“Good grief, woman, will you not answer me?” barked the earl.
Lucy glared at her patient, thinking the man the Samaritan had helped had surely been more gracious than Lord Drayson.
“No, I think I will not,” said Lucy in defiance.
His eyes widened as though unused to such treatment. “You cannot be serious. It is not a difficult question to answer. How did you come to be acquainted with me, or are we even acquaintances? I am beginning to think we could not possibly be.”
The airs he put on! Lucy wanted very much to throttle this man.
“How did I come to be acquainted with you?” Lucy repeated. “How do you know it was not you who became acquainted with me? Or is that something you simply ‘know’ the way you know you detest broth, even though someone spent hours preparing it on your behalf so that you would not expire from hunger or thirst.”
He stared at her incredulously, as though she had escaped Bedlam. “Are you in your right mind, woman?”
Lucy leaned forward and planted her palms on his bed so that her eyes were level with his. “My name is Lucy Beresford. I have lived in Askern all my life. I’m the sole daughter of a vicar and a seamstress who lived most happily despite their differences in station. When my father passed away, I came here, to this dower house. So yes, I am in my right mind. It is you who are not.”
The earl’s jaw clenched, and Lucy took some pleasure at the sight. Perhaps he would come down off his high horse and show at least a small amount of kindness or respect.
“I may not know who I am or where I came from,” he finally said, “but at least I do not feel the need to tell tales.”
“Tell tales?” Lucy gaped at him. Was he accusing her of telling untruths? Her, of all people? What untruths? How dare he!
Lord Drayson glanced down at his fingers, frowning when he spotted grime under his nails. He began to scrape it out as he spoke. “Claiming to be the daughter of a vicar and seamstress is all very romantic, but it cannot possibly be the truth.”
“And why not?” she asked.
His gaze returned to hers. “In my experience, the daughter of a vicar would behave with more decorum, would know how to make a palatable broth, and would never allow herself to be alone in a room with a man who is not her relative. If there is one thing I know with absolute certainty, it is that you are no relation of mine.”
Lucy’s jaw clenched as she fought to control the rage building inside her. Ever so slowly, she pushed herself up to standing and glared down at the earl. “You are correct in thinking I am no ordinary vicar’s daughter. I do not love unconditionally. I show decorum only when I wish to. And I despise those who care for no one but themselves. But I do not tell tales.”
He actually chuckled, but it was more of a scoff than a show of humor. “Did you learn those traits from your father?”
“Do not speak of my father.”
“I would prefer to speak of myself, but you do not seem to share that preference, so perhaps we should speak of your father instead. Where is he, by the by? I would very much like to meet him.”
Lucy’s fingers became fists while her conscience became a battleground between all that was good and evil inside her. It was a short battle, with evil making a quick triumph.
Ever so slowly, her body still trembling with anger, she lifted her chin. If he was going to accuse her of telling tales, then tell them she would. “Very well, Collins. If you must know, I am your employer. And though you may not remember me, or this house, or your position in it, or the fact that you are perfectly susceptible to coming off a horse, just like any other human, I still expect some kindness and respect from you.”
“What on earth are you talking about? What position?”
There was not a hint of hesitation in her voice when she answered. “You are a servant in this house.”
“A servant?” He scoffed as he said it, as though it were a great joke, which it wasn’t. Not to Lucy. Not now. She had never been more serious about anything. Or unrepentant, for that matter.
“You are a man of all work. You fulfill the role of butler, footman, and coachman.” This lying business came much easier than it should after so many years of disuse. It was both exhilarating and lowering at the same time. Lucy’s father would be vastly disappointed in her.
“That’s absurd,” said the earl. “No one person would agree to fulfill all those duties, and I would know if I were someone’s servant.”
“You always did give yourself airs,” said Lucy.
“I beg your pardon.”
