Rose made a face.
‘I want to know what he eats and how he likes his tea. I bet it’s with milk and two cubes.’
‘I’ll be sure to give you all the details,’ she said, placing a pile of plates on the trolley before wheeling it towards the door.
Bessie threw her one last envious look before Rose pushed the trolley across the road to the dining room, wheels clattering on the concrete.
Rose finished setting the tables with the other parlourmaids, then returned to the kitchen to collect the duke’s breakfast. Taking care not to spill a drop, she pushed a serving trolley past the laundry for fresh bed linen, then up the hill to the duke’s accommodation, set back amidst a cluster of blue gums.
When she reached the verandah, she collected the breakfast tray from the trolley and climbed the steps to the front door. It was ajar and she gave a knock while balancing the tray.
‘Come in, Miss Dalton,’ said a crisp male voice from inside.
Rose pushed open the door and saw the Duke of Northbury standing by a polished walnut bureau, looking down at a piece of paper in his hand. He glanced up and frowned. ‘You’re not Miss Dalton. Where is she?’
Rose curtseyed. ‘I apologise, Your Grace. She has another matter to attend to. I will look after you today.’
The duke studied her. He struck an imposing figure in a tweed suit and vest, dark tie and white collared shirt. There was something compelling about him, from his head of thick brown hair to his penetrating cobalt blue stare. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I’m Rose Porter.’
He gestured to the dining table. ‘Very well. You may set up.’
Rose set the tray down on a small round table draped in a lace tablecloth. The living area was generous, with dark oak floors, a Persian rug similar to the one in Miss Dalton’s office, the bureau and a small floral settee. At the back of the cottage were two doors that Rose presumed led to a bedroom and separate dressing room.
She busied herself at the table, removing cloches from the plates of bacon, eggs and sausages, and measuring an inch from the edge of the table for the cutlery, as she’d been taught to do in the dining room. Next, she laid out a rack of toast with a butter dish, jam and honey.
‘I heard commotion outside my window late last night. It woke me up,’ said the duke brusquely as Rose worked. ‘Is that the reason Miss Dalton is absent?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. There was an incident.’
‘What kind of incident?’
Rose hesitated as she set up the teapot. ‘The passengers in Asiatics almost burnt their dormitory down.’
‘Savages!’ the duke said.
‘I wouldn’t call them savages, Your Grace. They were just trying to keep warm.’
The duke gave her a double look. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, they were just trying to—’
‘They’re Orientals and they nearly burnt their dormitory down. If not savages, then what would you call them?’
Rose met his eye this time. ‘I would call them people, just like everyone else.’
The duke narrowed his eyes, and Rose bit down on her lip. She had spoken out of turn, exactly what Miss Dalton had warned her against doing but which she’d gone and done anyway.
‘That’s an interesting opinion for a parlourmaid.’
‘I apologise, Your Grace.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, you did ask.’
She heard a small harrumph then he said, ‘So am I just like everyone else?’
Rose wasn’t sure if he was testing her, but there seemed only one appropriate answer to give. ‘No, Your Grace. You’re different, of course.’
His vanity came beaming across the room and she knew she had given the correct response. She finished setting the table then pulled the chair out for him to sit. ‘Would you like me to serve your breakfast now?’
The tension in the air cleared. ‘Yes, Rose. Thank you.’
He walked to the table and sat. Rose laid a white napkin across his lap and he reached for a piece of toast.
‘Tea, Your Grace?’
‘Please. With milk and two cubes.’
Rose smiled. Bessie would be pleased. She poured his tea, added the sugar and he took a sip, making an ‘ah’ sound.
‘You pour a magnificent cup, Rose. Better than Miss Dalton, I dare say.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘You’re from England,’ he said, looking directly into her eyes.
Rose nodded. Not a chatty fellow, hey? ‘I am, Your Grace.’
‘I do miss England. Where are you from? It sounds like you’re from the south.’
‘My family are from London. Bethnal Green.’
‘I see.’
‘The houses there aren’t quite like Buckingham Palace. A place is what you make of it, I suppose.’
‘Buckingham Palace is overrated,’ he said waving his hand. ‘I live in the north.’
‘You sound southern though,’ Rose said, placing the newspaper on the table by his elbow.
‘You don’t miss a beat, Rose,’ he said, smiling. ‘I was born and raised in Knightsbridge. The king granted me land titles in the north so that’s where I reside now, in Somersby Castle.’
‘The north is lovely.’
‘Oh, but I do miss London. Your voice reminds me of home,’ he said wistfully.
He held her gaze a moment and she thought she had never seen eyes as blue as his. She turned away, her cheeks flushing.
‘This quarantine business is ghastly, Rose. I have no time for it,’ the duke said, staring absentmindedly into his tea.
‘You must be terribly worried for the duchess. I do hope she will recover soon.’
‘It just makes it difficult to carry out my duties from here.’
‘We will do everything to make your stay comfortable.’
He looked up at her again. ‘Thank you, Rose. I do hope you will.’
