Master's Match

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  “Nineteen, with another one on the way.”

  The woman gasped. “I suppose I could count that as experience with children. What caused you to visit me looking for a job as a nanny?”

  How could she answer such a strange question? Mrs. Gill’s house had been next in line, that’s all. Becca had a feeling such an answer wouldn’t impress the formidable woman. Honesty appeared to be her best option. “Me father said if I don’t marry, I have to work.”

  “Oh. Is that the only reason?”

  She took in a breath. “The only reason I’m a-lookin’, yes, ma’am.”

  “I see. And someone who knows your father knows me? One of my lower-ranking servants, perhaps?”

  Tired of this line of questioning and its implied insults, Becca laid out the whole truth. “I don’t think so. I just walked till I found a street with pretty houses and started knockin’ on doors.”

  Mrs. Gill clutched at her throat. “My, but that is unorthodox.”

  Becca wasn’t sure what that meant, but she thought it best to nod.

  Her interviewer stiffened. “So you have no formal credentials, no experience, and you know no one other than your parents who can recommend you?”

  “Nobody as rich as you are.”

  Becca thought she discerned the slightest hint of a genuine smile touching the woman’s lips, but that instant soon passed. “Someone in my position cannot entrust anyone without references or formal experience with the care of my precious children. I require someone far more cultured.” She called for the maid.

  Becca wasn’t sure what to say next, but she did know from talking to other girls in her neighborhood who’d been servants that no matter what, you had to seem grateful. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The maid arrived before the words left Becca’s lips. “Escort her out, Mindy. And don’t bring anyone else to me without proper proof of worth, or you’ll summarily be dismissed. I have better things to do than to waste my time.”

  The maid quaked. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m sorry,” Becca whispered to the maid as they went to the back door. “She must be a fright to work for.”

  “Good-bye.” Despite her harsh tone, something in the maid’s eyes told Becca she had guessed right.

  Back outdoors, Becca’s steps slowed in spite of the fact a light snow fell. Maybe Father’s warnings had been true. Maybe she was too worthless to get any type of job. “Lord, what should I do?”

  ❧

  “Don’t bother to announce me, Harrod.” Hazel’s commanding voice floated three floors up to his private study from the front hall. He wished he’d had the foresight to stay in his downstairs study where he met with business associates. But it was too late to change now.

  “Nash will see me any time.”

  Nash cringed at the prospect of seeing her, but he prepared himself by putting away his Bible and making sure his face looked pleasant when she entered. He heard the muffled voice of Harrod, no doubt objecting that Nash shouldn’t be disturbed without notice, but he knew no amount of opposition from anyone would deter Hazel. Nash envisioned her tossing her hat, gloves, and wrap to Harrod in a dismissive way. Poor Harrod. He’d be getting a generous bonus for his birthday this year.

  Soon Hazel breezed into the study. “Nash, why didn’t you send word you’re home? I had to hear it from Laurel’s upstairs maid who heard it from your chambermaid.”

  “I’ll have to tell my chambermaid not to gossip.”

  “Truly, Nash, you are such a jester.” She flitted her hand in his direction. “Why are you alone up here in this lonely study, popular as you are? Now that your official period of mourning for your father is over, it’s time to resume your social life. I hope you’re planning a party to celebrate your homecoming.”

  “I hadn’t given the notion much thought.”

  She stood erect, reminding him of a stern sea captain. “Have you no intention of offering me a seat?”

  “Please sit down.” He nodded to the only other chair in the room.

  She let out a breath, which told Nash she had expected him to rise and escort her to the chair. His mood allowed for no such nicety.

  “Now, as for the party,” she said as she seated herself, “I must consult your cook to be sure we have a proper menu. We wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m engaged to marry a poor man, now, would we?”

  Marriage to Hazel. The thought made him shiver.

  “Cold, dear?” Hazel asked. “No wonder, with how you never allow the servants to keep a decent fire going. It’s winter, you know, and you have plenty of money to keep the house warm. Why, when I stepped in the hallway just now, I hardly noticed the difference between the outdoors and inside.”

