“Use the time to familiarize yourself. Lady Pomfret will expect you to know where everything is kept, even on your first evening. I will see you in the morning; the staff breakfast is at seven o’clock.” With a curt nod the housekeeper turned and went out, leaving Christa alone to explore.
After two hours of sorting through gowns, shawls, wigs, silk stockings, slippers, and perfumes, she was reasonably sure where everything was kept and had developed a low opinion of her new employer’s taste. In spite of the housekeeper’s pessimistic comments, things were in reasonable order. Christa was mending a rent stocking with tiny, nearly invisible stitches when Lady Pomfret returned to her room.
Her ladyship stopped and gave her a baleful look as Christa stood quickly and curtsied. “You must be Bonnet.” Her new mistress had a grating voice that was in keeping with her coarse appearance. The woman must have been handsome when she was younger, but the buxom girl had become a stout matron in her forties. Lady Pomfret wore an elaborately powdered wig, a style that was now passé but still seen sometimes on older women.
Christa inclined her head respectfully and said, “Oui, my name is Christine Bohnet, your ladyship.”
The woman snorted. “Bownay? I’ll have no such foreign names around me. You’re ‘Bonnet’ from now on.” She examined her new maid pessimistically, a process that Christa was getting heartily sick of. “Unlace me.” Her ladyship lifted her arms so Christa could remove the silk polonaise and skirt. The maid then unlaced the heavily boned corset, a process that changed her ladyship’s silhouette amazingly. “I’ll have my green nightgown now.” Fortunately Christa had found the garment in her explorations.
“Shall I remove your wig now, madam?” she asked.
“Of course!” Lady Pomfret snapped as she plumped herself down before the dressing table. “Are you going to be another of those imbeciles who don’t know their job? It’s impossible to get decent servants these days—they’re all thieves or sluts or drunkards or all three. Which are you, Bonnet?” she finished, her watery gaze meeting Christa’s eyes in the mirror.
“None, your ladyship,” the maid said soothingly. “I desire only to learn what pleases you. Forgive me if I do not always know, but I promise I shall attend to your comfort as best I can.”
Mollified, Lady Pomfret started to relax as Christa deftly removed the heavy wig and began to brush out the mousy hair. Its sparseness might explain why the Pomfret preferred the older styles.
“The most important thing my abigail must have is discretion. There will be no tales of me leaving this chamber, or I’ll have your head.” At Christa’s involuntary shiver, Lady Pomfret’s small blue eyes brightened and she asked with some animation, “Have you ever seen someone guillotined, Bonnet? I hope so; I’ve always wondered if it is true the blood spurts over fifteen feet. Fetch my dormeuse.”
Revolted by the woman’s morbid curiosity, Christa went to fetch the sleeping cap but disclaimed any personal experience of the guillotine. It was not the truth; she had gone once when a young girl she knew was executed. It had made her feel ill for days, but she had felt a duty to go, that her friend should not die with no one there who cared. It was not a memory Christa would share with Lady Pomfret.
“I’ll have my cup of chocolate at eleven o’clock, not a moment sooner. Mind you don’t wake me when you come in to start the mending.”
Waving her hand dismissively, she climbed into the high canopied bed. A housemaid had slipped in with a copper bed-warming pan while Lady Pomfret was having her heavy white-lead makeup removed; the servants of the house had learned well the lesson of being unobtrusive. Christa turned out the lights and banked the fire so it would burn through the night. Leaving the bedchamber, she was assailed by the gloomy feeling that it was going to be very difficult to like Lady Pomfret.
Christa was bone-tired by the time she reached her bleak room. She was lucky to have any kind of private chamber, but as she looked at her cheerless surroundings by the light of the one candle stub allowed, it was much harder to be enthusiastic about her new adventure than when she had contemplated it at Radcliffe Hall.
Swallowing hard, she whispered fiercely, “I will not feel sorry for myself! This is not for always, and I can survive it very well.” But when Christa slipped into the lumpy, narrow bed, it was a long time before sleep claimed her.
