“Terry. All the other servants call me Terry.”
“Terry. And you may call me Sophie. All my friends do so.”
He grinned. “By gum! We will be friends.” Looking beyond thrilled by that prospect, he reached over and once again took her arm. “Now that everything is settled, we should be on our way. It’s almost dark, and we have a goodly ride ahead of us.”
At her nod of consent he escorted her to the wagon, a glossy burgundy and gold affair with polished brass lamps. He had just lit the lamps and was gathering the reins in preparation to depart, when Sophie remembered her valise.
“Oh no! Wait. My valise. I dropped it when I ran from the road,” she cried, desperately peering about her. Though the black leather bag held little of monetary value, it contained the last vestiges of her bygone life and was thus priceless to her.
Gallantly pledging to retrieve her belongings, Terry jumped from the wagon and raced to the site of her near demise. It was but a moment later when he returned, bearing a large, badly scuffed object that bore little resemblance to her once elegant valise.
Visibly abashed, he handed it to her, muttering, “Sorry. I seem to have run it over.”
Him and half the merchants in Exeter, she thought, staring at her crushed bag with dismay. No doubt her bonnets were flattened beyond repair. As for her mother’s ivory hand mirror …
Her dejection must have shown on her face, for Terry reached over and gingerly squeezed her arm. “Please forgive me, Sophie. I feel ever so wretched about all this. I do hope I haven’t ruined anything of great importance.” By his expression you’d have thought that he was responsible for all the plagues in history.
Hating to see him, her rescuing knight, look so, Sophie smiled and hastened to reassure him. “Please don’t feel badly, Terry. Of course I forgive you. Save a crushed bonnet or two, I am quite certain that you did no irreparable damage to anything.”
“But your bonnets — “
“Their value is nothing when weighed against the kindness you’ve shown me.” And it was true, she realized with sudden dawning. One ounce of kindness in a time of need was worth far more than all the bonnets in London. That revelation stunned her, who valued possessions above all else, to the very core of her materialistic soul.
“Bah! I did nothing that any respectable person wouldn’t have done,” he retorted, though she could tell from his blush that her praise pleased him. Without further ado he slapped the reins, and they were off.
Chapter 7
Down High Street they dashed, onto Fore Street and over the Exe River bridge. Though Terry kept his recklessness in check, he still drove far too fast for Sophie’s peace of mind.
Ah, well, she thought, clinging to the side rail for dear life. At least the seats are well cushioned, and I most certainly can’t complain about the springs. Not that she’d have complained at any rate. She was much too grateful simply being in the wagon and headed for sanctuary to find fault with anything.
After traveling a couple of swift but blessedly mishap-free miles, she grew confident enough of his driving to release her grip on the bar. Feeling suddenly safer than she’d felt in what seemed like forever, she relaxed back in her seat and watched the moon rise, smiling as Terry began whistling a jolly tune.
On through the dark they dashed, each night-stained landscape indistinguishable from the last. Rocked by the wagon and lullabied by Terry’s whistling, Sophie soon sank into a deep, dreamless slumber. She felt as though she’d just closed her eyes when she was awakened by a sudden jolt.
Blinking away her sleepy fog, she drowsily peered about her. They were in a courtyard of sorts, formed by two jutting wings and what she assumed was the main house, all built from a brick whose hue was obscured by shadow. By the lines of mullion windows, many of which spilled forth a hazy stream of light, she could see that the house stood four stories tall and contained a myriad of rooms.
As she watched two silhouettes pantomime in a second-floor window, she heard a door creak open. In the next instant light flooded from her right, drawing her attention to a short female form holding a lantern.
“It’s about bleedin‘ time you got back, Terry Mabbet,” the form bawled. “Her ladyship took sick this afternoon, and with us short ‘o help and you off dillydallyin‘, the Pixie’s had ta do the ‘xtra fetchin‘ herself. She’s in a fine nettle over it, I can tell you. Says she gonna scold you stone-deaf for bein‘ gone so long.” “The Pixie?” Sophie looked to Terry for clarification. “Mrs. Pixton, the housekeeper.” His face paled as he uttered the name.
