Beauty and the Baron: A Regency Fairy Tale Retelling (Forever After Retellings Book 1)

by Joanna Barker

  Rose gulped. Clearly Mrs. Morton did not appreciate having an inexperienced maid forced upon her. It would be an uphill battle to win her good opinion.

  Rose eyed the study door as they passed. Was Lord Norcliffe inside at this moment? She found she had little desire to see him again, even after his unexpected offer of employment. He had certainly earned his infamous reputation. She tore her eyes away and hurried to catch Mrs. Morton.

  They continued the tour upstairs, through a maze of hallways that Rose doubted she would ever keep straight. Every door began to look the same, and only her brief glimpses out the wide windows allowed her to keep her bearings. Mrs. Morton shot out words faster than anyone she’d ever met, and Rose’s head throbbed in her attempt to remember everything.

  “You’ll rise at four o’clock every morning. Your duties include cleaning and setting the fireplace grates, sweeping all floors daily, dusting and polishing, helping in the kitchen, hauling water, and anything else I assign you.” Mrs. Morton fixed her with a glare. “You will complete all your tasks by the end of the day or I will report your inadequacy to his lordship. Am I understood?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Morton,” she said, eager to please. The housekeeper turned away with a scowl.

  After turning down another endless hallway, Mrs. Morton came to a halt outside an innocuous door, the same as all the others. She faced Rose with a severe expression.

  “As a maid, you are expected to be invisible. Your presence will never be noticed, though you’ll be in every room of the house.” She laid her hand on the doorknob. “Every room except this one.”

  Rose glanced at the door again. “What room is that?”

  Mrs. Morton’s eyes took on a new solemnity. “It was the bedchamber of the late baroness.”

  Rose bit her lip. The sudden deaths of Lord and Lady Norcliffe in a carriage accident had shaken the entire town two years before.

  “His lordship insists on privacy in this matter,” Mrs. Morton said. “Only I am allowed inside to clean. You are never to enter this room.”

  Rose nodded. That would not be a problem. She had far too much depending on her ability to keep this position.

  The tour finished in the attic, where Mrs. Morton showed Rose her sliver of a bedroom, furnished with a bed and tiny wash table.

  “Fetch your things from downstairs.” She eyed Rose from head to foot and gave a little scoff. “You’ll have to accustom yourself to the livery. We’ve no use for frilly dresses.”

  Rose stared down at her dress as Mrs. Morton left. Frilly? The dark blue muslin was one of her plainer dresses. Heavens, she still had so much to learn. Her energy spent, she sank onto the bed, the iron frame creaking in the silence. She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching her elbows in a fierce effort to control her emotions.

  What had she gotten herself into? Though surprised at Lord Norcliffe’s offer yesterday, she hadn’t needed more than a moment to accept the position. Even a post as an undermaid was vastly preferable to the uncertain future that had loomed before her. And in truth, it was a good position, and she had been confident she would be able to manage.

  But now … oh, but now she was not so certain. Mrs. Morton had made it all too clear that she would report anything lacking in Rose’s work. And the sheer amount of work! The house was enormous, and Rose would be lucky enough to not lose her way, let alone complete the tasks expected of her.

  Rose closed her eyes, forcing back her tears of self-pity. She was lucky to have found this position, lucky to not be on the streets—or even worse, the workhouse. It would be difficult, of that she had no doubt. But she would learn and grow stronger.

  Father was depending on her, and she would not let him down.

  * * *

  Henry did not particularly like his weekly meetings with Frampton and Mrs. Morton. His housekeeper had the tendency to drone on about useless details while his butler barely spoke at all. But in the absence of having a steward, the meetings had become a necessity. As Mrs. Morton spoke from across the desk, something about the rising price of candles, he resolved to double his search for a new steward.

  “Would you like to review the menu for the week?” Mrs. Morton asked in that strange, toneless voice of hers.

  Henry shook his head. “No, I haven’t the time. As I said last week, I shall leave it to you to decide.”