Mrs. Haywood was interviewing a cook (self-described as plain, very good) when her assistant hurried in with a card. “His lordship would like to speak with you.”
Glancing at the card, Mrs. Haywood raised an eyebrow at the elegantly engraved words, “Lewis Radleigh, Earl of Radcliffe.” Unusual, most unusual. The cook was happy to step outside while the Quality conducted its business; it confirmed her belief that Mrs. Haywood’s Select Domestic Establishment was the best place to improve her own situation.
Mrs. Haywood stood as the tall, fair-haired nobleman entered, noting the remote eyes and tense lips; the man was not here on ordinary business. Nonetheless, she said, “This is an honor, Lord Radcliffe. Pray be seated. How may I serve you?”
The earl did not avail himself of the invitation until she was seated. “I am looking for a French girl, a little below medium height, short curly dark hair, gray eyes, very pretty.”
“This is not that sort of agency, your lordship,” Mrs. Haywood said dryly. “I believe there are houses near Covent Garden that can better fulfill your desires.”
Flushing, he said stiffly, “You misunderstand me. I am looking for a particular young woman who may have come here seeking a teaching situation.”
Mrs. Haywood frowned slightly and said, “All our work is done with the utmost discretion. Even had I seen such a young woman, it would be inappropriate for me to discuss her.”
“Even if she is wanted by the law for theft?” Lord Radcliffe’s voice was wooden.
Mrs. Haywood studied him thoughtfully.
She did not know what Mademoiselle Christine Bohnet was about, but she would go long odds the girl was no thief and that this nobleman’s interest was one the chit had no desire to encourage. In a hard world, women must stand together.
The proprietress clasped her hands together in front of her on the desk. “Should you wish servants for your household, Lord Radcliffe, I should be happy to be of assistance, but I fear I cannot help you in this.”
The earl seemed to swell before her eyes and he said threateningly, “If you are withholding information from me, I am sure you realize I have the power to destroy you and your agency.”
Mrs. Haywood held his eyes, unabashed. “I know your reputation, Lord Radcliffe. You are said to be a man of fairness and good sense. Would you really beggar a widow with four children for no reason at all?”
He seemed to diminish and age right in front of her eyes. “No. No, I would not,” he said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
She felt a trace of pity for him. “Come, my lord, if your mistress has left you after a lovers’ quarrel, give her time to recover her senses and she may return on her own.”
The earl stood, his eyes hooded and unfathomable. “It is not what you think.” Then he turned and left the room, his dark blue redingote swirling wide. Mrs. Haywood watched him, regretful that she might never know the story’s ending.
Lewis Radleigh sat up late that night in his library, lowering the level of a brandy decanter with workmanlike efficiency. He and his secretary had been separately seeking Marie-Christine throughout the metropolis for the last week. The earl had visited all her friends and relatives himself, but none would admit to having seen her. Watchers set at three of the most likely households found no trace of the girl. Either she had visited none of them or she had a gift for inspiring loyalty that sealed the émigrés’ lips even in the face of substantial bribes.
Lord Radcliffe knew exactly how dangerous London could be for an innocent young girl, and every passing day increased his fears. He no longer knew where to look; between them, he and his secretary must have visited every registry office in the
city. Several people thought Marie-Christine had been there; one office gave what appeared to be a good lead. It was a crushing disappointment when it proved to be the wrong woman, another émigrée. Other establishments seemed to be blatant procurers, and the earl could only pray she had not fallen into such hands. By this time the girl might be in a brothel where he would never find her.
Or she could be dead.
The earl swirled the brandy in his balloon glass, watching the candlelight refract through it. Excellent brandy, doubtless smuggled from France. He took a deep draft, no longer feeling it burn as it went down his throat. Lewis suspected that Mrs. Haywood might have seen her, but the infernal woman had judged rightly—the earl could no more injure her than he could have ruined the maid Annie’s family in Berkshire. With Annie, the threat had gotten him the information he needed, but threats hadn’t worked with the more worldly Mrs. Haywood.