“Well?” the form demanded. “What’ve you to say for yourself?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, Fancy Jenkins, but it took longer than expected to find a suitable maid,” he retorted, his confident tone at startling odds with his frightened face. “Good help is hard to find, you know.” “She’d better be the bleedin‘ best maid the Pixie ever saw if you’re to keep your hearin‘.”
Terry shot Sophie a rather anxious look. “Er … I assure you she is.”
The form emitted a loud sniff. “Well, come along with you then. The longer you dawdle, the harder it’ll go for you.”
After handing the reins to a boy who seemed to appear out of nowhere, Terry jumped from the wagon, then assisted Sophie down. By the way his hands trembled as he took her arm, she could tell that he was terrified by the prospect of facing the housekeeper.
Sorry for his trouble and wanting to do something to help, she murmured, “Perhaps it would be for the best if we tell Mrs. Pixton that the wheel broke on the way back here, and that it took us a goodly time to find a wheelwright to fix it.”
Looking as if he were next in line for execution, Terry shook his head. “It broke on the way to Exeter, not the other way around. The Pixie will see through me for sure if I try to tell her otherwise. She always knows when someone is fibbing.”
“You don’t have to fib. Simply say that a broken wheel delayed you, and leave it at that. Since you returned with me, she shall no doubt assume that you attended the fair, thus concluding that it broke on the way back here.”
“And I shall be out of the briers on all accounts without uttering a single fib,” he finished for her.
She nodded.
He grinned. “Clever girl. I can see that I truly did bring back the finest maid in all of England.”
“Unless you wanna get sacked, you’d best come along and ‘xplain your tardiness to the Pixie,” the form snapped.
“Ah, well,” she whispered, casting Terry a reassuring look. “Might as well face the dragon now and be done with it.”
He nodded his agreement, and together they followed the form through the door. Just within lay a shadowy flight of stone stairs, down which the form vanished. Guessing that the kitchen lay below, Sophie trailed down behind Terry, who took the steps two at a time.
It was indeed the kitchen, and a very grand one at that. By its dimensions and the impressive array of amenities, it appeared that the house had seen some grand entertainments. Judging from the number of people toiling away, it was apparent that those entertainments still occurred from time to time.
“The Pixie’s in the stillroom. She said you was ta go there the minute you returned,” said a voice from their left.
Recognizing the shrewish tone as that belonging to the lantern-bearing form, Sophie looked over to put a face to the voice. From her domineering ways, she expected to see a woman somewhere on the ripe side of thirty. Like Terry, however, the form’s age proved a surprise. Why, she couldn’t have been much past twenty.
She was also very pretty, Sophie noted, viewing her with the critical eyes one female employs to assess another. With her lush figure, wide blue-green eyes, and the auburn hair she spied peeking from beneath her cap, the woman no doubt commanded a great deal of male attention.
She also noticed that the woman returned her scrutiny in kind. By her fierce scowl she apparently had little liking for what she saw. When Sophie smiled, hoping t
o disarm her obvious hostility with friendliness, she sniffed and tossed Terry a disdainful look. “I hope to heaven that this ain’t the new maid.”
“Indeed she is,” Terry replied, giving Sophie a small push forward. “Fancy Jenkins, please meet Sophie Barton. Sophie, this is Fancy, one of our three chambermaids.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Sophie murmured, punctuating the pleasantry with a cordial nod.
Fancy sniffed again. “Mrs. Pixton ain’t gonna be pleasured to meet you, Miss Hoity-Toity. Bet you ain’t never wringed a chicken’s neck in your whole uppish life.”
“W-wring a ch-chicken’s neck?” Sophie echoed, growing queasy just saying the words.
Another sniff. “Whadda you think a maid-of-all-work does? Sip tea and play the pianoforte?” Redirecting her displeasure to Terry, Fancy more hissed than said, “I won’t be at’ll surprised if the Pixie sacks you for this bit of buffle-headedness.”
“What buffle-headedness?” a man inquired, coming to a halt beside Fancy. By his livery he, too, appeared to be a footman.