“No, I beg yours,” said Lucy. “You lie in our home, making demands like you are the Prince Regent himself, when what you ought to be doing is thanking me. Georgy and I found you half-dead on the path, dragged you a fair distance in the freezing rain, changed you into dry clothes, and poured warm broth down your throat. You have always had a disagreeable nature, but this is beyond anything, even for you . . . Collins.”
He inspected his hands before turning them palm-side up for her inspection. “If I am, indeed, a servant, why are there no calluses on my hands?”
“Because you are a slothful servant.”
“Then why retain me?”
Lucy thought quickly, recalling to mind a novel she had recently read with a plot that would fit this situation nicely. “Because you came to this house with nothing and begged me to take you on in exchange for food and a room. And I . . . well, I suppose I felt pity on you. I am not sure why now. The moment you are well, I shall give you the boot directly.”
At some point during her speech, the earl must have stopped attending for he was now examining the pale pink cuff of his sleeve with extreme distaste. He touched it briefly and quickly drew his hand back as though the fabric had defiled him in some way. “What the devil am I wearing?”
Lucy was more than willing to oblige him with an answer. “Your favorite shirt, of course.”
“No. This most certainly is not my favorite shirt, if it can be called such a thing. It is hideous.”
“You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that,” said Lucy. “At least one good thing will come from this trying day.”
“And what is that?” he said crossly.
“You have finally realized that you have deplorable taste in clothing.”
Lucy walked into the empty kitchen and collapsed on the nearest barstool, feeling weak and shaky. She leaned forward, dropping her head to the palms of her hands as she tried desperately to regain control of her breathing.
She had just told a lord of the realm—the owner of Tanglewood—that he was her servant. Servant! And not just any servant. He was now her butler, footman, and coachman. The Beresfords did not even own a coach, only a small cart.
An eight-year-old vow was now broken to bits and pieces with no way to put it back together. Even if Lucy strode back into the room and confessed the truth, she had still lied. What had she been thinking to lose her temper in that manner and say such things? It went against everything her parents had taught her and everything she wanted to be. Even worse, as soon as the earl recalled his true identity, he would not hesitate to send them packing immediately.
Of all the idiotic, reckless, and foolish things she had ever done.
The side door opened, and Georgina walked inside, smiling as though all was right with the world. “Mornin’, Miss. It’s a beautiful day today. I can almost see the sun—why, wotever’s the matter?”
Georgina set down the pitcher of water she carried and clasped Lucy’s hand. “Don’t say Mr. Cavendish died durin’ the night.”
If only that were the case.
Wicked, wicked girl! Lucy chided herself yet again and immediately wished back the evil thought. It had only been two days since her mother had gone, and it were as though Lucy had opened the door and ushered Lucifer himself in to play.
“Don’t worry, Georgy. He is still very much alive.” Lucy met the gaze of her maid with a cringe. “But you are going to scarce believe what I have just d
one.”
“Wot ‘ave ya done, Miss?”
“I told him that he is my servant.”
“Ya told ‘im wot?”
There was nothing for it but to tell Georgina the complete truth and pray the sweet girl could help her set everything right again.
“Colin Cavendish is not Mr. Cavendish. He is the fifth or sixth or something Earl of Drayson,” Lucy said.
Georgina gasped, covering her open mouth with the palm of her hand. Then she slowly lowered it, frowning in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why does ’e fink ’e’s your servant if ’e’s an earl?”
“Because he does not remember who he is or anything about himself. His memory has vanished for the time being, and . . . oh, Georgy, he said the most insulting things to me. I am afraid I quite lost my temper and told the most monstrous of tales.”
Georgina gaped at her. “Oh, Miss, ya didn’t.”
Lucy dropped her head into her hands again. “How could I have behaved so foolishly? What is to be done?”
“I’ll tell ya what’s ter be done,” said Georgina. “Ya must march back in there and tell ’im the truf. Say you was only jestin’ before and didn’t mean anythin’ by it.”
“Georgy, you don’t understand. If I tell him the truth now, we’ll be out on our ears before dark.”
The maid’s eyes widened. “Out on our ears? ’A can ’e do that?”