  “I hadn’t asked for a fire in the front rooms today since I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “But what if someone of great power, prestige, and influence comes to call? Surely you wouldn’t want an important person to suffer the indignities of cold.”

  “Anyone dropping in unannounced deserves what he gets.” Nash grinned in hopes she would see the spoonful of levity in his remark, but her open mouth showed horror.

  “How terrible! Laurel would never stand for such an inhospitable attitude.”

  “Mitchell Gill is to be commended for earning money faster than the rate at which your sister can spend it.”

  “She spends it to keep up appearances, and that’s what we should do once we’re wed.” Hazel’s nose lifted a bit as she sniffed.

  Nash leaned back in his chair. “Keeping up appearances is costly and not good stewardship.”

  “You sound like the preacher. Wasn’t that the topic of his sermon last week? I never said we wouldn’t give a little to the church. At least enough to keep up our standing—worthy of our position as occupants of the Abercrombie family pew—and to assure our family proper treatment on each and every baptism, funeral, and wedding,” Hazel countered. “And speaking of weddings, when shall we set our date?”

  “I suggest that might occur after I make a formal proposal of marriage. And I have no intention of doing so.”

  Hazel waved her hand as if batting at a gnat. “Ever since we waltzed the night away at the Harris cotillion, everyone knew it was only a matter of time before we’d be wed.”

  Nash tightened his lips. Indeed, he had been enchanted by Hazel that one night—the night they met when she moved into Providence to live with her sister. She had looked especially beautiful and beguiling, and her charming conversation had kept him entertained all evening. For a few fleeting moments, he thought he might love her one day.

  He had no idea that she would become so unpleasant and self-serving overnight.

  Or that, desperate for a society match, she would latch on to him and never let go.

  Perhaps he had been the one who beguiled her, although he had made no promises nor been anything but a gentleman. He wished he’d never seen her, for no matter how sour a disposition he displayed in her presence or how much he protested he had no plans to marry her, she and her sister seemed bound and determined that Hazel would become Mrs. Nash Abercrombie. Even his absence, during which he never wrote her, hadn’t dampened her resolve. He had to stop her plans. But how?

  “I must say,” she prattled, “Laurel pesters me every hour on the hour about when we will be having our engagement party.”

  Nash could feel time closing in on him. The situation had become clear. There was no hope in putting her off.

  “Everyone is so excited about our wedding. Have you spoken to your groomsmen yet?”

  “No.” He didn’t want to speak to anyone.

  “I believe I mentioned twelve groomsmen, but now the number has increased to fourteen. Laurel wants me to include two of our cousins as bridesmaids I hadn’t considered since they were in her wedding. I know someone as powerful and popular as you can easily find fourteen groomsmen.”

  Nash didn’t answer. Of course, by asking every woman they knew to be in her wedding, Hazel had eliminated them f
rom considering Nash as a suitor. He suspected Laurel had mapped out the strategy and Hazel hadn’t hesitated to go along with it.

  “But enough wedding talk. Men are bored to tears with such things. At least that’s what my brother-in-law tells me whenever Laurel and I start discussing it.”

  Nash didn’t answer. He knew Gill’s protests of boredom signaled to the women they should come to their senses, but they were too stubborn to take the hint. Nash had a feeling he wouldn’t be bored listening to the woman he really wanted to marry speak about their wedding.

  “About the wedding, Hazel. . .”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “I had hoped by my lack of correspondence with you while I was away that you would have discerned my feelings. However, I can see that I’ll have to state my thoughts plainly.” He paused. “It pains me that you continue to speak of the wedding. I have tried to tell you many times that I have no intention of going through with it. Why won’t you listen?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Nash. Everyone knows we’re planning to wed. You’re just getting cold feet, that’s all.”