And a fine-looking footman he is, Sophie thought, discreetly appraising his person. What a shame that God has chosen to waste those fine hazel eyes and that handsome, dimpled face on a mere servant.
Fancy’s harsh demeanor visibly softened at the sight of the footman, though Sophie doubted if he observed the change. He was far too busy ogling her to notice anyone or anything else.
Fancy, however, noticed him and his interest in Sophie. Elbowing him sharply in the ribs to draw his attention to herself, she said, “I were tellin‘ this dolt — ” she stabbed a finger at Terry ” — that he’ll probably be sacked for hirin‘ her — ” she redirected the finger to Sophie ” — as the new maid-of-all-works.”
“Indeed?” The footman returned his admiring gaze to Sophie. “I, for one, must say that I heartily approve of his choice.”
Fancy joined him in staring at Sophie, though in a manner that was far from admiring. “Humph! You’ll be changin‘ your mind quick ‘nough when you find yourself havin‘ ta do her chores for her.”
“I shall be honored to assist such a lovely lady,” he purred. Sketching a courtly bow to Sophie, he added, “Allow me to introduce myself. Charles Dibbs, second footman, at your service, Miss — “
“Barton. Sophie Barton,” Terry supplied.
When Charles took her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm, Fancy yanked Sophie’s arm from his grasp and shoved her against Terry. “The Pixie’s waitin‘ for you,” she snapped. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t keep her waitin‘ any longer.”
“In that case, I shall see you later, pretty Sophie,” Charles cooed, winking at her as Fancy towed him away.
Taking Sophie’s arm again and leading her across the bustling kitchen, Terry cautioned, “Watch out for Charlie. He’s a regular devil with the ladies.”
“That Fancy isn’t exactly what I’d call an angel, either,” she retorted. “I can’t say when I’ve met such a termagant.”
Terry sighed as he guided her through a door opposite the one they had entered. “Fancy’s a bit tart-tongued and coarse, but she’s usually not so very rude. No doubt she’s stinging from the prick of the Pixie’s nettle.” Starting up the left side of a double wooden stairway, he added, “Charlie making calf-eyes at you didn’t help matters, either. Fancy has designs on him, and most probably feels threatened by your beauty and breeding.” “Well, she can rest easy on that account. I have no interest whatsoever in Charles. She can have him, and with my blessing.”
“Then, you must strive to convince her of that,” he countered, stepping onto the stair landing. Once again taking her arm, he steered her down a short, barren corridor, stopping before the last door on the right. After pausing to straighten his wig and smooth his jacket, he scratched at the dark wood panel.
“Enter!” responded an imperious voice.
“Ready to slay the dragon?” he whispered, grasping the knob. At her nod he opened the door.
Inside, standing behind a scarred wooden table strewn with clay jars, dried plants, and glass vials, was a mite of a woman in a brown-striped gown. A crisp white cap perched atop her graying carrot-colored hair, its starched flounce framing a tiny, sharp-featured face that justified her nickname.
Looking up to reveal shrewd green eyes, she briskly uttered, “Terence. Finally. I was beginning to fear that you’d run off with a milkmaid or some other such youthful nonsense.”
Terry sketched a meticulous bow. “Never, Mrs. Pixton. I am always at your service.” At his hiss Sophie quickly followed suit and dropped into an elegant curtsy.
“Well, well. And what have we here?” the housekeeper inquired, her gaze critically sweeping Sophie’s length.
Terry gave Sophie a gentle push forward. “Mrs. Pixton, let me present Sophie Barton, our new maid.” “Indeed?” Her gaze moved from Sophie’s face to narrow on her expensive, if spoiled, garments. Raising one eyebrow, she said, “I think that I would like to interview our new maid in private. You, my boy, are excused for now.”
Terry shot Sophie an uneasy look. “But, Mrs. Pixton — “
“Go. I shall speak with you later.”
He hesitated for a beat, then bowed and reluctantly did as directed.