Lucy sighed, deciding it was past time to explain. In a pained voice, she told Georgina all about the earl’s visit, about the distressing news he’d imparted, about the way she had yelled at him and slammed the door on him.
“That is why I think him so odious,” she finished. “Though his horse really is called Darling, so that was not a fib—not that it matters anymore.” The weight of the day suddenly felt too heavy to bear any longer, and what was left of Lucy’s nerves began to unravel. “I broke my promise, Georgy. I told myself I would never lie again, and today I have spun the most abominable tale ever. Papa would be so disappointed. That is the worst bit in all of this.”
Georgina sank down next to Lucy and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “After all ya ’ave been through, it’s nah wonder. Your papa would understand.”
Lucy chuckled mirthlessly. “No. I do not think he would, sweet Georgy. But I thank you just the same.”
Georgina rubbed Lucy’s arm absentmindedly as she chewed on her lower lip, her brow puckered in worry. When she glanced at Lucy again it was to ask, “Am I ter be out of a job two months then?”
“Possibly.” Lucy nodded sadly. “Or sooner. Possibly whenever his lordship comes to his senses.”
“Oh, Miss Lucy, this is sad news for sure. I could never find another family loike yours.”
Lucy clasped the maid’s hand in her own and gave it a soft squeeze. “You are a dear, Georgy. I think of you more as a friend than a servant, you must know. You are all that is sweet and good and—”
Lucy stopped talking as the words echoed through her mind. Her thoughts began to spin and churn, calling to mind all the kind people she had known in her life. Her father. Mother. Mr. Shepherd. So many friends from town. The shopkeepers. Mr. Shepherd’s servants. Georgina. Especially Georgina.
Every single one of them had one thing in common—they cared for others more than themselves. For some it was by choice. Others, necessity. But still they cared, and it made them a better person in the end.
“Georgy,” said Lucy slowly, thinking out loud now. “Why are you so fond of Mother and me?”
Georgina thought a moment before responding. “Ya ’ave never treated me like a servant, Miss Lucy, and Mrs. Beresford neighter. It is me ’oo ’as ter remind ya of our differences in station.”
“Exactly,” said Lucy. “We care for each other because we respect each other—not as servants or mistresses, but as people. I have learned to respect you because I have worked at your side and have seen firsthand what you do for us and your own family every day.”
A blush appeared on Georgina’s cheeks, and she was quick to wave aside the praise. “Miss, ya ’re too kind.”
“Do you not think, Georgy, that Lord Drayson might benefit from being a servant for a day or—”
“Oh, Miss, nah. Ya cannot be thinkin’ that,” blurted Georgina.
“Only for a few days,” said Lucy. “Perhaps, if we are lucky, the experience will serve to change his outlook on life and on people.”
“But if’n it don’t, ’e’ll be so angry.” Georgina was wringing her hands.
“No angrier than he will be if I tell him the truth now.”
“Oh, I fink ’e’ll be a mite bit angrier, Miss.”
Georgina was probably right, Lucy conceded, but it did not sway her. “Either way, we will be evicted the moment he does learn the truth, so why not do everything in our power to bring him around before then?”
Georgina was shaking her head again, her eyes wide and frightened. “I don’t kna, Miss. Wot if ’is memory don’t come back? I fink we should tell ’im the truf and fetch the leech, then pray ’e ’as a forgivin’ nature.”
Lucy scoffed at the notion of the earl having a forgiving nature. Her brief acquaintance with the man had already shown her that he had nothing of the sort. “I’ll wager you my first rose in bloom that he doesn’t,” she said. This would seem like an insignificant wager to most, but Lucy considered her first rose of the season the most special of them all. It showed more stamina and fortitude, clawing its way to life before all the others, thus proving its mettle. It always had a special spot on her fireplace mantle next to the picture of her father.
“Oh, nah, I could never take your first rose,” said Georgina.
“Of course you couldn’t,” answered Lucy. “Which shows you how confident I am that we will be out on our backsides by sundown if we tell Lord Drayson the truth now.”
