“Twenty-five years?” she gasped, more startled by the notion of such an ancient lady’s maid than by the length of John’s courtship. “She’s been with the marchioness that long?” When Fancy had called her old, she’d naturally assumed the woman to be about thirty-five, which was definitely on the deep winter side of life for a lady’s maid. But if she’d been with her ladyship for twenty-five years, that meant that she must be nigh on —
“No, no. Law, no! She’s been with Lady Beresford fer thirty-two years now, ever since ‘er ladyship were a bride. ‘Course, she’s more o’ a companion than a maid these days, seein‘ as ‘ow she can’t do many o’ the duties o’ her station anymore. You ain’t met ‘er yet?”
Sophie shook her head. “I haven’t even seen her.” Pansy lifted the gleaming knife for an inspection. “Well, she’s been mighty busy since ‘er ladyship took sick. I ‘ear tell that she’s ain’t ‘ardly left ‘er side.”
“She sounds to be very devoted to her mistress.” “She is. She’s a good-‘earted one, Miss Stewart is. Not a bit ‘igh-and-mighty like that wicked Fancy Jenkins says. It were ‘er praise about the way I press frills that got my wages raised an extra shillin‘ a year.” She nodded her approval at the knife and set it aside. “I, fer one, are glad she finally took notice o’ John. ‘E’s a fine gentleman and makes ‘er ever so ‘appy.”
Sophie watched as the girl picked up a badly stained meat cleaver and scrubbed it with washing soda. “What took her so long to notice him? He’s far too handsome a man to simply overlook.”
Pansy clucked. “Poor Miss Stewart. She was to marry a sailor, oh, about thirty years ago, but he drowned at sea. Completely broke ‘er heart, it did. She pined and pined fer over twenty years. Dinna so much as look at another man all that time.”
“And yet John held out hope,” Sophie murmured, awed by such steadfast devotion. “He must love her a great deal.”
“Aye, ‘e does. I ‘eard tel that ‘e turned down the post o’ butler eight years ago so that ‘e could stay near ‘er. As ‘er ladyship’s personal footman, ‘e spends a goodly time in Miss Stewart’s company.”
“Well, I do hope their story has a happy ending. It would be beyond sad if things didn’t work out after all John’s gone through to win her.”
“I’m sure they will. I over’eard ‘em talkin‘ about gettin‘ married next year and buyin‘ an inn. She sounded jist as eager — ” Pansy broke off, grinning. “Speak o’ the devil.” She nodded in the direction of the servants stairs.
There, more gliding than walking toward the muttering and scowling cook, was a slender woman in a plain dove-colored gown. Though her face was averted, Sophie could tell from the gray in her severely coiffed brown hair that she was indeed past her prime.
Curious to see what it was about her that inspired such dogged devotion in John, she feigned a need for fresh rags and moved to the kitchen cabinet near where Cook stood. As she opened the top door, she covertly studied the approaching lady’s maid.
What the footman found so entrancing, she couldn’t imagine. With her creased face, thick spectacles, and nondescript features, Miss Stewart fit the word plain to perfection. Indeed, she had to be one of the most unremarkable creatures Sophie had ever seen. And yet … yet …
She paused amid sorting through the rags, oddly compelled to look harder. At second glance there was something rather appealing about her careworn face, something gentle and serene that made her hard to dismiss as merely plain. In the next instant she smiled, and Sophie saw the reason for John’s infatuation.
Why, she practically glowed with goodness, radiating an inner beauty that enchanted the eye, warmed the soul, and gladdened the heart. Indeed, so lovely was she that Sophie felt strangely drab in comparison.
“John tells me that I shall have the honor of working with you this afternoon, Mrs. Higgins,” the woman said, beaming at the cook as if she were indeed blessed with a notable distinction.
To Sophie’s surprise the perpetually dour cook cracked a smile. “Yes, Miss Stewart. I need you to translate this recipe.”
“It shall be my pleasure to do so,” the lady’s maid replied, and by her tone it was clear that she meant it.
Visibly charmed, the cook smiled again, this time in a way that displayed her enormous teeth, and handed over the recipe.