  “I’m afraid it’s more than cold feet, Hazel.” Feeling pain at having to hurt her, Nash paused. “You are a fine woman in many ways, but I just don’t harbor the type of fondness for you I would need to make you my wife. I beg you not to live in your dream world any longer. I cannot play along. I ask your forgiveness for any embarrassment you might feel by calling off the wedding, but it’s better to suffer a little embarrassment now than to be miserable for the rest of our lives, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, pshaw. You’ll change your mind by the time I return. Which brings me to my real reason for stopping by today. I must make a trip to Hartford for at least a month, perhaps longer. My friend from finishing school, Joan Dillard, has asked me to visit, and that means of course I must visit all my relations who live in the area or they will be quite offended. You understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “And of course I must make a special side trip to see my great-aunt Nora. She has been ill.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. I pray she will recover quickly.”

  “That’s the first thing you’ve said all day that sounds like you possess the least bit of warmth,” Hazel pointed out.

  “Blame it on the cold weather,” he quipped. “After all, my house is freezing, as you reminded me.”

  Hazel eyed the fireplace near Nash’s desk. “Now that you mention it, it is getting colder in here. You allow the servants to be much too slothful, Nash. Really, you need me to run this household with an iron fist. We can’t marry a moment too soon.”

  If Hazel were the type of woman he could love, Nash would have run into her arms, stroked her hair, and murmured sweet words about the long-awaited day. But he couldn’t. Judging from Hazel’s frigid look and stiff demeanor, she didn’t miss any signs of longing or affection.

  He couldn’t marry Hazel. Not today, not next month, not ever.

  ❧

  Becca stood on the street and looked at a row of fine homes. She had to keep trying. Maybe people on a different street would be friendlier than the ones she’d seen so far. No one had been helpful except for that nice maid who, for some reason unknown to her, worked for that awful woman. In other circumstances she and the maid might have been friends. Becca kept walking past the John Brown house.

  Power Street.

  “Maybe this is it. Maybe I will find God’s power on this street.” Her mood lightened by her silly joke, she tried a couple of other houses without success. The afternoon sun would disappear soon. She had to find something.

  She watched a fashionable woman depart from the next house. She didn’t turn Becca’s way, so she couldn’t see the woman’s face, but Becca had no doubt it bore aristocratic features. The woman boarded a fine conveyance, and she was soon on her way. If she were the mistress of the house, maybe it wasn’t a good time to ask about a position. Or maybe the woman was a daughter. Regardless, Becca had no time to waste speculating. She went to the back.

  Even in the cold, the kitchen window had been left open a crack. Surely the fire burned hot in this house. Peering into the back-door window, Becca saw a congenial-looking woman with gray hair and plump arms pulling a cake from the hearth. Becca wished she hadn’t smelled such a sweet aroma to remind her she had run out of her own house before lunch. A wiry maid with a hooked nose sat at the table, polishing silver forks with a cloth blackened by her work. She knocked, and the maid dropped a fork.

  “I’m sorry,” Becca called through the door. “I didn’t mean to scare ya.”

  The maid grimaced and picked up the utensil before approaching the back door. “We weren’t expecting anybody. Not just yet, anyway. Who are you?”

  “I–I’m Becca Hanham. I’m here about a job.”

  “Already? Harrod worked fast.” She saw Becca’s satchel. “Set that in the corner. I’ll show ya to yer room later.”

  Becca felt as though she’d been thrown in the middle of a story without reading the first chapters. But since the maid seemed friendly, she didn’t ask questions. The cook was in the process of forming dough into a loaf. The yeasty aroma promised the baked bread would taste delectable. Becca hoped if she were hired here, her pay included meals.

  “I’m glad to see ya, girlie. I got plenty o’ work fer ya,” the cook said.

  The maid nodded. “Let me tell Harrod you’re here.”

  Becca felt nervous. The cook eyed her with a bit too much happiness.

  “But I hadn’t sent word yet,” she heard a man protest just outside the kitchen door.

  “Well, somebody’s here.”

