He assumed that was American Boston. He nodded and was about to ask about her experience, and whether she had served as a maid before, here or across the Atlantic, when she started speaking.

So she wasn't a working class girl. Tristan thought he had indeed observed something out of place about her speech, her manners, the way she carried herself, though he hadn't been able to entirely place it before. He wondered why she did not seek out marriage or better employment, if she was educated. He wondered what had led the girl to cross the ocean. Or perhaps she had come here with her family before they perished. But he reminded himself that he sat here today as employer, not as alienist. It would be inappropriate to pry, especially as he observed that recounting the unfortunate events unsettled her.

"I am sorry for your loss, Miss Danes," he said. He reached out to pour her a cup of tea, to fortify her, and he gently moved the cup across the table. "I'd be willing to give you a chance," even if it was just because he felt morally obliged to do so now, "and if you can read, you can learn about the housework from manuals, I suppose." Although it would mean he would have to send his laundry out, he realized. He wouldn't entrust the mending and washing of fragile materials and ironing to inexperienced hands. "But could you handle being treated like a working girl?"