It was early afternoon. Mary Jane was on her way to watch Jason's swordsmanship training when she paused mid-step at the sound of hurried feet and the faint clatter of porcelain. She turned just in time to see a young maid—Lina, if she remembered correctly—rounding the corner with a trembling tray balanced in her hands. Her eyes were rimmed red, and she blinked furiously as she tried to keep her tears at bay.
"Lina?" She called the maid gently.
The girl startled, nearly losing grip of the silver pitcher nestled beside the breadbasket. She halted, ducking her head. "M-my lady."
"Is something wrong?" she asked, approaching. "You're shaking."
"I—I was just bringing lunch to the study," Lina said, her voice tight. "But His Lordship—he… he snapped at me for interrupting. I was just ordered by Mrs. Potts—she said they haven't had breakfast nor lunch yet, so I thought—" Her words crumbled into a whisper.
If today was a few months before, when she was new in this world, she might have avoided this maid and this situation altogether. She wouldn't want to have anything to do with the people here, especially the man who owns this house. She would have shrunk away and gone about her own business, preferably away from others. But Mary Jane could feel the changes that happened in her for the past couple of months. And that included the very first time she had a quiet and peaceful talk with the Earl that night in the garden.
The confidence that was slowly building in her, ever since she began to interact with others, now made her want to help this poor maid.
And so, Mary Jane didn't hesitate. She held the tray with one hand, beside Lina's, and rested the other lightly on the girl's shoulder. "Thank you for trying. I'll take it from here."
Lina blinked up at her, eyes wide. "But, my lady—"
"It's fine," she said with a smile. "You've done well. Go to the kitchen, get a cup of tea. Tell Cook I sent you."
The girl hesitated, then nodded gratefully, her tears finally spilling free as she turned and hurried away.
Mary Jane adjusted the tray in her hands, squared her shoulders, and made her way toward the Earl's study, the scent of roast meat and fresh bread following her like a banner.
Once she arrived outside the Earl's study, the door was closed. So, unable to knock at the door with her hands holding the large tray, she used her foot instead to announce her presence.
The heavy door creaked open and a soot-stained face looked bemusedly at her raised foot which was poised to knock on the door again.
With a smile, Mary Jane stepped inside, the lunch tray cradled carefully in her arms. The scent of roasted meats and warm bread accompanied her entrance, but the room hardly stirred. Men sat hunched over crates and stacks of scorched papers, their jackets thrown over chairs, sleeves rolled up, faces smudged with ash and focus. The Earl stood at the far table; his hands braced against a surface cluttered with blackened folders and crumpled parchment.
"Pardon the interruption," she said softly, her voice a thread of silk through the soot-thick air.
All heads turned.
"Lunch," she added, holding up the tray, "delivered without tears this time."
A few of the men blinked in surprise. One of them—Lord Harrow, if she remembered correctly—actually stood.
"My lady," the Earl said, straightening, surprised but not displeased. "You didn't have to—"
"I did," she said, setting the tray down on the unused coffee table by the set of couches. "One of your maids looked like she was about to resign from life itself after you barked at her."
He opened his mouth to respond, but she lifted a brow in mock warning. "It's alright. I told her I'd take responsibility. So, if you're going to scold anyone, scold me."
That earned a smirk from someone near the hearth, and a chuckle from one of the older secretaries.
She began uncovering dishes with the efficiency of someone used to feeding her younger brother during cram week.
"Gentlemen, it is not a crime to take a few minutes of rest. Let's eat while it's still warm. You've got the looks of men who've forgotten what meat tastes like."
With a nod from the Earl, each person in the room started to move closer to the food.
"I remember meat," Captain Sommers muttered, grabbing a plate. "It used to come without ash in the air."
Laughter stirred more freely now. Even the Earl's expression had softened, his tired gaze fixed on her.
As the men started on their meal with sighs of gratitude, she drifted toward one of the crates, eyeing the blackened papers stacked beside it. She gingerly picked up a scorched ledger, its edges curled and charred.
"Well," she said, flipping it open to half-missing entries, "we can now officially call this smoked paperwork—perfectly aged, like brisket."
