by L G Rollins
With any luck, this new skill would help her keep her family together far more than learning French ever had.
She would start in the back and work her way up, row by row. She opened the tin, and a heavy scent wafted up; her nose wrinkled. She had no idea what was in the blend, only it was clearly not an expensive variety.
Martha held the tin a bit further away from herself. It clearly could not be poured over the pew. She gathered her lips to one side. Perhaps if she dabbed the rag in the wax first?
She gently patted the wax blend with one of the old rags in her hand, then inspected it. Barely any wax clung to the rag. Very well then. Next, she tried swiping at the wax with the rag. That resulted in rather a large glob being left on her rag. Surely if she tried rubbing that into the wooden bench too much would be left, and some woman’s skirt would be stained.
Then again, wasn’t this Lady Wilmington’s pew? Martha had not forgotten the horrible things Tim had overheard the woman saying about him. With a shrug, she plopped the heavily waxed rag onto the seat and began wiping vigorously.
Martha wasn’t vindictive, generally, and she would sincerely try to wax the pews properly. More still, she wasn’t at all sure if this amount of wax would leave a stain. However, if there was a bit more wax left atop the pew than was correct . . . well, this was the Lord’s house, and His will be done.
It didn’t take long to learn that bending over to wax was extremely painful for Martha’s back, so she dropped to her knees. It was difficult to maneuver around in a skirt, especially since she couldn’t afford to wear holes in it. Instead, she had to keep pulling it out from under her. But it was still better than bending over all morning.
Soon, she fell into a comfortable pace. She figured out exactly how much pressure she needed to use when swiping wax onto the rag, and she was growing quicker with each pew. Granted, she didn’t expect Mrs. Gale to be impressed. But she didn’t think she would be dismissed on her first day either.
Martha ran her rag in long, smooth lines across the seat of the next pew. She could only hope that Peter and Tim were staying out of trouble today. Leaving them home alone had been far harder than she’d expected. Those two ought to be in school, not sitting at home dreaming up mischief. Then again, if she didn’t keep this position, there would be no chance of Peter ever attending school because they’d have no choice but send him to sea for his own survival. With the war in France continuing on and on, year after year, she nearly cried every time the idea crossed her mind.
Tim didn’t even have that as an option. What would become of him if Martha couldn’t keep them together?
No, that would never do. She would do anything to keep her family together. She set her jaw and scrubbed all the more furiously. Mrs. Gale would have to keep her on. Martha finished yet another pew and pushed on as quickly as she could while being certain not to miss a spot. She would show the old housekeeper that Mr. Jakob had not been wrong to hire her. If her hard work would keep her brothers and Grandfather safe, then she was not above—
Martha glanced up and caught sight of the bottom of a boot resting atop the next pew.
She froze.
The boot was connected to a leg, which was connected to a whole body—a male one, at that.
Good heavens, it was her first day, and already she’d been discovered.
Except, the man didn’t move. He didn’t sit up or shout at her or . . . anything. Instead, his chest rose and fell in even timing. He was sleeping.
Martha let out a soft sigh. She hadn’t been discovered, after all. Quietly, she crawled backward, moving away from the unknown man. Gracious, but that had been close.
But now what was she to do? If she were truly a maid, she would rush off to find something else to do. Martha may have fallen far in her life, but she still knew that maids did not work in rooms where there were members of the upper-class present. And judging by the fine clothes of the man asleep on the pew, he was not just upper-class, but probably of the haute ton, maybe even of the peerage.
He was handsome, too. Dark curly hair hung loose about his forehead. He had well-set shoulders and what looked like strong hands rested against his chest. What color of eyes might he have? Dark brown, nearly black? Or blue, like a clear sky?
Oh, gracious, she had work to do, and here she was staring like a schoolgirl.
Martha turned to hurry off but paused. Mrs. Gale had given her no other chores to do—there was nothing to rush off to. Moreover, she’d made it very clear that if all the pews did not shine she wouldn’t be receiving her much-needed pay.
Martha took a couple of steps to the side, watching the gentleman closely. He didn’t so much as stir. Her polishing hadn’t disturbed him thus far. It wasn’t as though it was exactly a loud chore. She could probably do all the rest of the pews without bothering him. By then, he’d probably awake and leave. So long as she stayed on her hands and knees, there was no reason he would see her or think of her as anything other than a maid. If he didn’t see her face, then she wouldn’t be ruined.
Martha dropped to the floor next to the pew just in front of the sleeping gentleman. That’s what she would do. She would finish all the others and then go back to that pew once he’d left. Simple as that.
She continued on as quickly, effectively, and silently as she could. However, instead of worrying over Peter and Tim, her mind was filled the entire time with images of a certain handsome sleeping gentleman.
She chided herself more than once—she was in church, after all. She should not be having such thoughts here, of all places. But they wouldn’t leave her.
Far too soon, every other pew was polished. Martha rubbed the last corner of the last bench for far longer than necessary. Surely the gentleman would wake up soon. Wouldn’t he? But already it was well past noon, and he hadn’t so much as stirred. She had to get home soon to check on her brothers. But, Mrs. Gale would know if she left this single pew unpolished, of that she was certain.
