his heart during the last few days.

It was already late when they both arrived at the hotel and by the time Harold could find a comfortable position to sleep in, it turned out to be dawn, but he at least found a couple of hours to close his eyes and get some rest. When eight o'clock struck, the doors to his room were opened by the same woman he came in with yesterday.

Margaret was now dressed in a similar black dress, but this time the material wasn't that fine as the one from the funeral. From the waist down she tied a big apron and her brown hair was tied back and covered with a white cap. This was the uniform every woman employee was supposed to wear during work hours.

For men it was something similar to a suit, a white shirt covered by a vest and a jacket, accompanied by dress pants. Nothing too fancy, but quality enough and pleasant to look at.

"My Lord. ", Margaret started to speak as ske walked to the big windows to pull the curtains away, making sure there is enough light to make Harold's eyes close back. " It is time to get up and ready. Various guests are about to come for the event of tonight. You might want to welcome them yourself."

But no matter what responsability comes with his name, this morning he wasn't in the mood for people.

"Tell them I'm sorry, but I'm busy. Or better yet, tell them I'm dead. I'm sure that would bring them enough joy to go through the day.", he responded bitterly, pulling the covers onto his body until his head was well covered.

"Sir, Lady Rochford is waiting in the parlour with her husband and son. Also, you have a staff meeting in an hour. I've let everyone know to come back to the kitchen like you asked yesterday evening.", her sweet voice echoed into the big chamber.

Harold though in that moment that this woman has taken the new job seriously from the beginning, somethig he knows his father would have appreciated quite a lot. Maybe some day he was going to promote her to maitre d'hotel, but for the time being, he had more important matters to attend to.

Being used to be getting dressed alone meant that Harold liked to take his time in the morning, although today, besides Margaret herself, there were too many people trying to get in his good graces by brushing his hair too much or tying his shoes too tight. There is nothing he hated more than being treated like a brat, but today, that's what he was.

The Earl of Essex.

Lord and Lady Rochford were waiting inside the parlour with their son, a boy about ten years old with dirty blond hair, that seemed to have too much fun playing with the candlestick next to his mother's chair.

"Your Lordship.", Lady Rochford greeted politely, bowing her head just enough so that her cleavage was showing in spite of her husband's presence.

The blue dress wasn't complimenting her at all, with big layers of petty coats underneath and a hideous purple necklace, there was nothing appealing to this woman. However, Lord Rochford had something else. Perhaps it was the full black eyes that could be intimidating or the way he always carries himself with dignity, pointing his chin out on purpose, nobody knew what it is about him, but something made him appealing and respectable.

The young man couldn't even understand his new title yet, his father had never truly prepared him for it, so to be standing in front of someone with the quality of Lord Rochford himself and his wife, and be called 'Your Lordship' was something new to him, so new that it seemed to be causing him nausea.

"Please, accept out condolences, My Lord.", they plainly added to the formal greeting, just to complete the facade.

Harold knew in that moment that there was nothing genuine about them. Nothing he could benefit from. They are all playing a game they cannot win. Maybe the child will learn some day to be truthful, but that is doubtful. Nevertheless, these two adults didn't know anything about loss or condolences and they weren't being sincere either. To this, Harold was wondering what was it they really wanted to talk about.

"Tell me, Sir, now that you have to fill in your father's shoes, have you given any thought to marriage?", John Rochford filled the uncomfortable silence with a more uncomfortable question.

The truth was Harry knew his father's beliefs on marriage and sooner or later, he might have had to choose a woman to take as a wife, not because he wanted to, but because the society tells him to.

The Earl of Essex needs an heir.

And who better to give him one that a wife? Maybe one day he will even get to love her and spend a nice and quiet life together away from the fuss of the title and snobism. But for now, there is no wife and no heir.

"No, Lord Rochford. I haven't had the chance in the midst of everything. But I promise you, I will.", he responded, giving the man in front of him a reassurance to be invited at the wedding when there's going to be one.

There was something wrong, Harold could tell. Something about the wife's hidden but obvious smile, or maybe about the constant tapping of his companion's foot on the ground. But there was definitely something wrong.

Instead of asking, the young man simply waited patiently for answers to come to him. From the expression on the Lady's face he could tell that even if her husband would try to keep quiet, she will do no such a thing.

