“How old are you, Mrs. Mont? Twelve? And where is Mr. Mont?”
Evangeline had wanted her to lie and say she lost her husband at Waterloo—which would have made Anne a fourteen-year-old bride—but the man in front of her had probably lost his arm to war so that did not seem at all sporting. Anne knew she looked young—she was young, her freckles forever marking her just a step from the schoolroom. She had decided to be reasonably honest. If Major Ripton-Jones dismissed her, she’d go back to Evangeline and try for something else. Tightrope walker, street walker, it really didn’t matter as long as she escaped her father’s predatory attentions and beatings.
“Housekeepers are always addressed as ‘Mrs.,’ Major Ripton-Jones. Surely you know that. And I am old enough. I’ve been in service for—ages.”
Ever since she walked into the house, anyway.
The man snorted and caught himself on the wall before he fell on her. “You’ll have your work cut out for you, as you can see. Your room is off the kitchen. You’d best get started.” He then shut the door in her face.
Well. T’was more or less still the Christmas season and Anne felt she should be charitable. She would carry her own bag to this bedroom—there wasn’t much in it since her flight from London had been somewhat spontaneous. She’d gone to Evangeline Ramsey’s house anticipating a very different outcome than her current employment. Fortunately, she’d had her savings stitched into her fur muff, and the coins had come in handy on the journey west. Anne did not want to spend a penny of them going back east. She challenged herself to make it to the New Year. It was only a few days away.
If she didn’t kill the major first with her cooking or her pearl-handled pistol. She patted her reticule to assure herself it was still there. It wasn’t loaded, for with her luck she’d shoot herself in her well-rounded derriere. But the gun would be a deterrent should the man try any of her father’s tricks.
He was not at all what she’d expected. She’d seen the letter he’d sent to The London List requesting the services of a housekeeper. Both she and Evangeline had assumed from his spidery handwriting he was an older gentleman. White-haired. Wrinkled.Weak.
Major Ripton-Jones did not seem weak at all, except when it came to his sobriety. Despite his missing arm, Anne would almost call him handsome beneath his grime if she let herself.
That would be inappropriate. He was her employer, at least for the moment. How long she could last here was anybody’s guess.
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Copyright © 2013 Maggie Robinson
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First Electronic Edition: February 2013
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3041-8
Captain Durant's Countess Page 29