As the door closed behind him, the housekeeper bore her gaze onto Sophie’s and demanded, “Spill it, girl.” “What?” Sophie stammered, genuinely confused. “You heard me. I said spill it.”
“Spill what? I don’t understand.”
Hardening her gaze into a penetrating stare, the woman snapped, “See here, girl. I’m not blind, and my eyes tell me that you’re quality. I want to know who you are and what game you’re playing.”
“My name truly is Sophie Barton, and I’m here to work as a maid,” she replied, growing uneasy beneath the housekeeper’s unblinking scrutiny. No wonder Terry was so distraught at the notion of fibbing to her. She seemed able to look right through a person and into their innermost thoughts.
After several more such moments, ones made all the more disconcerting by the silence, the woman jerked her chin to indicate Sophie’s modish pelisse. “If what you say is true, then please enlighten me as to why a lady like yourself would go into service.”
When Sophie merely gaped at her, trying to concoct a likely tale, the housekeeper looked up at her face again and brusquely answered for her. “My guess is that you’re here to try and trap his lordship’s son into marriage.”
“Son?” Sophie squeaked. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask if the marquess had children. If the son was of marriageable age, as Mrs. Pixton indicated, then he was no doubt in Town for the Season. That meant he knew both the scandal and her identity.
“Yes, son. Young Colin. And if it’s him you’re after, you may as well leave now. Her ladyship received a letter just this morning saying that he’s off to Scotland to fish.”
Colin? Sophie furiously searched her mind for a Colin. The only Colins she could recall were Colin Redmond, a viscount of some sixty years, and Lady Burges’s four-year-old son. Add that to the fact that the housekeeper had prefaced him as young, and she could probably safely assume that he was part of the smooth-cheeked set who favored brothels and gaming hells over ballrooms.
Putting her mind to rest with that conclusion, she shook her head. “I wasn’t aware that the marquess has a son, nor do I care. My only interest is in the position.”
“Indeed? Well, then. Shall I hazard another guess as to why you are here?” Her gaze dropped to eye her belly. “Could it be that you’re with child and have run away from home to escape disgrace?”
“Of course not!” Sophie exclaimed, outraged that the woman would even think, much less suggest, such an insulting thing. “I can assure you that my morals are above reproach, and shall remain so. I am here because I need employment and nothing else.”
“You need employment, eh?” The housekeeper viewed her through slitted eyes for a beat, then gave a curt nod. “Yes
. I do believe that you truly were driven here by need. Before, however, I consider giving you the position, you must first tell me what trouble brought about your need. And I expect the truth, mind you.” Seeing no other choice, Sophie bowed her head and slowly began to speak. Since telling the truth was out of the question, she made up her tale as she went along. “I need the position because my father lost our home … gambling, and I now have no place to go. Since I also lack money, I have no choice but to go into service if I want a roof over my head and food in my stomach.” She glanced at the housekeeper to see if she bought her story.
The woman’s small, pointy face was completely impassive. “And where was your home?” she prodded.
Where was far, far away? Remembering her geography lessons, Sophie responded, “Durham. My father was a baron there.”
“A baron, you say? Hmm. And what of your mother, the baroness?”
A flash of inspiration. “Dead. She died giving birth to me. I was her first and last child. It was her death that drove my father to drink and game.”
The housekeeper’s eyes began to narrow again, not a good sign. “And where is your father now? Surely he didn’t up and leave you?”
“Um … yes. He did.” It seemed as good an explanation as any.
“And all this happened in Durham?”
“Yes.”
“Then, how did you come to be in Exeter?”
How indeed? Seeing no harm in telling a dash of the truth, albeit a twisted dash, she replied, “I recalled having a … an aunt there … my mother’s older sister. Since I’m her only living relative, I was certain she would take me in. I spent the last of my pin money to go to her.”
She paused to heave a long, heavy sigh for effect. “To my despair, I found that she no longer lives in Exeter. It was while I wandered the streets, wondering what to do, that I happened upon the Mop Fair and decided to go into service. When I told Mr. Mabbet of my fix, he took mercy on me and brought me here.”
For All Eternity Page 10