Lord Radcliffe was unable to blot out pictures of Marie-Christine—her warmth and good nature, the gray eyes so much like those of Charles and Marie-Claire, her lively intelligence. He would see the laughing face, and then, with gut-wrenching clarity, he would imagine her body violated in some back-street stew.
Burying his face in his hands, he sought to obliterate his inner vision. Alone in his great London mansion, the Earl of Radcliffe wept for what he had done.
“Get out, you slut! Don’t come back till you’ve delivered those notes. And mind you wait for answers!”
Christa avoided the hurled silver-backed hairbrush with ease. Dodging thrown objects was one of the more amusing parts of the job; the servant’s code did not say that she had to stand still to be hit. Though, considering Lady Pomfret’s aim, there was no great danger. With a sweet smile she slipped out the back door of the suite into the servants’ passage.
In the last three weeks Christa had found that the long hours were tiring but bearable, as were the Spartan living conditions. The poisonous gossip among the other servants was more unpleasant, and Mrs. Haywood had been correct in her warning—a lady’s maid was an object of suspicion and resentment. She was too well-dressed, too well-paid, too close to the mistress. Nonetheless, that also was tolerable, though she missed normal human companionship.
Christa had survived by burying her memories of her past. Except for occasional moments late at night, she thought of herself as Christine Bohnet, a young girl of peasant stock, trained to serve. It was now second nature for her to guard her tongue, avoiding any reference to her exalted birth. She was not sure how the household would react to the news that she was an aristocrat fallen on hard times—either she would be dismissed as being too grand for her position, or, more likely, Lady Pomfret would take a gloating satisfaction in humiliating a woman of superior birth. Either alternative was repellent. Christa found that her pride would not accept anyone pitying her loss of consequence—far better to appear born to the servant class.
She no longer felt herself to be in danger from Lord Radcliffe—if he had been able to trace her, it would have happened already. Now that Christa was hidden in this household, he would never find her unless they walked into each other on the street. Even then, the earl might not truly see her—she would be dismissed as just another mobcapped servant.
The greatest burden was lack of freedom to come and go; were it not for her ladyship’s messages to her two lovers, Christa would go mad with confinement. The lovers were the reason Lady Pomfret placed such emphasis on discretion—it was more important to keep them from learning about each other than to keep her affairs from her husband. It was a source of astonishment that Lady Pomfret had two lovers; truly, some men had no discrimination! Both men made casual advances to the maid when she delivered notes, but accepted her rebuffs easily.
Before setting out, Christa went to her attic room for a shawl against the brisk April air. When she had a free moment during the day she would often open the window and lean out, enjoying the sense of space and freedom and the fascinating jumble of rooftops. Today, however, she stopped on the threshold, surprised at the sight of the very small girl scrubbing the floor.
Because Christa ate with the upper servants, she was unfamiliar with most of the staff; she knew someone cleaned her room but had never seen who. “Good day, young lady,” she said cheerfully. “I haven’t the pleasure of your name.”
The plain little face that turned to her was terrified. “Oh, I’m dreadful sorry, miss! I’ll get out.” The child grabbed her bucket and mop and tried to dart toward the door.
Christa put out one hand to stop her. “You need not run. My name is Christa, what is yours?”
The huge eyes dominated the peaked face; she looked to be no more than nine or ten. She stammered, “Please, you won’t tell Mrs. Higgins, will you? I’m not supposed to talk to anyone, nor be seen, neither.”
Concerned for the child’s obvious fear, Christa knelt and put her arms around the child’s thin shoulders. “Ma pauvre, do not worry! I shall not hurt you, nor report you to Mrs. Higgins.” To her shock, the child burst into tears, burying herself in Christa’s arms and shaking violently.
It was several minutes before the storm subsided. By then they were seated side by side on the bed and Christa had found a handkerchief for her guest. “Now, tell me your name, and why you were crying.”
