My regular routine was to write letters for Rutledge after breakfast and before dinner. During this time, I read Rutledge's correspondence, answered what I could, and waited for him to dictate what he needed to answer himself. I also made his appointments, reminded him of upcoming events, and wrote formulaic letters on his behalf to people who had visited or been beneficial to the school.

We worked in a study that was a bright, surprisingly pleasant room, which occupied the end of a wing in the Head Master's house. Windows lined three walls, and paintings of landscapes filled the spaces between the windows. A portrait of a serene woman in a black riding habit and broad-brimmed hat hung over Rutledge's desk. “The late Mrs. Rutledge,” my employer had grunted when I'd asked her identity.

Mrs. Rutledge looked as though she'd been far more interesting than her husband. Dark, intelligent eyes above her long nose held good humor and comfort. I found myself looking into those eyes more than once when annoyed by Rutledge. I wondered how she had weathered living with him. Had she met his prickly personality with a fire of her own, or had he cowed her as much as he did his daughter?

Today, though Rutledge wanted to carry on as usual, he was more abrupt and angry than normal. He growled that I was too slow, my writing unclear, my manner offensive. Through it all I ground my teeth and answered him as it suited me. He had already learned that he could not cow me with his abruptness though he did not like this.

At last, Rutledge, too impatient to sit still, took himself off to harass his tutors. Left alone, I finished my work without interruption and found time to attend to my own correspondence.

I wrote first to Grenville, informing him of the murder and the unusual circumstances. I wrote curtly that I wished he'd apprised me of the true reason to send me down to Sudbury, keeping my sentences short and pointed. I knew I was rude, but my anger at his deception had not abated.