  A man that Becca figured to be Harrod, with a proud carriage and well-kept white hair, entered the kitchen and studied her from head to toe. “Who are you and how did you hear about the position? I haven’t sent word yet.”

  She filled him in on her personal details. “I—I didn’t hear about a job, really, but I’m lookin’.”

  “We’re hirin’,” Cook said. “Our scullery maid eloped with the neighbor’s footman this mornin’, and I’m needin’ help here. So do ya want the job or not?”

  Harrod scowled at the cook. “I am in charge here. You are to remember that.”

  She shrank from him. “Yes, sir.”

  Becca tried not to quiver. If Harrod could make a strong woman such as Cook obey without question, he must be influential indeed.

  The butler turned his attention to Becca. “She is right. We are in need of a scullery maid, and with so many women working in the factories nearby, household help is short. You will find that young Mr. Abercrombie is quite generous with his servants, and the work here is far less dangerous than many of the positions you’ll find in manufacturing. We offer room and board, Thursday afternoons off, and an allowance of two dollars a week.”

  The offer was a far cry from the good relationship she might have with children, but without any other offers and snow falling with a vengeance just beyond the window, her choices seemed too limited for her to refuse. Besides, the idea of helping a cook appealed to her. Maybe she could learn new dishes to prepare at home. She nodded as she curtsied. “I accept.”

  “Good. That is a very wise decision, I assure you,” Harrod said.

  “Now that the master’s home, we’ll want everythin’ to go just so,” Cook said. “Even though he breaks me heart when he won’t let me cook him a nice lobster.” She placed both hands over her heart as though the motion would hold it together.

  “Your opinions are not important,” Harrod chastised her. “You are here to serve.” He looked at Becca without blinking. “And that applies to you, as well, girlie. Don’t forget it.” Having dispensed his advice, he departed the kitchen.

  Cook shook her head. “He likes to look strict, and I reckon he is. But he has a soft heart, that one.”

  As interesting as Harrod appeared, Becca wondered more about her new employer. “You say the master’s home? Home from where?”


  Cook handed her a bonnet and apron. “Home from a business trip abroad. Went all over Europe to increase business, he did. He’s in charge of the tradin’ company he inherited from his father now, and lots of people depend on him.”

  “He sounds very important.” She hoped she would be worthy to work even as a scullery maid for someone so prominent.

  “Oh, he is.”

  “Is he very old?”

  Cook guffawed. “No, child. He’s a bachelor still, livin’ all alone here with just us servants. It’s high time he married. Though I wish he warn’t marryin’ the one that’s runnin’ after him.”

  The master seemed more and more interesting. “Oh?”

  The older woman shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that much. Now there’s no more time for chat. There’s work to be done.” She escorted Becca to the scullery just off the kitchen and pointed to a mound of pots in need of scrubbing.

  With effort she kept her mouth from dropping open upon seeing so much work waiting for her. “If there’s just the master, then why so many pots?”

  Cook shook her head. “You don’t expect the servants to starve, do ya? We have to fix them their meals, too. And speakin’ of servants, I come from a long line of servants. I’m a McIntire.”

  “Oh, I know some of yer clan, then. Patrick and Joseph play with me brothers.”

  “Yea, them’s me nephews. I know who ya are.” Pity filled her eyes. She clucked her tongue, and Becca realized the cook was aware of her father’s reputation as a drunk.

  “Seems like ever’body knows ever’body.” Impoverishment was no shame. She could have held her head up, if only Father with his drinking and slovenly ways hadn’t besmirched their name.

  “Now, now, girlie. What yer father does or don’t do ain’t yer fault. Besides, ye’re startin’ yer own life now.” Her voice became brisk. “As soon as ye’re done there, ye’ll be helpin’ me with the master’s dinner.”

  “What’s fer dinner?” Images of food she had never eaten but only heard about—oyster stew, tender roast pork drenched with brown gravy, vegetables swimming in a sauce of butter and cream, and the cake that had just come out of the oven—popped into her mind.