This had a sobering effect on Georgina. She fretted over her lower lip and twisted the fabric of her apron before finally nodding slowly. “Only a few days?”
“A week at most, assuming his lapse in memory lasts that long,” promised Lucy, not that her promises held much weight any longer, she thought sullenly.
Georgina pushed herself up from the chair. “Wot sort of servant is ’e ter be?”
“A butler, footman, and coachman,” answered Lucy. “And cook’s assistant, if needed.”
“Oh, Miss, ya can’t be serious,” protested Georgina.
“I am quite serious,” said Lucy. “Beginning tomorrow, we will teach Lord Drayson—er, I mean Collins—how wonderful it feels to think of another’s needs ahead of his own.”
“But ‘a can ya pay ’im, Miss? Ya cannot expect ’im to work for nah wages.”
Lucy’s lips lifted into a mischievous grin, having already come up with a plan. “In that, we need not worry, Georgy. For I have already thought up a past that will suit him nicely.”
Georgina looked more concerned than intrigued. “Past?”
“Yes,” said Lucy. “Collins appeared on our doorstep a fortnight ago with naught but the clothes on his back. He had no references, nothing to recommend him, and was willing to do any sort of labor for shelter and food. Although hesitant, I recalled the tale of the Samaritan and did what any proper vicar’s daughter would do. I took pity on the man and agreed to let him stay on for a short time. He has been a most dreadful servant, however, always putting on airs, but instead of giving him the boot, we have decided to give him one last chance for redemption. So you see, it isn’t all bad.”
Georgina immediately looked to the heavens, drew a cross over her chest, and muttered something under her breath. Lucy took the opportunity to escape the kitchen and grudgingly ascended the stairs again to the attic, where she had the unhappy task of finding the ugliest clothes amongst her father’s old things. She would also need to locate some other necessary items—like boots (which she prayed would fit), a shaving kit, a brush, and of course some unmentionables. If Lord Drayson was to be a servant in this house, he would need a room outfi
tted to look as though he had been an occupant for a time.
Collins looked around the sterile room, feeling like he had awakened from a bad dream, only to discover that it was not a dream at all. He was still lying on an uncomfortable bed in a white, sterile room with only a single painting on the wall—a rocky landscape with a forlorn-looking tree growing out of a crack and bending almost in half from the wind. Why would someone choose such a painting to adorn a wall? It only added to his discomfort, reminding him of his own pathetic state.
He furrowed his brow in an effort to recall something of his former life, but his head felt so cloudy and irregular. How much laudanum had the woman given him? What had she called herself again? Lucy? Yes, that was it. Lucy . . . Beresford. At least he could remember that. He furrowed his brows and blinked a few times, attempting to find additional clarity.
Collins. Collins. Collins.
The name echoed in his mind. That is what she had called him. It had been laughable at first, thinking of himself as a servant, but he couldn’t deny the familiarity of the name. It sounded right and felt as though it fit. And there was no denying the conviction in those hazel eyes when she’d proclaimed, “I do not tell tales.” But everything else she had spoken made very little sense. It was quite vexing, and he cursed Miss Beresford for drugging him into this stupor. He hated laudanum. See? He knew that with certainty. Just like he knew he wasn’t fond of Askern, no matter how welcoming the morning sunlight felt through the small window adjacent to his bed.
And yet he was in Askern, and according to Miss Beresford, had lived here for a short while . . . as her servant. And that is where the doubts began. For at that point, the conviction in Miss Beresford’s eyes had been replaced with brilliant flashes of anger, flashes that had ignited her eyes and stirred another forgotten memory somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind.
Blast his forgotten memories! Collins despised being at Miss Beresford’s mercy, or anyone’s mercy for that matter.
The door swung open, and in breezed a small woman, not much older than Miss Beresford, carrying a tray. A worn, white apron was tied about her tiny waist, and her blonde hair, though held back, frizzed around her face as though she had been up long before the sun.
The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1) Page 4