Perhaps he was inebriated? Neither her grandfather nor her father, before he passed, cared much for drink. But her one-time friend, Bridget, had often said her father used to drink himself into a stupor at least once a week. She always said he’d sleep almost the entire day away afterward. Martha walked back to the single pew she had not yet polished.
Moving carefully, she stepped up close to his head and bent over him. As he exhaled, she breathed in. Far from the biting smell of alcohol that she expected, he smelled of pine trees and sandalwood soap. It made her feel warm and strangely giddy.
Martha shook herself and quickly moved away. She was being ridiculous. She turned her back to him and mindlessly let the rag trail over the back of the pew in front of her. She needed to think this through—a misstep now might mean the loss of her new position.
If only she could wake him without him noticing her.
Martha turned back toward the gentleman . . . only to find him awake, sitting up, and staring back at her.
Martha gave a little yelp and stumbled backward. Her hip hit against the edge of the pew, and she fell into the aisle. Her hand full of rags flew one way, and the tin of wax flew the other way, hitting the floor with a clatter.
Gracious, her skirt was askew and her ankles showing. Sitting on the floor in a most unladylike fashion, Martha reached forward, tucking her legs under her better.
Had he seen her face? Recognized her? He’d been staring right at her but that didn’t mean he had realized she was more than a maid. She had been wiping the pew, after all.
And he hadn’t said anything. Not a word this whole time.
Oh, if only he would believe her to be nothing more than a maid worth forgetting.
Perhaps a little play-acting would help? All the maids her family used to employ babbled whenever scared—at least her fragmented memories seemed to illustrate as much.
“Sorry, sir,” she started, head still down. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m only here to polish the pews, and Mrs. Gale said I had to do them all.”<
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Still no response.
Didn’t most gentlemen usually rant or yell or something when inconvenienced by a maid? Bridget’s drunk father always had.
“I really am sorry. I intended you no inconvenience.”
She glanced up, daring a peek if only to judge how angry he was.
He continued to stare at her, wordless.
His eyes were blue, but not blue like a sky at all. Blue like a stormy sea, like gray waves churning. His mouth was set, and his brow was heavy. He may not have been yelling, but he was clearly not pleased.
Lifting a single hand, he flicked it her way, wordlessly ordering her to leave.
If she had actually been a maid, she probably would have left. But though her friends always decried her as being too quiet, she still wasn’t about to let this gentleman lose her this position. She needed it too much.
“Pardon me, sir,” she tried again, “but if you’ll only allow me to polish this one pew, then I’ll be done. I promise it won’t take me but a minute.”
He only raised an eyebrow and signaled, yet again, for her to leave.
Did he think a humble maid beneath a single word? He clearly didn’t see her as beneath his notice. His piercing gaze had not so much as flickered off her and on to anything else since he’d awoken. So, why then, didn’t he simply say—
Oh, good heavens.
In a moment of clarity, she suddenly realized exactly who she was addressing.
This gentleman was not only of the peerage, he was a duke. The Duke of Pembroke, or, as all of Dunwell had taken to calling him years ago, the Silent Duke. Young boys called him as much in tones of reverence tinged with fear, grown men and woman, no less so.
Martha scrambled to her feet and quickly curtsied, long and deep. “Oh, Your Grace, I am sorry for only recognizing you now. Please forgive my ignorance and impertinence, and anything else you find at fault in me.”
Now she understood in ways she never had before why her father’s maids always babbled when caught doing something they shouldn’t. It was entirely unnerving to be stared down by someone so decidedly above your own station in life.
Yes, Martha could claim a titled grandfather on one side and a titled great-grandfather on the other. But one had been a viscount and the other a baronet. In the company of a duke? Well, she might as well be a lowly maid.
She curtsied again just for good measure.
He seemed to be growing impatient; at least his hand waving was more abrupt. Martha hurried to pick up the rags one by one and then, lastly, the tin.
She bobbed a third curtsy and turned to leave.
Only, as she turned, her eye caught sight of the rather dull looking wood just beneath where the Silent Duke had been lying moments ago. Her brow furrowed as she compared it with the pews both in front of and behind him.
Mrs. Gale would have no problem at all seeing that this pew had not been done. Gracious, why did she have to have done such a fine job on the other pews? If she’d only worked half so hard, this single unpolished pew would not stand out so horribly.
As it was, she couldn’t make the other pews more dull now. It was either polish the last one—the one the Silent Duke was sitting upon—or lose her only chance at keeping Peter and Tim warm, safe, fed, and at home with her. Mrs. Gale would never believe her if she claimed she couldn’t do the last pew because the Silent Duke had decided to nap inside the chapel. She’d just assume Martha was lying.
No, it was either polish the bench or be fired. And being fired meant a cold, hungry winter followed by the very real need of sending Peter to war.
Once she put it that way to herself, even facing down a most foreboding duke wasn’t more than she was willing to do.