Rose curtseyed and extricated herself from the room, leaving the duke to stare into his tea again. The bedroom was located at the back of the cottage; well-sized with a large bed, radiator heater, closet and a tall Victorian lamp by sash windows. There was a dresser with a basin and towel for washing, and fresh lace curtains hung in an open window, cool salty air rushing in.
The room smelt of lemon from Miss Dalton’s previous cleaning efforts and ammonia from the duke’s chamber pot. Rose gathered up the bed linen and slipped back through the living room as silently as she could while the duke ate and read from the paper.
She beat the pillows quietly on the verandah and, with fresh linen from the trolley, she remade his bed. She washed out the chamber pot, laid clean towels and dusted the room down.
When she returned to the living room, the duke had finished eating and was back at the bureau sorting papers. After piling the breakfast items onto the tray, she carried it out to the trolley.
‘Will you need anything else, Your Grace?’ she asked from the front door.
‘Not for now, Rose. I will see you at morning tea.’
She bid him good day and closed the door behind her.
Rose returned the breakfast trolley to Mrs March and took the bed linen to the laundry. She helped the washhouse girls load the sheets into large copper tubs, fires blazing underneath to heat the water. Sharp fumes of disinfectant burnt her throat as she stirred the sheets with a pole, steam rising and wetting her face.
With twenty minutes to spare before she had to return to the kitchen to prepare the duke’s morning tea, she left the girls to fish the sheets out and put them through the wringer. She stopped by Thomas’s workshop on the way back and found him inside measuring cuts of wood.
‘Rose,’ he said, placing down the tape measure with a smile. He walked to the doorway to greet her. ‘What a nice surprise. I was looking for you earlier. I thought you might like to take a walk down to the cove before lunch.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t today. Miss Dalton has me tending to the duke. I’ll have little time,
I’m afraid.’
He leant against the doorframe. His hazel eyes were lovely in the morning sun. ‘Ah, the duke. I see. You must be the envy of all the parlourmaids.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘I heard them talking about him. They think him very handsome.’
Rose shrugged. ‘I don’t think any of them have seen him up close to tell for sure.’
He laughed. ‘As long as you don’t find him too handsome, Rose. That’s all I care about.’
She smiled at the possessive way his words sounded; as though she were his. She wanted to stay in that doorway forever, with his eyes on her, like fingertips on her skin.
‘I’d better go.’ She stepped back. ‘Can we take our walk tomorrow?’
‘I’d like nothing more.’
She left the workshop and headed back to the kitchen, unable to wipe the smile from her face.
‘The duke’s morning tea is over there,’ Mrs March said, jabbing a plump finger at a tray on the table. ‘Scones, jam, clotted cream and peaches. Don’t spill the tea on the way up.’
‘Yes, Mrs March.’ Rose loaded the tray onto the serving trolley and headed for the kitchen door.
‘When you’re finished with the duke, come back here and help the girls set up for lunch in the dining room. Miss Dalton’s orders.’
‘Yes, Mrs March.’
Rose pushed the trolley onto the road and up the hill towards the duke’s cottage. When she reached the door, she knocked.
‘Come in, Rose,’ he called.
Rose ventured in and curtseyed. ‘Good morning, Your Grace. I have your morning tea.’
‘Thank you. Set it down on the table.’ The duke was seated at the bureau again, writing a letter, pen scratching against paper. ‘I won’t be a moment.’
Rose set the tray on the table and removed the cloches. As the duke worked, she laid out the scones and fruit and poured the tea, stirring in milk and two cubes of sugar.
When he arrived to take his seat, she pulled out the chair for him and laid a napkin in his lap.
‘This is a lovely setting, Rose,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Will that be all, Your Grace?’
The duke looked up at her. ‘What do you think of the war?’
Rose was taken aback. ‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace?’
‘The war. What do you think of it?’
It was as an odd question. Rose hadn’t been in service long but she was fairly certain parlourmaids were not asked their opinion on such matters. ‘I don’t think anything of it.’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘I find that hard to believe.’
She shifted uncomfortably.
‘Go on. You won’t get into trouble. There’s no right or wrong answer.’
‘Well, Your Grace,’ she said carefully, ‘I believe the war is an unnecessary waste of human life.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. For one, I do not believe it was Great Britain’s war in the first place. The Russians and the Austro-Hungarians should have settled their differences over Franz Ferdinand and the Balkans without involving everyone else.
‘Secondly, how many people have already died because of this useless fight? Millions, not to mention it triggering a Spanish Influenza outbreak. Then Australia and New Zealand became involved in Turkey, losing plenty of lives there. At what point does everybody just stop?’
The duke looked amused. ‘That is quite an opinion for someone who didn’t have one.’
Rose grimaced.
He sipped his tea and placed the cup on the saucer. ‘Do you think the king was wrong to encourage Britain’s involvement?’
‘I would not presume to tell the king what is right or wrong.’
‘But you think it is a useless fight?’
Rose remained silent.
‘I’m in Australia to urge the government here to send us more fleet. Do you think that is a wise move?’
‘I think peace is always better than war.’
He smiled, blue eyes crinkling. ‘Your opinion intrigues me, as do you, Rose.’
Rose’s stomach flipped unpleasantly. ‘I hope I have not spoken out of turn.’