“H-m-m. Let me see, now.” Miss Stewart inched the paper nearer to her face. After several moments she removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. Blinking several times, she slipped them back into place. “This looks to be some sort of fricassee dish — ” she squinted, visibly straining to see ” — uh, yes. Salmon fricassee.”
“Somethin‘ amiss with your eyes, Miss Stewart?” Fancy sneered.
“I’m afraid my vision isn’t quite what it used to be,” she murmured, frowning at the recipe.
“Well, then, why don’t you ask Miss Hoity-Toity to help you? Her da’s a baron, you know.” The chambermaid transferred her spiteful gaze from Miss Stewart to Sophie. “You do read French, don’t you, Miss Hoity-Toity?” By the smug look on her face, she fully expected Sophie to plead ignorance of the language, thus toppling her claim to gentility.
Returning the other woman’s look in kind, she countered in her most refined tone, “But of course I do, Fancy. Fluently. And I shall be most pleased to aid Miss Stewart. No doubt her eyes are dreadfully weary from all the sleepless nights she’s passed tending the marchioness.” She shifted her gaze from the visibly piqued Fancy to smile at the lady’s maid. “I do hope her ladyship is feeling better this morning, Miss Stewart?”
The woman’s lips curved into the most lovely smile Sophie had ever seen. “Much better. It is kind of you to inquire, Miss — ?”
“Barton. This is our new maid-of-all-work, Sophie Barton,” Cook supplied, crooking her finger to indicate that Sophie was to approach.
Obediently she complied, dropping into an elegant curtsy as she stopped before the two women.
“Your father is a baron, dear?” Miss Stewart quizzed, her expression thoughtful.
Sophie nodded. “Yes. But he suffered a reversal of fortunes several weeks back.”
“And you were forced to go into service,” the woman finished for her. “Poor child. How very dreadful it must be for you.”
“Yes,” Sophie admitted, her heart swelling at the genuine compassion from the lady’s maid.
Miss Stewart smiled again, this time gently. “What other skills do you possess besides speaking French?”
“I’m not so certain that I possess anything that can be properly referred to as skills, though I was educated in Bath.”
“Ah, but of course. You were trained in the fine art of being a lady.” She seemed to consider that fact for a moment, then inquired, “Tell me, Miss Barton, was it you who mended the marchioness’s dressing gown last week?”
“Yes,” Sophie admitted, growing suddenly wary. Oh, heavens! Had she somehow bungled the task as she did everything else? She’d thought her needlework excellent, but —
“Then, let me commend you on your skill with a needle. Your stitches are all but invisible, the most delicate ones I’ve seen.”
“Invisible? Ha! They’re invisible ‘cause she’s too bleedin‘ blind to see them,” Fancy muttered.
Pointedly ignoring the chambermaid’s rudeness, Miss Stewart continued, “If you perform all facets of your art with such mastery, you shall no doubt rise — “
“Pardon me, Miss Stewart. But the viscount’ll be arriving this afternoon, and I need to get started on the — salmon fricassee, you say?” Cook politely interjected.
“But of course.” Handing the recipe to Sophie, the lady’s maid murmured, “Miss Barton? If you would be so kind?”
Sophie peered at the paper for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. It is a recipe for salmon fricassee … with dill … and, um, a buttery lemon cream sauce.” She paused a beat to shoot Fancy a triumphant look, who made an ugly face in return. At Cook’s prompting she sat on a three-legged stool by
the stove.
As she opened her mouth to read off the required ingredients and measures, the cook turned abruptly and bellowed, “Seeing as how you’re in need of something to do, Fancy, you can take Sophie’s place and finish scrubbing the roasting hearth.”
“You forget that I’m a chambermaid and ain’t required to do no kitchen work,” Fancy retorted haughtily.
“You’re a servant in this house, which means that you’re required to do whatever is necessary for the comfort and well-being of your employers,” rebutted the voice of Mrs. Pixton.
Hard-pressed not to grin as the housekeeper proceeded to give Fancy a well-deserved dressing down, Sophie turned back to the cook and began her translation.
As for Miss Stewart, she studied Sophie several more moments, then turned away, her lips curled in an enigmatic smile.
