Fancy nodded. “Square on the lips, like this.” She demonstrated an exaggerated kiss, complete with loud, wet smooching noises. “And she don’t — ur — doesn’t wipe the drool off its face first, either. She kisses it, muck and all.”
Pansy looked as nauseated as Sophie felt. “Gar! I ‘ope she washes ‘er face ‘fore she kisses ‘is lordship. Yeech!” Sophie froze mid-stitch, stricken by the notion of Lyndhurst kissing Lady Helene … or anyone else for that matter. Well, anyone but herself.
Fancy shrugged one shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry over much on his lordship’s account. I doubt there’s been any billin‘ and cooin‘ goin‘ on between them two.”
“An exchange of affections sounds more genteel than billing and cooing, Fancy. And it’s those two, not them two.” Though she knew that she should discourage such talk, and perhaps even chide the pair for their unseemly speculation, Sophie couldn’t resist asking, “What makes you think that his lordship hasn’t kissed Lady Helene? She is lovely, and he seems quite taken with her.”
As much as it pained her to admit the last, it was true. Not only was her ladyship a beauty in the purest sense of the word, Lyndhurst seemed exceedingly appreciative of that fact. Indeed, he’d spent so much time dancing attendance upon her the last few days, that you’d have thought they were pinned together. To say that Sophie was miserable about it was akin to saying that the devil was a naughty fellow: a huge understatement.
“Taken with her?” Fancy sniffed. “Shows what you know about his lordship.”
“Oh? And what, pray tell, makes you such an authority on him?” she retorted. The instant the words left her mouth, she was struck with a most wretched suspicion. Could he and Fancy …
Apparently her face reflected her thoughts, for Fancy drew back, frowning. “You think that me and his lordship — ” she broke off, shaking her head over and over again.
Pansy, too, shook her head. “Fancy … and Lord Lyndhurst?” She and Fancy exchanged an incredulous look then threw back their heads and howled with laughter.
Sophie glanced from one woman to the other, growing more chagrined by the moment. “I don’t see what is so very funny. It isn’t exactly unheard of for a nobleman to dally with his maids.”
“It is if the nobleman you’re talkin‘ about is Lord Lyndhurst. Why just the thought of him — ” Fancy made a choking noise and succumbed to another fit of hilarity.
“Talking, you mustn’t drop your g’s,” Sophie snapped. “And what is so ludicrous about the notion of his lordship turning a serving girl’s head? In case you haven’t noticed, he is a charming and handsome man.” She could have bitten off her tongue the instant she uttered that last. A few more remarks like that, and everyone would know of her feelings for him.
“Oh, ‘e’s turned their ‘eads right ‘nough,” Pansy chortled.
Fancy nodded. “It’s true. Plenty o‘ — of servant girls have thrown themselfs at him over the years. But his lordship, well, he gives them a pretty speech on how he don’t bed women he don’t — doesn’t have feelings for, and how he’s got too much respect for them to treat ‘em like whores. Of course, he don’t — doesn’t say whore. He’s too much of a gentleman for that kind of language.”
“They offer themselves, not themsel/s. And he has too much respect, not he’s got too much respect,” Sophie muttered, feeling like the world’s biggest goose. Whatever could she have been thinking? Of course Lyndhurst didn’t trifle with the maids. He was a fine, honorable man … a gallant through and through. Hardly the sort of man to use a woman for a casual game of… daisies.
For a long while thereafter the women stitched in silence. Though Sophie tried to lose herself in her work and forget about Lyndhurst, she couldn’t. She simply couldn’t stop wondering about him and Lady Helene. Was he indeed taken with her, as she suspected? Or was Fancy correct in believing otherwise?
She pondered a moment, then stole a glance at the chambermaid. There had been something in her voice when she’d dismissed the notion of a romantic attachment, a sort of knowing incredulity that implied a secret insight into the relationship. Could it be that she’d seen or heard something to make her privy to such information? Dare she ask?
After what felt like a century, when she could bear the suspense no longer, she cleared her throat and said, “Fancy? What makes you think that his lordship doesn’t care for Lady Helene?”
Fancy shrugged. “He’s being too much of a gentleman.”