‘Quite the contrary.’
‘Will that be all, Your Grace?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you, Rose. I will see you at lunch.’
‘Tell me everything!’
Rose slipped her shift over her head and dropped down onto her bed, exhausted. ‘There isn’t much to tell.’
‘Do not be coy with me, Rose Porter. I have been dying all day to get back to this room and see you.’ Bessie lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of her bed, dragging back on it hungrily. ‘I need to know everything that happened. What is he like? Did he talk much? Did he eat all his food, drink his tea, read the paper?’
Rose chuckled at the questioning. ‘He’s nice, surprisingly chatty. He drinks his tea with milk and two cubes, you will be pleased to know. He ate the bacon and some of the eggs but mostly he liked the toast.’
‘He liked the toast,’ Bessie repeated with relish. ‘What else?’
‘For lunch I served him roast beef and chutney sandwiches, which he seemed to like. For dinner, he picked at the chicken. He said he prefers salmon.’
‘I prefer salmon too. What else?’
‘There isn’t much else to tell. I served him his meals and poured his tea. I changed his bed linen and I was on my way. It’s been an exhausting day.’
‘Miss Dalton must think highly of you to give you this task. I heard the other parlourmaids talking about it. They’re all terribly envious of you.’
‘Well, it was only for one day. Miss Dalton will take over again tomorrow and I can go back to the dining room.’
‘The duchess is still unwell. She has that persistent bronchial cough. I bet the duke is beside himself with worry, though they say he hasn’t visited her once in the hospital.’
‘It’s probably for the best,’ Rose said. ‘The unhealthy ground is not a place to visit right now. You heard Miss Dalton, we should all keep away. We don’t want an outbreak in first class.’
‘Yes, I suppose.’ Bessie tossed her cigarette out the window and climbed beneath the covers, yawning. ‘You’re right, Rose. It has been an exhausting day.’
‘And tomorrow is a new one, Bessie Briar.’
Bessie blew out the candles in the lantern beside her bed. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’ Rose climbed beneath her covers too, her head sinking into the pillow.
‘Rose?’
‘Yes.’
‘I just wanted to say, you are the best friend I’ve ever had. I hope we’re friends forever, no matter where life takes us.’
Rose smiled in the darkness. ‘We will be, I promise.’
‘And when I marry a prince or a duke, I will have you come to visit as our special guest in our castle. You can even come live with us if you like.’
‘I couldn’t think of a nicer invitation.’
Silence, then Bessie’s gentle snores rumbled across the room.
Rose lay for a while staring up at the ceiling with a chattering brain not ready to slow. She thought of Thomas and wondered if he were in his bed too. Was he thinking of her as she was of him, as she thought of him every night; the kind of thoughts that made her cheeks warm and her body hum? Was he longing to feel her next to him? Was his desire for her just as strong?
Giving up on sleep, she rolled over and opened her drawer, retrieving the diary he’d given her from beneath her petticoats. She slipped out of bed, collected the lantern from the floor and brought it back with her. Placing it on the bedside table, she relit the candles inside and they crackled softly to life.
She settled back against her pillow and spread the covers of her diary as far as they would extend. Out dropped the little key to unlock it; a hiding place she had thought of to prevent inquisitive eyes from accessing her most private thoughts.
She unlocked her diary and, with the silver fountain pen in hand, she wrote everything that
she often thought but could not say, everything she felt for a man she was falling in love with.
There she sat, writing until dawn coloured the sky.
Rose was laying out the cutlery in the dining room for breakfast the following morning when Miss Dalton appeared.
‘Rose, I need to see you, please.’
Rose looked up, surprised and, with the eyes of the other maids following her, she stepped aside with Miss Dalton. ‘Yes?’
‘A troopship arrived this morning with six more suspected cases of Spanish Influenza on board. The soldiers were thought to have contracted it when they took on new passengers at Newcastle.’
‘It’s coming.’
‘Indeed. I doubt there will be any stopping it now. I have an emergency meeting this morning with Matron Cromwell from the hospital, the superintendent and the Minister for Health. Then I will have my hands full dealing with this for the rest of the week. I will need you to tend to the duke.’
‘For how long?’
‘The next five days.’
Rose’s heart sank. The next five days! She’d been looking forward to seeing Thomas after breakfast. She’d planned a whole morning at the cove with him.
Miss Dalton must have caught her look of angst for her back straightened. ‘Will that be a problem, Rose?’
Rose’s shoulders slumped. ‘No, Miss Dalton.’
‘Good. I knew I could count on you. Finish setting the tables then you can take the duke his breakfast.’
After the dining tables were set, Rose snuck away to Thomas’s workshop. She poked her head in the doorway but he wasn’t there.
After a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, she slipped inside and searched for a pen and paper. When she couldn’t find one she used one of his carpenter’s pencils to scratch out a message on the wooden benchtop.
She told him there would be no walks to the cove for the next week. Just writing the words made her heart ache, but she had little time to dwell on it. She covered her message with his measuring tape where he was sure to find it, then darted out of the workshop and back to the kitchen.
The Quarantine Station Page 10