The child said, “I’m dreadful sorry, miss. It’s just that you’re the first person to say a kind word to me since I came here.” Her face started to pucker; then with a valiant sniff she continued, “My name is Miranda.”
“What a splendid name!” Christa said admiringly.
Miranda nodded vigorously. “Isn’t it lovely? Mrs. Willason at the foundling home chose ever such lovely names—there was Prospero and Portia and Romeo and … and lots of others.”
Christa smiled with amusement; obviously Mrs. Willason enjoyed Shakespeare. “But Miranda is one of the best.”
“Oh, it is. Since I’m only the scullery maid, I get to keep my own name, too.” At Christa’s look of puzzlement, she explained, “Didn’t you know that in this house most of the servants are named for their position? The head housemaid is always Lily, the first footman is William, the second footman is James. Like that.”
“You mean, if one is promoted, one gets a new name?” Christa asked in fascination.
Another nod. “Yes. The scullery maid has no name ’cause I’m the least important. And upper servants like you and the butler and the housekeeper and Sir Horace’s valet can use your own names. That’s why you get to be called Miss Bonnet—because you’re one of the most important people in the house.”
Christa digested this, then asked, “What do you do?”
“Wash things, mostly. I get up at four in the morning to do the flagstone floor in the kitchen, then the back stairs, and I blacklead the grates and clean the rooms of the upper servants.”
Christa frowned slightly, noticed how Miranda’s hands and arms were chapped raw from too much scrubbing in cold places. “It sounds like very hard work.”
“Oh, it is, miss,” the child sighed. “Sometimes when my hands are bleeding on the floor I think I’ll never get it clean.”
Christa repressed a shudder. It was abominable! And yet, this child had clothes and food and a roof; there must be thousands like her on the streets of London, scavenging to survive.
“I must run some errands for her ladyship, Miranda. But perhaps we can visit another time?”
“That would be ever so nice, miss,” the child said wistfully.
“I would take it as a great favor if you would call me Christa.” She smiled.
Miranda bobbed a curtsy and said shyly, “I would like that, Christa. Very much.”
Chapter Five
Alex straightened his cravat a trifle nervously before opening Vice-Admiral Hutchinson’s heavy door. As a bluff captain more than a dozen years earlier, Hutchinson had been one of the board members who had examined Alex for promotion from midshipman to lieutenant, and he had left an impression of bullheaded ferocity. As
one of the three professional sea lords of the Admiralty, Hutchinson was now one of the most influential men in the Navy, and it was a shock when the admiral greeted him with an affable “Come in, my boy. Would you like a bit of sherry while I examine your dispatches?”
Alex loathed sherry but politely accepted a glass along with a comfortable wing chair in a corner of the large office. After Peter Harrington had certified him for travel, the viscount had been sent back to England on the first available ship. As was customary in such cases, he had also been entrusted with a case of dispatches for the Admiralty. Alex posted up to London as soon as he arrived in Portsmouth, and had arrived before the Admiralty offices closed for the day.
After skimming through the official papers, Admiral Hutchinson then questioned Alex on his opinions of how the war was progressing in the Mediterranean. He occasionally made notes himself, apparently preferring not to have a secretary present. After nearly two hours had passed, the admiral leaned back in his own chair and said, “For someone who barely made lieutenant, you’ve acquitted yourself very well.”
Alex colored a little. “When action is required, I have no problem, but I’ve always done badly with oral exams. Admiral; my brain seems to disconnect from my mouth. Even if I know the answer, I can’t find the words for it.”
“I noticed,” the admiral said dryly. “You also reverse numbers in your calculations. Fortunately for you, I once had a captain with the same problem. He was a brilliant officer in spite of that, and I learned to trust his ability. You had a good enough record in action that the other board members were persuaded to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Alex blinked in surprise; Captain “Cannonball” Hutchinson had been legendary for his toughness; remarkable to think he had been Alex’s advocate. “Then I must thank you for my naval career; if I had had to rely on examinations, I would still be a midshipman.”
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