  Mrs. Morton frowned, but nodded. With no lady of the house to confer with, she often attempted to involve him in such inane discussions. He hardly cared if they ate fish or fowl, so long as it was palatable.

  Henry decided to cut the meeting short before Mrs. Morton could start into another endless dialogue. “If you have no other concerns, then—”

  “I do have another concern,” Mrs. Morton said quickly.

  Henry narrowed his eyes at her interruption. She flushed but sat straighter. “Lord Norcliffe,” she amended.

  Henry tightened his jaw and looked out his study window, where the summer leaves were twitching in a scant breeze. He exhaled; the sooner he heard her concern, the sooner he might escape outside for a bruising ride. He motioned for her to speak.

  “I am worried about the maid you hired, my lord,” she said.

  Henry leaned back in his chair. It was as though Mrs. Morton knew how often he’d thought of Miss Sinclair during the past week. It had been utterly foolish of him to hire her. What had he been thinking, mixing a debtor’s daughter into his staff? Especially one with no experience.

  “Is her work inadequate?” he asked.

  Mrs. Morton frowned. “No, I can’t say that it is, though she is slow. But my main trouble is how she is affecting the other servants.”

  Henry’s first thought—an odd, irritating thought—was that the male servants were distracted by Miss Sinclair. He shook that away.

  “She acts quite pretentious around the others,” Mrs. Morton went on. “Takes her meals alone, stays aloof from everyone. I daresay she thinks herself above the rest.”

  “Has she said anything to that effect?” He drummed his fingers on his desk. He had no patience for household disputes.

  Mrs. Morton clasped her hands in her lap. “Not precisely, but her general air is very off-putting.”

  Frampton, sitting beside Mrs. Morton, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Henry shook his head. “I can hardly dismiss someone for being ‘off-putting’. As long as her work is satisfactory, I can see no issue.” He closed his ledger book. “Mrs. Morton, you may leave. I’ve a matter to discuss with Frampton.”

  Mrs. Morton cast a suspicious glance between the two of them, but did not argue as she curtsied and left.

  Henry leaned back in his chair. “Tell me the truth, Frampton. I do not wish for there to be contention belowstairs.”

  Frampton focused his aging eyes on Henry’s. “My lord, you may have contention whether you wish it or not.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The problem is not with Rose, but the other servants.” He sighed. “Apparently one of the upper maids wished the open position to go to a younger sister and has spread resentment among the staff.”

  “What nonsense.” The position was Henry’s to give, and the fact that any of his servants thought themselves entitled to it irritated him to no end.

  “I quite agree.” Frampton cleared his throat. “I feel I should tell you I do not concur with Mrs. Morton’s assessment of Rose. She says the girl is pretentious, but I see her as reserved. In the week she has been here, I have found her to be hard working and eager to please.” He shook his head. “In truth, she smiles more than the rest of the household combined.”

  Henry could easily believe that, thinking of his meeting with Miss Sinclair when she had smiled so gratefully at him. But a smile was not the making of a good servant. “Loyalty and diligence rank much higher in my opinion of a good servant than a pretty smile.”

  “Then I hope she proves herself in time.”

  “As do I,” Henry muttered. If Miss Sinclair did not succeed, he doub
ted he would ever see a penny of what her father still owed him.

  Frampton nodded, but did not stand. Henry knew better than to think the conversation over. The butler had been a part of Norcliffe House as long as Henry could remember and he was well used to the man’s unassuming nature. “What is it, Frampton?”

  The butler frowned, the lines of his face heavy. “Charlie had an errand in town this morning. When he returned, it was with distressing news.”

  “What is that?”

  “John Ramsbury has returned to the area.”

  Henry’s chest tightened. He sat forward in his chair, his eyes focused on Frampton’s. “You’re certain?”

  “Charlie heard it from the Ramsburys’ cook herself.”

  “He’s back, then.” Henry’s voice growled low in his throat. “No doubt coming to see if his father is close enough to death to expect an inheritance soon.”