Chapter 11
The marquess chuckled and clapped his son on the back. “Eager to meet old Brumbly’s paragon, are you?”
“Uh … paragon … what?” Nicholas muttered, trying to tear his gaze from the woman on the stairs below him. But, alas, it was no use. Despite his most resolute efforts, he was unable to look away from where Sophie crawled about on her hands and knees, scrubbing pigeon droppings from the sandstone front steps.
His father chuckled again and snapped his fingers before his face, pretending to be a mesmerist awakening him from a trance. “I asked if you were in a stew over meeting Brumbly’s girl?”
“A stew? U-m-m — ” His voice drifted off as Sophie stretched down to the bottom step, granting him a tantalizing view of her backside. Though he commanded himself to ignore the sight, he couldn’t help notice the provocative manner in which her limp skirt defined every contour of her buttocks.
As he stood making his ogling observation, despising himself for doing so, she resumed her scrubbing. Oh, bloody hell! His teeth clenched, as did something in a most troubling place. She was doing it again, wagging her tail in time with her hand motions.
“Ask? Why do I ask?” his father gently prodded. Nicholas shot him a sheepish glance, wondering if his face was as flushed as it felt. “Um … yes. Sorry … ur … thought I saw something in the distance.’ Another chuckle. “And you wonder why I ask?”
“Pardon?” Damn. How did his gaze get back on Sophie?
This time a sigh. “I ask because you’ve been standing out here nigh on a quarter hour, gawking up the road like a moon-sick calf.”
“Oh …” At that moment the provoking chit sat up, flexing her spine and twisting at the waist, clearly trying to ease a kink from her back. There was something about her writhing, an unconscious sensuality, that made Nicholas’s own kink tighten a few degrees.
He spat a silent oath at the sensation, one so foul that he’d never have uttered it aloud. What the hell was wrong with him that he should lust so for a woman he loathed? He was a man of principles, for Christ’s sake, not some overly libidinous rake. As such, it took more than a pretty face or a fine figure to arouse him. Indeed, he had to at least like a woman as a person in order to experience any degree of sexual interest in her.
Until now, that is. He mentally cursed again.
When he’d selected this, staring, as his mode of revenge, the last thing he’d expected to feel was lust. Anxiety, yes. Self-consciousness, yes. Pain, shame, and a crushing sense of inadequacy — yes, yes, yes. In fact, it was his anticipation of those very emotions that had prompted him to select the punishment he had. He’d thought that by forcing himself to face his feelings, he’d eventually overcome them. And perhaps it might have worked had it not been for his unexpected and perverse lust.
“Colin?” The hand appeared before his eyes again, fingers snapping. “You with me, son?” Unfortunately, it dropped just in time for Nicholas to see Sophie lean over and flash more than a glimpse of her splendid cleavage.
He gritted his teeth, hard-pressed not to squirm as his kink affected his manly anatomy in a most embarrassing way. Certain that he’d moan aloud if he opened his mouth, he pried his gaze from the tempting spectacle and slanted his father what he hoped was a querying glance.
The other man eyed him with exasperated amusement. “I said that the coach won’t be arriving for at least another hour. Brumbly’s outrider arrived earlier with the news. Didn’t you hear?”
Nicholas feigned a smile and croaked, “No, I didn’t,” all the while struggling to tame his desire.
God, how he hated his arousal, hated it with a fervor that made him long for impotence. He hated the way it felt, throbbing and rampant; he hated how it made him feel, satiric and lewd. Most of all he hated how it called his character to question, forcing him to view it in a harsh new light and wonder if perhaps it weren’t as sterling as he had thought.
Tormented almost beyond endurance now, he nodded his accord to whatever his father said. How he longed to abandon his staring revenge and flee his misery. But, of course, he couldn’t, no matter how much it pained him to continue. To do so would concede victory to Sophie, and that was something he could never do. Not if he wished to regain his pride.
Nicholas heaved a silent sigh, feeling only a niggle of triumph as Sophie sat back into her bucket of wash water, soaking both her skirt and the freshly cleaned stairs.