Sophie frowned at her cryptic response. “Excuse me?” “He’s being too much of a gentleman.” Fancy paused to thread her needle, then added, “A man, no matter how much of a gentleman he is, can’t help lookin‘ — looking at a woman in an ungentlemanly way if he’s got feelings for her. Know what I mean?”
Sophie considered that for a beat, remembering the hunger with which the gentlemen of the ton had eyed her during the Season, then slowly nodded.
“Well, if you ask me, it’s good that ‘is lordship don’t like ‘er,” Pansy piped in, drawing a stocking over her darning egg.
“Why?” Oh, blast! There she went again, encouraging the very talk she should be discouraging.
” ‘Cuz then ‘e’d marry ‘er, ‘n’ we’d all ‘ave to look fer new places. Ain’t no one downstairs that wants ‘er fer a mistress.”
“Especially Cook,” Fancy interjected with a snicker.
Pansy tittered. “Gor, Sophie! You should o’ see’d the row in the kitchen when Lady ‘Elene tol‘ Cook that she’s gotta make Chinese food for it. It comes all the way from China, you know, ‘n’ it’ll only eat Chinese food. Or so Lady ‘Elene says. Any ‘ow, I thought Cook’d split a gut fer certain when she ‘eard.”
“Can you imagine?” Fancy snorted. “Who’d — ” “Fancy — “
Fancy shot her an apologetic look. “Sorry. I know: Ladies don’t snort.” She shook her head. “Still, I were — was shocked to hear that rat dog came from China. Who in their right wits’d — uh, would bring back something that ugly?”
“Ming-Ming wasn’t brought back,” Sophie replied, placing one last stitch in the lace she was repairing. “She was a gift to the king from a Chinese envoy who visited the court last year.”
Pansy looked up, frowning. “If it was a gift to the king, ‘ow come Lady ‘Elene’s got ‘er?”
“Would you keep rat dog if someone gave her to you?” Fancy retorted.
Sophie smiled. “The king gave her to Lord Windford as a reward for him translating some Chinese documents into English. Lord Windford, in turn, gave her to his daughter.”
“Think him giving rat dog away had something to do with how she yaps and pisses every time she gets fraught?”
“Fouled, Fancy. One mustn’t utter such words as — ” Sophie gestured helplessly, unable to repeat the vulgarity in question. “Well, you know which word I mean. Also when she gets excited sounds better than every time she gets fraught. And please, do try to get in the habit of referring to Ming-Ming simply as a dog. I shudder to think of what Lady Helene might do if she hears you referring to her little darling as rat dog or — ” Sophie glanced from Fancy to Pansy ” — it, for that matter.” “Well, it don’t look like no dog I nivver seen,” Pansy muttered. “Don’t look much like a rat, neither, ‘cept that she’s got short legs.” She shook her head. “Rats got pointy faces. Its face’s mushed in, like it got ‘it with a glossing iron.”
“Either that, or run through the mangier,” Fancy quipped.
The three women looked at each other, then burst out laughing in unison. Lady Helene’s dog truly was a terror and a trial to the servants … as was her ladyship. Indeed, both dog and girl seemed to loathe everyone at Hawksbury, save the Somervilles, of course, and treated them accordingly.
Clutching her sides as if they ached, Pansy gasped out between giggles, ” ‘Ave you seen ‘ow it acts ‘round Lord Lyndhurst? Ye’d think that ‘e was a stud and she was a bitch in ‘eat the way she whimpers ‘n rubs against ‘is leg.”
Fancy guff
awed. “His poor lordship. Can you imagine his weddin‘ — wedding night if he marries Lady Helene? I’ll bet pounds to pence that she insists that the bleedin‘ — uh — dreadful beast sleeps — sleep?” She paused to consider, then nodded. “Sleep. I’ll just bet that she insists that the dog sleep with them.”
Sophie pricked herself with her needle as she indeed imagined it. The vision of Lady Helene, bridal bouquet of daisies in hand, doing her wifely duty with Lyndhurst stabbed at her heart.
“Aye! I can see it,” Pansy tittered, her cheeks growing very pink. “Lady ‘Elene’ll lay there all stiff and Fridayfaced while ‘is lordship fights to keep it from sniffin‘ at ‘is man’s parts.”
“Pansy!” Sophie exclaimed, genuinely shocked, while her companions burst into bawdy laughter. She was about to lecture them on the unseemliness of mentioning Lyndhurst’s unmentionable parts, when the door swung open.