  Frampton did not offer his opinion, but it was clear from his hard expression that he agreed. Henry shook his head, trying to ignore the heat flooding his veins. He had tried to put the past behind him, but it had clearly been a failed attempt. Even the thought of seeing John’s face—his narrow smirk and calculating eyes—made his shoulders tense.

  Frampton was still watching him. Henry set his jaw and met his butler’s eyes again. “Thank you, Frampton.”

  Frampton rose and gave a bow, deeper than his usual stiff motion. It was his way of showing support, and Henry was grateful for the gesture. He had never needed it more.

  John Ramsbury had returned. His closest friend, his trusted ally—and the man who had taken everything from him.

  Chapter Three

  Rose had never been so exhausted in all her life. She’d thought selling the bookshop’s contents had been quite the task—taking inventory, packing the books, arranging their shipment to shops around the county. But even that chore paled in comparison to the drudgery she now experienced from the first light of dawn to the dark shadows of night.

  Every waking hour of the last week had been spent in never-ending and draining tasks: sweeping every inch of the manor, dusting each surface, beating rugs for hours on end, washing windows, hauling buckets of water up and down stairs. Mrs. Morton made certain Rose had no chance to even catch a breath before assigning her a new undertaking. And every night, when the other maids finished their work—giving her smug glances as they passed—Rose worked on, scrubbing and polishing and trying very hard not to cry as the daylight faded.

  Tonight was particularly difficult, though she could not say exactly why. Perhaps it was because her back hurt from the effort of bending over her fourth fireplace of the evening, or that her hands were cracked and sore from clenching the brush handle as she scoured and scrubbed the bricks. Or perhaps it was the aching beat behind her eyes that spoke of too little sleep.

  But as she sat back against the edge of the fireplace to relieve the pain in her knees, she knew it was far more than that. It was the knowledge that this week had been the longest week of her life since Mama had died. If every week was to be as bone-wearying and demanding as this one, she did not know how she would survive.

  Rose had done the equations. She was excellent at arithmetic, no matter how Lord Norcliffe doubted her abilities. At a maid’s wage, and paying her father’s prison fees, she would be working here for close to seven years. Seven years without any hope of promotion, approval, or friendship. Seven years without anything resembling happiness.

  Sometimes she wished she wasn’t so very good with numbers.

  Rose rested her head against the cold brick of the fireplace, soothing the throbbing in her temples. She closed her eyes and wished that when she opened them again, she would be back in their cozy rooms above the bookshop, Papa reading aloud from their newest acquisition, warm cups of tea in their hands. Since she was dreaming of impossible things, she added Mama next to her on the settee, mending Papa’s coat, an easy laugh on her lips.

  If only her desperate imaginings could be as real as the cruel stone and choking darkness that surrounded her now.

  ∞∞∞

  The candles burned low throughout the drawing room, the evening creeping in the windows. Henry squinted at his book—a particularly dull text about farmland irrigation—and could not focus on the words. He exhaled and tossed the book on the table beside him. He could call a servant to bring more candles, but the dim light was rather a good excuse not to continue wading through such a tedious task.

  Since his steward had left for another position to be closer to his ill mother, Henry had been utterly overwhelmed by the work left to him. He knew he needed to hire another steward, but trust came slowly to him. Mr. Turner had been his father’s steward for over a decade; finding a suitable replacement would take time.

  Henry stood, walking to the window and peering out into the darkness. He could see nothing but the barest outline of the trees, the sky a lighter shade of black. Turning back, he surveyed the empty drawing room: brocaded sofas, plush rugs and cushions, the enormous stone fireplace. Two letters lay on the writing desk in the corner, one from each of his older sisters, both inviting him to visit. He was sorely tempted; he missed his nephews and nieces, and his sisters, though they were several years his senior—and always keen to play matchmaker. But visiting them would also require that he step into Society once more, and he was far from willing to do that.