That got a louder laugh.
Another man coughed and chortled into his cup, and someone muttered, "Best laugh I've had since the fire started."
She held up a more mangled sheet, bits of ink running down like it had been crying before it burned.
"This one," she said, studying it solemnly, "I'd say is medium rare."
The room broke into low, rolling laughter, including the Earl—though his was muffled behind his hand, as if the reaction surprised even him.
"Should I start sorting these by barely toasted and extra crispy?" she mused aloud, looking over the mess.
"Don't forget well done beyond salvation," someone called.
She grinned, the kind that curled slowly and brightened her whole face. The other men seemed to have noticed as well, much to the Earl's chagrin, they couldn't help but smile in return.
Then, quieter, she said, "I could help... if you'd let me."
The Earl straightened from his desk, ignoring the startled looks from the others, meeting her eyes across the room. "You'd really want to?"
She nodded. "Someone's got to balance out all this scorched doom with a bit of charm."
He smiled faintly—just a flicker, but it lit a part of him rarely seen. The men exchanged glances, clearly surprised at this atmosphere of relaxed camaraderie between a couple who were publicly known to be at odds with each other. They must have made up or something. – they privately thought.
"Then," he said, stepping forward, "you're officially recruited, Lady Whitman."
She placed a hand over her chest with mock solemnity. "I accept, Lord Commander of the Charred Papers."
The room warmed with shared laughter, even amid smoke-tinged papers and the lingering sting of crisis.
The smell of warm broth and baked bread softened the edge in the room, melting away the tiredness. The men were still hunched over their plates, quiet at first, but laughter had gradually returned — Lady Whitman's odd, charming jokes about "barbecue files" and "fire-seasoned correspondence" still lingering in the air.
While the men ate, Lady Whitman sat on the edge of a desk, eyes sweeping over the room, thoughtful. The crates were still a mess of crumpled parchment, warped leather binders, and smoke-blackened ledgers. A few were dripping ever so slightly onto the floor.
"I noticed something," she said, setting down her cup. "Some of those records are still wet. If we don't dry them soon, they'll mold or stick together, and we'll lose whatever's left."
One of the knights looked up mid-bite, brows furrowed. "Aye, we were going to lay them out flat once we had space."
She smiled. "Better to hang them. Like laundry."
The men blinked at her. Laundry?
Mary Jane walked across the room and opened the door to find two maids outside, wiping windows with crumpled newspapers in the hallway. She called out. "Martha, Beatrice—bring me some strings, some of the old clotheslines, and the dowels from the spare curtain rods. Also towels, if we have enough."
Turning back, she gestured toward the hearth. "We'll set up drying lines in front of the fire. Drape the worst pages with blotting paper, and hang the rest. We'll get better results this way, trust me."
One of the younger scribes, wide-eyed, murmured, "That's...actually quite clever, my lady."
She beamed. "I… uh… used to read about book restoration in my spare time. Long story."
As the maids arrived and began setting up the lines under her direction, Lady Whitman turned back to the eating men.
"We need some kind of organizational crates and spaces," she said, pointing toward a bare wall. "Let's chalk out the sections: financial records to the left, merchant letters by the window, inventory closest to the door, and so on. That way, no one's opening five boxes to find the same type of document."
Ferguson looked impressed, and one of the knights gave a low whistle. "Never thought I'd say this, but… I'm glad her ladyship is here."
She laughed, dusting off her skirts. "You say that now. Wait until I start organizing your boots by height and shine."
A ripple of chuckles spread through the room.
Then she grew quiet, her gaze softening as it landed back to the Earl. "Also, don't skip meals again. I mean it. Everyone works better with rest and full bellies. So, I suggest you each have ten-minute break rotations. I'll personally drag the Earl away from his parchment pile if I have to."
At the center of the room, Anthony gazed back at her, one corner of his lips curving up in a half-smile. "Will you now?"
Mary Jane had to consciously stop her heart from fluttering at those mischievous, sapphire eyes. She could clearly see where Jason inherited his charm from. Instead, she arched a brow at him, affected by his playful challenge. "Try me."