It was Miss Stewart, looking uncharacteristically harried. “Ah. Good. You’re here, Sophie,” she exclaimed, hurrying into the room. “Lady Helene has requested your presence.”
“Lady Helene?” she echoed, frowning. Whatever could her ladyship want with her? Why, she wasn’t even aware that the girl had noticed her, much less knew her name.
“Lady Helene,” Miss Stewart confirmed. “She observed your elegant ways when she visited the marchioness’s sickbed, and has now decided that you, and only you, are fit to look after Ming-Ming while she takes tea at Hennington House.”
“Gor! Glad I ain’t elegant,” Pansy muttered.
At that moment Sophie wished that she weren’t, either. Praying that it was all a hideous mistake, she countered, “But her ladyship takes Ming-Ming everywhere. Can’t she take her to Hennington as well?”
Miss Stewart shook her head. “It seems that there was an — ahem! — incident involving Ming-Ming and Lord Hennington’s prize hunting hound the last time Lady Helene visited. As a result, his lordship has requested that Ming-Ming be left at Hawksbury.”
“Oh.” Sophie cast her companions a pained look, who returned it with one of boundless sympathy. “Well, then what about her abigail? Surely Mademoiselle Loring would be more suited to the task than I? At least Ming-Ming knows her.”
Miss Stewart again shook her head. “She is to accompany her mistress to Hennington.”
“But her mother — “
“Is suffering a megrim. And since both the marquess and Lord Lyndhurst are in Exeter on business — ” the lady’s maid shrugged ” — well, as you can see, that leaves only mademoiselle.”
She did see, just as she saw that she had no choice but to play nanny to the ill-tempered dog if she wished to retain her new position. The mere thought of returning to the drudgery of her former duties was enough to make her ask, “When would her ladyship like to see me?”
“In a quarter of an hour. You are to meet her in the blue drawing room to take charge of Ming-Ming and receive instructions for her care.” Apparently Sophie looked as miserable as she felt, for Miss Stewart’s expression grew suddenly apologetic, and she added, “I’m sorry, dear. Truly I am. I know that the dog is a bit of a trial, but, well, it’s just for a few hours.”
“Yes. Just for a few hours. I’m certain I can endure the beast for that long,” she murmured, glancing first to Fancy, then Pansy for help in convincing herself.
Both looked doubtful.
“And under no circumstances are you to walk Ming-Ming in the garden. Those horrid gravel and sand paths quite ruin her feet. Makes them impossibly rough,” Lady Helene directed, admiring the picture she and her pet made in the drawing room mirror.
Sophie nodded, hard-pressed not to giggle. Dog and girl wore matching caps; costly scarlet velvet caps with pearl-embroidered borders and curling white ostrich feathers. While the creation looked quite elegant on her ladyship, it served only to emphasize the gargoyle-like ugliness of the dog’s broad, flat face … a fact to which her mistress was clearly oblivious.
Indeed her expression was nothing short of fawning as she pressed her beautiful face to Ming-Ming’s monstrous one, cooing, “Mama’s pretty little boo-by has the tenderest feet in all of England. Yes, she does! Yes, she does! Boo-by … boo-by … Mingy … Mingy … booby… boo-by . .
Sophie watched with repulsed fascination as the girl kissed the dog’s mouth, producing a series of loud smacking noises, exactly as Fancy demonstrated.
Ming-Ming rolled her bulbous brown eyes, whimpering and slobbering in ecstatic response.
The girl kissed her again, this time crooning between noisy smooches, “Mama loves her little boo-by … booby… boo-by . .
”Ahem!” Mademoiselle Loring, her French abigail, cleared her throat, obviously trying to gain her mistress’s notice.
Lady Helene ignored her. “Mingy Ming-Ming is the sweetest, most beautiful boo-by … boo-by . .
The abigail tried again. “Ahem!”
“Boo-by in the whole world,” the girl continued.
Mademoiselle sighed. Like all the servants in Lady
Helene’s entourage, the abigail, her ladyship’s sixth in as many months it was rumored, bore an air of long-suffering martyrdom. Indeed, she reminded Sophie of a painting she’d seen of Joan of Arc being burned at the stake, especially at that moment as she cleared her throat a third time and murmured, “Pardon, my lady. But we must leave now if we are to be at Hennington House on time.”