As difficult as he found his vengeance, he had to admit that it was effective. By reducing Miss Barrington to a bungling ninny, he stripped her of all pretense and dignity, thus striking at the heart of her hauteur. Once he’d stripped her completely, she should crumble readily enough. How could she not? There would be nothing of any substance left to sustain her. Then he would win. All he had to do was maintain his facade of composure awhile longer.
As he grimly wondered if he were equal to the task, he became aware that his father had ceased speaking and awaited some sort of response. “Yes,” he murmured, hoping against hope that he wasn’t agreeing to do something excruciating, like squiring Miss Mayhew to the crotchety Widows Gum and Tottle’s cottage for tea.
“Exactly what I told him,” his father crowed. “Said, ‘See here, Ruben, the only help for the gripe is a good bleeding.’ “
Bleeding? H-m-m. Nicholas’s eyes narrowed as he absently observed Sophie’s clumsy attempts to right her mess. Could it be that his own embarrassing condition stemmed not from lust, but from ill humors in his blood? He had, after all, overindulged in brandy the entire week following his disappointment with Sophie. And as every gentleman knew, staying floored for any length of time inevitably led to unpleasant consequences.
Consequences such as the ones he now suffered? He considered for a moment, then sighed. Maybe. But even if drink was responsible for his problem, was opening a vein really the solution? In his experience only one thing cured what ailed him: a woman. Unfortunately, he had no woman at the moment. He’d pensioned off his mistress out of respect for Sophie the day he’d decided to court her. And since he had no stomach for casual relations …
“Oh? Then, you think the idea addled?”
The dismay in his father’s voice paired with his own wretched thoughts proved an effective antidote for both his visual and mental captivation with Sophie. Hoping to gain a clue as to what it was he was supposed to be considering, he looked at his father and murmured, “I’m not yet of an opinion. Please do elaborate.”
Instead his father frowned and laid his palm against his forehead. “Saw you talking to Ruben yesterday. Didn’t catch the gripe from him, did you?”
Nicholas frowned. “No. Why?”
“Your face is flushed, and you look deuced uncomfortable.”
“Oh. Well, I must be flushed from standing in the sun. As for my expression — ” He broke off, momentarily distracted as Sophie stood up and flounced off out of sight. As usual she didn’t spare him or his hideous face a single glance. Hating that that fact bothered him, he more growled than uttered, “I look pained because I stubbed my toe this morning, and it still hurts.”
“But of course. Of course.” His father grinned and clapped him on
the back. “No need to fret about your health, eh? Never been sick a day in your life, not since — ” The rest of what he said was drowned out by a most terrible clatter, the clatter of what appeared to be an out-of-control coach.
Up the drive it careened, its speed so perilous and reining erratic that Nicholas wondered at the coachman’s sobriety. It wasn’t until it halted with an abruptness that nearly sent the vehicle plowing into the horses, that he saw the driver and ceased his speculation.
Brumbly. Of course. Dotty, eccentric, Lester Mayhew, Viscount Brumbly. Nicholas and his father exchanged amused glances. Leave it to Brumbly to make such a harrowing entrance.
“Ho there, Beresford! Lyndhurst! Nice day for a drive, eh?” Brumbly hollered, waving his arms as if they could possibly overlook him.
The marquess grinned. “Looked more like a race than a drive to me. Aren’t you a bit withered to be a Whip, man?”
The viscount cackled. “Had no choice but to take the reins if I wanted to arrive in this century. Old Henry, here, drives slower than a slug on hot sand.” Brumbly jovially elbowed old Henry, who sat frozen beside him looking as if he’d just looked death in the face. Judging from the way the hatless viscount’s gingery hair flew nilly-willy about his head, the poor man no doubt had.
After retrieving a parcel from amid the haphazardly heaped baggage lashed to the roof behind him, the viscount climbed from the coach. Scurrying toward them as fast as his bandy legs would carry him, he jabbered, “Can’t wait to show you my latest invention. The ‘Si-rena,’ I call it. Sings to the fish like a siren to a sailor. Draws them every time.” He paused a beat to give each of his hosts a hearty hug. “You’ll be sure to want at least three.”
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