The men grinned, enjoying this new side of the countess—warm, witty, and unexpectedly capable.
Lady Whitman took one of the damp ledgers in hand, turned it carefully, and blew gently over the ink-stained page.
"Right then," she said. "Let's save what we can."
Lady Whitman clapped her hands lightly and called for more maids and footmen to join them. Their initial hesitation melted under her brisk encouragement and the soft gleam of excitement in her eyes.
"We need tables — as many as you can find," she directed, her skirts sweeping over the floor as she moved. "Tablecloths, bedsheets — anything clean we can use. Paintbrushes as well. And careful hands. If you can play cards, you can lift papers without tearing them."
A few of the younger maids exchanged nervous glances but hurried off to obey.
The men, still sitting around their half-eaten meals, watched in baffled silence as Lady Whitman commandeered the chaos like a seasoned general, her voice as warm as it was decisive.
In no time at all, the tables were set up, and the drying stations came alive. The slightly damp, soot-stained papers were gently laid out, blotted with cloth, and set beneath weighted edges to prevent curling. Lady Whitman moved among them, sleeves pinned back, murmuring encouragements.
One of the Earl's clerks, a grizzled man with spectacles perched on his nose, shook his head in disbelief.
"I'd never have thought of this, my lady," he said gruffly, brushing ash from a document as carefully as if he handled a newborn babe.
Lady Whitman flashed him a grin. "Necessity, Mr. Higgins. In my old home, if you let important papers soak, you got to explain it to a very angry… matron with a wooden spoon." Careful there Mary Jane. You might carelessly mention a young boy whose rain-soaked books you've dried a few times before—a boy who doesn't live in this world.
Thankfully, her awkward speech pauses went unnoticed. A ripple of quiet laughter warmed the room.
Lady Whitman moved to a stack of empty crates and dipped a quill in ink. With practiced strokes, she scrawled labels across their sides:
INVENTORY – SHIPS & GOODS
CORRESPONDENCE – EXTERNAL
FINANCIALS – HIGH PRIORITY
MISCELLANEOUS – UNKNOWN, UNSORTED, OR FRAGMENTED
She turned, catching the wary eyes of the Earl's steward. "If we sort them into broad categories first, we can decide what needs copying or conserving later. Think of it like making a map — we need to see the battlefield before we charge."
The steward blinked, then slowly nodded. "Aye, my lady. That does make sense."
Soon, more crates were being labeled, carried from one corner of the study to another. Footmen, clerks, even a few of the younger guards got involved. The whole room began to hum with a strange, hopeful energy.
At one point, as she gently peeled apart two damp pages with the aid of a butter knife, Lady Whitman glanced around and smiled at the sight of them — these proud, gruff men and timid maids working side by side, treating half-burned papers like precious treasures.
She caught Anthony — the Earl — watching her from where he leaned against the hearth, his plate abandoned on a nearby crate.
His arms were folded, his expression unreadable, but there was something different about the set of his mouth, the quiet in his eyes.
Not suspicion.
Not amusement.
Something gentler.
Something... stunned, almost.
Lady Whitman gave him a crooked little smile, and — without thinking — called out, "You there, my lord! Would you care to earn your keep? These documents won't sort themselves!"
The room froze for half a heartbeat.
Then someone chuckled.
Then another.
Chuckling himself, Anthony pushed off the hearth, shook his head as though he couldn't believe her cheek, and — to the shock of his men — rolled up his sleeves and crossed the room to take a stack of papers from her.
"If you dare assign me to the wrong crate," he warned in a warm, low voice, so only she heard, "I shall consider it an act of treason."
Lady Whitman laughed — a bright, unguarded sound — and the last of the tension melted away.
For the first time in days, Whitman Manor felt alive again.
Not with whispered fears or private griefs, but with quiet teamwork, shared purpose, and something even rarer:
Hope.
Later that afternoon, after hours spent drying, sorting, and labeling the charred documents, Lady Whitman paused to stretch her aching shoulders. The once chaotic room now looked almost orderly, with papers laid out like fallen soldiers in neat rows.