Lady Helene froze, breaking off mid-boo-by. After a beat, one during which Sophie could feel the abigail’s tension, she slowly turned. “Did I speak to you, mademoiselle?” she inquired, her tone chilly enough to frost hell.
The abigail bowed her head, shaking it to the negative. “Well?” Her ladyship snapped her long white fingers at the woman. “When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer. I repeat: Did I speak to you?” Three more finger snaps.
Mademoiselle flinched as if struck. “No, my lady.” “The rule?” Snap!-Snap! “Repeat the rule.”
“A servant must never speak unless first addressed by her master or mistress,” the woman choked out.
“Correct.” Snap!-Snap!-Snap! “See that you don’t forget it in the future.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“As for you, girl.” Lady Helene shifted her icy gaze from her cowed abigail to Sophie. “Repeat my instructions for Ming-Ming’s care. I want to make certain that you understood me.”
Understood her? Ha! She understood her perfectly. She’d met dozens of her kind in the ton. Lady Helene was a spoiled, utterly detestable little tyrant whose greatest pleasure in life was bullying the servants and making everyone around her miserable.
“Well?” Snap!-Snap!-Snap!
Sophie stifled her tart retort. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be the Toast of the ton again, if only for that moment. What a pleasure it would be to put the chit in her place and make her jump when she snapped for fear of being cut by the ton. Since, however, such was not the case, and she didn’t wish to spend the remainder of her time at Hawksbury scrubbing the spit —
“I am to take Ming-Ming for a walk promptly at three o’clock and for exactly one-half hour,” she dutifully recited. “We are to walk in the southeast Hawksbury park, but only in the centermost section. Before allowing her down on the grass, I must remove my shoes and walk about the area to make certain that it is free of brambles or anything else that might damage her paws.”
“Feet.” Snap! “Ming-Ming has feet, animals have paws.”
Chamber pots. Remember the chamber pots. That reminder instantly squelched her urge to inquire as to the sort of creature her ladyship fancied Ming-Ming to be, and made her murmur instead, “Feet, yes. Please do forgive me.”
The tyrant nodded. “Continue.”
“Ming-Ming is prone to colds. Therefore, if the grass feels even the least bit damp, I am to walk her in the conservatory. After her walk Pm to brush her one hundred strokes, no more, no less, then tuck her into the cradle next to your bed for a nap.”
“And if she refuses to slee
p?”
“I’m to rock her and sing ‘Ding Dong Bell.’ ” A vivid memory of the meat press and how disgusting it was to clean prevented her from rolling her eyes at the absurdity of that particular order.
“I do hope you sing on key,” Lady Helene murmured, surveying her critically. “My poor darling simply cannot abide off-key singing. She howls quite dreadfully in protest.”
Oh, wonderful! It just so happened that she wasn’t musically inclined. Indeed, her music instructor had pronounced her singing quite impossible; Lydia had declared him kind in doing so. Sensing that her ladyship would take the news rather badly, she curved her lips into an agreeable, but noncommittal smile, and prayed, Please, God, please let the dog fall right to sleep.
“Good.” The girl nodded, interpreting her smile as one of reassurance. “Now. I shall do everything in my power to return in time to give Mingy her dinner. Dining
with strangers quite spoils her digestion. However, should I be delayed, you are to feed her — when?” Snap!-Snap!
“Promptly at six-thirty.”
“And what must you do before she eats?” Snap!
“Give her a spoonful of ginger tonic to stimulate her digestion.”
Snap! “When?”
“At six-ten, not a moment earlier or later.”
“And if her dinner gives her wind?” Snap!-Snap!
“I’m to dose her with two measures of peppermint oil.”
Snap!-Snap’.-Snap! “And?”
Remember the slop buckets. “Massage her belly.”
Lo and behold, the tyrant smiled. “Yes. Good. Very good indeed.” She nodded, this time with an approval that made her ebony curls bob. “I see that I was wise to demand your services.”
Nodding again, she glanced down at the fluffy white monstrosity in her arms. Her expression that of a mother viewing a beloved child, she crooned, “Mama must go now, Mingy darling.” Smooch!-Smooch! “You be a good boo-by … boo-by … boo-by — Smooch! — and Mama shall be back before you know it.” After kissing the dog thrice more, she held it out for Sophie to take.
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