In the end, she was the one who started speaking, as expected.

"My Lord, forgive our intrusion, but we believe there is someone you might be interested in.", she glanced back at her husband for approval to continue.

There was no chance that anything these two have planned would work out, but Harold was taught to pay close attention to the people who are speaking to him and listen up until the end.

"You can go on, Lady Rochford.", Harold encouraged her with a heavy heart.

"Her name is Amy Grace Anson. Her father is the Baron of Litchfield. Perhaps...it wouldn't hurt if you shared a few words with the girl. She is the purest of things.", the woman kept talking, glancing at her husband from now and then to make sure she hadn't said any bad word.

She spoke about the girl like she didn't have a choice. She spoke about her like her faith has already been decided without his consent even, like his faith has been decided by everyone else but himself. And he hated that from the bottom of his heart, because he knew better than anyone what being forced to do something you hate with your whole being was like.

"She isn't a thing, Lady Rochford. But I will meet with her. I will send her a telegram as soon as tonight's event is over.", he finished the conversation, getting out of his chair, ready to leave.

"Oh, there's no need. Her family is going to be here for the inauguration. They should all be here in less than an hour if I am not mistaken.", the woman stood up as well, impatiently putting her hand on Harold's arm, grabbing him with a strong hold.

An inappropriate strong hold.

For the love of God, this woman was touching him and her husband just stood there watching the clock on the wall ticking.

"Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the servants in a few minutes. I'll see you at the party tonight. Enjoy yourselves.", he said shortly, in a hurry to get as far away from them as possible.

The meeting wasn't scheduled for another half hour, but his desire to breathe just for a single moment has forced him to run to the kitchen and ask for a glass of whisky. A young woman was cutting some vegetables, helping Margaret with the dishes for tonight. He was truly sorry for not being able to know all the names yet, but he promised himself to try and learn them as soon as possible. It was important how the people that worked for him saw him and knowing each of them was always a bonus.

"Here you go, My Lord.", she politely placed the glass in front of him, silently wondering what was a man like him doing in the servants' quarters.

"Thank you.", he answered back, turning his chair to face the young blonde woman sitting in front of him with her head bowed and her hands crossed in front of her apron, a stained one for the matter. "Please, tell me you name."

The request surprised her even more. An Earl wanted to know her name? How can that be possible? His late father never took any interest in who is working for him, let alone in good manners around the staff.

"Clara.", she spoke, not daring to look up to him. She knew it would be a mistake. It always was with his father.

Margaret was watching from a distance the interaction between the two of them and she has heard every word. This boy might have some things to learn, but he definitely isn't his father– she started to think.

"You can look at me when we're talking, Clara. Tell me, where are you from?", his voice came out just a little bit more demanding, but not in a harsh way at all. He simply wanted to get her attention and help her shaking hands to stop.

But that didn't help. Because as she slowly looked up from the floor, he could notice her fear vividly, making her irises turn black like a berry. He couldn't understand why were people so afraid of him. He used to come here a lot as a child with his father and even as a teenager, during his studies, he was always visiting. Maybe his title has changed but not his essence.

"I'm from France, Sir. I came here three years ago and worked for a simple family with two children before coming to work for Earl of Essex.", she started explaining, her French accent prominent and by the smile on his face, she thought she probably said something wrong, so the only thing left to do was bow her head again to hide her embarrassment.

With two fingers, he pressed gently against her chin and lifted her chin up, forcing her to look him in the eyes again. She had beautiful, big, blue eyes, just like an ocean after the storm. They were calm but feisty at the same time.

"Always look me in the eyes when speaking to me. It's the polite thing to do.", he scolded her playfully, knowing fully well that she hasn't been impolite at all.

If she were to look any other noble in the eyes any time of day, she could suffer serious consequences. But he didn't want people to see him like that.

"You're too soft. Learn to be a man or be nothing at all, boy.", he remembered his father's words, the same ones every time he would want to help in the kitchen or clean his own room.

"Don't talk to them like they are your friends. An Earl doesn't have friends, let alone his servants as companions, my child.", George used to scold young Harold for every single inappropriate encounter he would have.

"Never let them look you in the eyes. Never, Harold."

But to every single one of them, the child's answer was short and simple.

"Harry. My name is Harry."