He’d seen her face by now; if he knew who she was, she would be working as a maid for the rest of her life. If he didn’t know, her speaking once again wouldn’t reveal it.
She faced him fully, holding his gaze the entire time as she moved back over to the pew he sat on.
His eyes betrayed several emotions as she did so: surprise, uncertainty, and lastly, a doggedness she could only imagine was mirrored in her own eyes.
“Pardon me, Your Grace.” She threw off any attempts at playacting a meek maid and instead spoke firmly. “But I must finish polishing this pew.”
He said nothing but continued to stare.
“If I don’t, I will lose my position.”
Still nothing. Not so much as a syllable, or even a sigh of annoyance.
“I can’t allow that to happen. I have a family depending on me.”
That elicited a whole eyebrow tick.
The Duke certainly knew how to be expressive.
“You shall have to move for me to do so.”
Perhaps he was touched in the head and no one knew because he never went out in society. She had found him asleep on a church pew, after all.
Slowly, he stood. Grandfather often stood slowly, but he did so in a halting painful-looking manner. When the Duke stood, he did so like a tiger getting ready to pounce—smooth and catlike. Though, the tiger Martha had seen in the Royal Menagerie as a child had nothing on the Duke’s startling blue eyes.
He picked up a bit of fabric that had been resting beneath his head. With a flick of his wrist, he shook it out—a greatcoat, apparently. All the while, his eyes never left her.
He slipped the coat over his shoulders, tugging it easily into place. His clothes were well-tailored and in the peak of fashion. Now that she saw him fully, she could see he didn’t need to speak words at all. Everything about him spoke of high standing, wealth, and power. In two strides, he moved up to her, very close.
So close, she could smell the pine trees and sandalwood soap on him once more. He was taller than she had originally realized, too. Her eyes were level with his shoulder. Tipping her head back, she looked up at him.
No, he wasn’t touched in the head. His eyes were far too sharp and intelligent for that to be true.
Dangerous, however? That he very certainly could be.
He slipped by her and, for the first time, looked away. Tugging at his greatcoat, he walked toward the door at the back of the room.
Martha felt the tension in her chest ease the moment he looked away. A man like that was not just born with the title of duke. He was a duke, down to his very core.
His gait was confident, revealing no hesitation; he was in no obvious rush to reach the doors.
Martha, on the other hand, wished he’d get there and leave. She could barely breathe just at the thought of him. Finally, he did reach the door, and his hand stretched out for the handle.
“Thank you,” Martha called before she could think. “Your Grace,” she added quickly.
He paused, hand on the door handle. For what felt like several minutes he simply stood there, unmoving.
Then he turned the handle and let himself out without so much as a backward glance.
Martha exhaled deeply. She placed a hand on a pew and leaned against it. She could not believe one man could be so intimidating—and without ever uttering a single word.
Actually, it was because he didn’t speak that he was so terrifying. Either way, she was grateful he’d allowed her to finish the polishing. He hadn’t had to do that. She’d inconvenienced him, and, for all he knew, she was nothing but a maid.
Dropping to her knees, she began rubbing the pew—the pew where a duke had been sleeping not moments ago. He’d looked so peaceful then. All of that had changed the moment he’d awoken.
Yet, as frightening as he was, despite the large amount of power a man with the title of duke undoubtedly carried, he had walked out of a room when an insignificant maid had needed to continue her polishing. There was more to him than was readily apparent, that much had been clear.
Not that Martha had any desire to learn for herself what type of man the Silent Duke actually was. In all truthfulness, she sincerely hoped the two of them never stood in the same room together again.
Chapter Four
She blinked several times—she didn’t want to show weak eyes to her family—and turned around holding the bowl out.
“Peter, for you.”
The boy took it eagerly and sat at the table next to Grandfather, who already had a bowl.
Martha turned back to the fireplace and the soup cooking there. Bracing herself, she quickly filled two more bowls. She had not guessed when she had first started working that her hands would end up so bad so quickly. Yes, she’d assumed it would take time for her to adjust to working so hard every day. The sore back and exhausted evenings, she’d anticipated. But the cracked hands, which made anything the least bit hot or cold burn, she had not anticipated.
Pasting on a smile, Martha carried the last two bowls to the table herself, setting one in front of Tim.
“Thanks, Martha,” he said cheerfully.
They said grace and then the three men dug in as though it was the last bit of food on earth. Which wasn’t too far from the truth—it was the last bit of food they had in the house. Martha picked up her own spoon but only stared down into the liquid. Was it possible for a person to be so exhausted they couldn’t even eat?
The food looked good, but the mere thought of needing to lift the spoon to her lips, chew the tiny bit of potato inside, then swallow . . . it almost sounded like more energy than she could gather.
Unfortunately, her day was not yet done. She’d finished at the church house in barely enough time to rush back and make an early dinner. But she still had about an hour of daylight left. It may just be enough time to hurry into Dunwell and pick up a bit of food for tomorrow. She wouldn’t have time in the morning, so if any of them wanted to eat before dinner again tomorrow, she had to go shopping this evening.