  In any case, he could hardly leave Norcliffe House now, not with his steward gone, Ramsbury returned, and Miss Sinclair making trouble belowstairs.

  The silence and loneliness grew with every second, so he retrieved his book and left the room. The halls were dimly lit, as he’d ordered. No need to keep candles burning in every corridor when he was the only family member in residence.

  Henry entered the library, striding toward where he had found the book earlier. Halfway there, he stopped. His shadow stretched long and spindly against the bookshelves lining the room. Where was that light coming from?

  He turned. A figure sat on the floor—a maid. She leaned against the edge of the fireplace, a flickering candle beside her. The weak light played across her face; lips parted, eyes closed, her features soft.

  He stepped forward, wanting to be sure he wasn’t mistaken. But it was Miss Sinclair, so fast asleep she hadn’t even heard him enter. What on earth was she doing here? The other servants would have finished their work long before. But she was still surrounded by buckets and brushes. Mrs. Morton had said she was slow, but he’d not expected to see her still working at nearly eleven o’clock.

  Except she wasn’t working; she was sleeping. He scowled. No matter her circumstances or inexperience, this was unacceptable. He drew closer, taking in her ash-covered dress and messy tendrils of dark hair. Nudging her with his boot seemed a bit low, even for a servant. In the end, he cleared his throat.

  “Miss Sinclair.” His voice pierced the quiet of the room. She started, her head snapping up, eyes blinking against the faint candlelight as she looked hazily about the room. Then her gaze froze on his boots, and slowly traveled up to meet his.

  Her mouth dropped open and she scrambled to her feet. “Lord Norcliffe,” she stammered, brushing off her skirts with frantic motions.

  He clasped his hands behind his back, still holding his book, letting his disapproval show on his face. “I don’t recall napping in my library to be among your duties.”

  “I am sorry, I did not mean to—” Her voice failed and she dropped into a wobbling curtsy. “I only closed my eyes for a moment. I promise I haven’t done it before, I was just resting before finishing the other grates.”

  The panic in her eyes was real. Henry felt the tiniest bit of guilt, but he pushed it away. He was the master of the house. Why should he feel guilty for reprimanding his own servant?

  “Mrs. Morton has told me you are slow in your work.” His voice was cold and hard. “I did not realize how slow.”

  Miss Sinclair dropped her gaze and wrung her hands before her. “I am trying, my lord. And
I am improving, I promise. This is only my fourth grate this evening. By the sixth, I’m certain I’ll be something of an authority.”

  He raised an eyebrow. Most of his servants said nothing beyond “Yes, my lord.” But not having been trained in service, Miss Sinclair did not understand she was running her tongue.

  Then he realized what she had said. “You were assigned to clean six grates this evening?”

  She met his eyes. “Yes, of course.”

  He knew nothing about the work of a maid, but cleaning six fireplaces in one evening seemed excessive, especially after a full day of work.

  “You needn’t worry about me finishing tonight,” she said hastily. “I did this fireplace in half the time as the first.” She paused. “Well, except for the napping.”

  Henry squinted at her. Was that a joke? She went on before he had a chance to decide.

  “I’ll be done with the rest of them in no time.” She did not wait for his dismissal, bending to pick up her buckets. As she moved closer to the candlelight, he caught a glimpse of her hands for the first time. They were an angry red, cracked and dry.

  “Your hands,” he said without thinking. “What happened?”

  Miss Sinclair inhaled sharply, straightening as she tucked her hands behind her. “Nothing, my lord.”

  It was clearly not nothing. Henry scrutinized her face, looking up at him with quiet determination, and understanding dawned. Her battered hands were a result of her work. She had been a shopkeeper’s daughter before this, a life of relative comfort. She’d likely never known the hard labor of a servant. And yet not one word of complaint crossed her lips.

  He fought the sympathy that rose inside him, tried to keep his thoughts objective. She was a servant now, and this was part of her life. She had accepted the post, hadn’t she? It had been her choice.

  Then why did he feel such accountability for the pain she was in?