Across the room, Anthony crouched beside a crate labeled "Shipping Records - Partially Salvaged."
He shifted through the brittle sheaves, his fingers careful, until a faint crease appeared between his brows.
Lady Whitman, passing by with another armful of damp parchment, noticed.
"Is something wrong?" she asked softly.
Anthony didn't answer immediately. He lifted a sheet closer to the light, studying it.
"It's... strange," he murmured. "These shipping ledgers — the dates here don't match the ones recorded in the Company's official records."
He held the paper out, and she leaned closer, careful not to brush against him.
"See here," he pointed, tapping a line. "This ledger says a shipment arrived two days earlier than it should have. And in here—" he flipped to another sheet "—cargo weight discrepancies."
Lady Whitman frowned. "Could it have been a clerical error?"
Anthony shook his head. "Not this many. Not across this many entries."
A low whistle came from Mr. Higgins nearby, who'd been eavesdropping shamelessly.
"If that's true, my lord... someone was smuggling goods through the warehouse before the fire."
The room went very still.
Anthony straightened slowly, the sheet crackling in his hand.
"And if not for her ladyship's system..."—he glanced at Lady Whitman, something unreadable flickering in his gaze— "...we might never have spotted it."
Heat crept up Lady Whitman's neck at the looks of amazement and gratitude that everyone suddenly gave her. She ducked her head quickly, feeling shy, pretending to fuss with a nearby crate.
The Earl's men — some of whom had once grumbled about the countess's interference — now exchanged looks of quiet respect.
Anthony tucked the page carefully into an envelope and handed it to Higgins.
"Catalog these separately. We'll follow each thread."
Then he turned back to Lady Whitman, and — astonishingly — gave her a little bow of his head.
A silent thank you.
Genuine. Without armor.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
She cleared it and forced a playful smile. "Next time, my lord, do try to keep your records dry. This was terribly messy housekeeping."
The corners of his mouth quirked up — almost a smile.
The room, heavy with soot and the ache of lost things, felt a lot lighter than it was before.
A few more moments later, feeling that she was no longer needed, Mary Jane gathered the last few parchments from the crate, carefully stacking them before excusing herself from the study. She slipped into the hallway, needing a moment to steady the odd fluttering in her chest.
She wasn't used to this — being seen, being thanked and appreciated — and it was all a little overwhelming.
As she turned the corner, a small figure barreled into her with the full force of youthful enthusiasm.
"Mother!" Jason cried, clutching at her skirts. "Is it true the warehouse caught fire? I heard Cook telling Nanny Jones, and Higgins said you helped rescue the Earl's papers and crates and everything!"
She laughed softly, steadying him by the shoulders. His freckled face was flushed, his brown eyes wide with a mix of excitement and worry.
"Well," she said, crouching down to his level, "I wouldn't say I rescued anything. We all worked together. Like a team."
Jason's chest puffed out proudly. "Father says you're very clever. He told Mr. Ferguson he didn't know how you thought of it all so fast!"
Lady Whitman's heart gave a soft, unfamiliar pang.
She smoothed a stray lock of hair from Jason's forehead. "Did he now?" she said lightly, but she could feel the smile tugging at her lips.
Jason nodded solemnly. "Are you going to be the one who saves Father?"
The words, so earnest, so pure, struck her like a bell ringing in an empty hall. For a second, she couldn't find her voice.
Then she reached out and pulled him into a gentle hug, feeling his small arms wrap fiercely around her neck.
"I'll do my best," she whispered.
They stood there in the quiet corridor, soot-scented drafts brushing the stone floors, two souls bound by hope and the flickering beginnings of trust.
From the far end of the hallway, she glimpsed Anthony standing unnoticed, half in shadow, watching them.
And for the first time since her soul arrived in this strange world, Mary Jane — now known as Lady Whitman, the Right Honorable Countess of Whitman — felt something anchor itself firmly in her heart.
She wasn't just surviving anymore.
She was beginning to belong.
And if ever, although she fervently hoped it won't be the case, if ever she found out that she could no longer go back to her home world, perhaps she could make her own home here.