Promises and Primroses

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “What is the matter?” The dim light reflected off her tear-streaked face, and he felt his chest grow tight. She took a deep, gulping breath while Peter smoothed damp tendrils of hair from her face. “What’s wrong, little bits?”

  Three minutes later, Peter stormed down the servants’ stairs in his stocking feet and burst through the door that led to the servants’ quarters and kitchens.

  The footman, Jacob, shot to his feet from a rocking chair in the common area.

  Peter’s nostrils flared. “Where is Miss Lawrence?”

  “In her bedchamber, I believe. Shall I fetch her?”

  “She is not in her bedchamber,” Peter said sharply, his mind moving at a gallop. His first stop after Marjorie had finished recounting her day had been the small room off the nursery, where he’d pounded on Miss Lawrence’s door.

  Mrs. Allen, the housekeeper, came out of her room, located nearest to the common area, pulling the sash of her dressing gown tight.

  Peter barked orders. “Mrs. Allen, please find Miss Lawrence. Jacob, have the groom prepare the gig. Miss Lawrence will be staying at the Inn of the Cross and Bellows tonight.”

  “Sir?” Mrs. Allen asked, her hands clasped in front of her. “Has something happened?”

  “Bruises on Leah’s arm and threats that my children will be tied to a chair if they do not use the right spoon.” His hands were clenched into fists at his side.

  Mrs. Allen gasped just as Mr. Allen joined them. He’d been asleep, apparently, as his hair was pushed up on one side, but he had taken the time to throw his coat over his bedclothes.

  “What can we help you with, Mr. Mayfield?”

  Mrs. Allen put a hand on her husband’s arm. “I shall explain it.” She turned back to Peter. “Why don’t you retire to your study, Mr. Mayfield? We will find Miss Lawrence and bring her to you.”

  Peter nodded, his jaw aching from clenching his teeth so tightly. He went to his study on the second floor, drank a glass of scotch in one swallow, and began pacing in front of the cold fireplace. He reviewed what he’d said to Miss Lawrence in their meeting and felt sick. He’d told her to do what she felt was best and acted as though his involvement were an irritation. What kind of father was he?

  There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Allen entered, Miss Lawrence behind him. Her expression, as always, looked like pasty old leather, but the mixture of fear and defiance in her eyes showed that she knew exactly why she’d been summoned. He pushed aside his regrets for having handled her so poorly until now. He need to be the father his daughters deserved now that he understood the threat against them.

  “Mr. Allen, please remain in the room to serve as a witness.”

  Miss Lawrence’s eyes widened slightly.

  Peter did not wait for Mr. Allen to answer before he rounded on Miss Lawrence. “You hit my child? You threatened them and pulled a five-year-old girl from the window seat.”

  Miss Lawrence folded her arms across her chest, seemingly unaffected by his anger. “You said I was hired to curtail their behavior. You shall spoil a child if you spare the rod, and it did not take long for me to realize why they were so ill-mannered.” She turned as if she were the one to decide when this discussion was finished.

  Peter’s blood was at a full boil, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “You will pack your things, and Stephen will take you to town. I will pay you for your work thus far and cover the cost of your room at the inn tonight, but you will never return to this house, and I will send a letter to Mr. Hastings to make certain he never recommends you to another position.”

  She turned back to him, her eyes flashing. “You have no right—”

  “No!” he bellowed. Mr. Allen startled, but Peter hardly noticed. He’d never yelled like this. He’d never felt like this. “You have no right, madam, and I will not tolerate your presence in my household a moment longer.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “I will watch you pack your things and escort you to the carriage, and then I shall never see you again.”

  Julia

  During her time in London, Julia had enjoyed walking the city before her day began with the Cranston children. Despite the smog and noise, London had lovely parks, and as morning was not the fashionable time for the ton to go out, the streets were nearly empty at seven o’clock in the morning.

  Julia had kept up the habit of her morning walks since returning to Feltwell, remembering how much she’d enjoyed walking the countryside when she had been young. The familiar landscape was nice, and encountering people she’d known all her life was enjoyable enough, but she’d sent off four additional letters through Mr. Hastings for new positions. More and more, Mother talked as though Julia were going to stay:

  “Simon’s children will be coming to stay for a week in June while Simon and Clara attend a wedding in Gloucester. I so look forward to having them here with us.”

  “Would you prefer spending Christmas with Louisa or Simon? Simon has more room, but there is nothing like Christmas with children, and Louisa has more by half.”

  When Julia returned home from her walk, Mother was out, likely visiting Mrs. Harris, whose husband had passed last week. Mother had made soup and, of course, bread, and had warned Julia she would be gone for several hours in hopes of helping set Mrs. Harris’s house to rights. The woman had kept to her bed for days on end and did not have a servant or any children to help her through. Beth was out back, doing the week’s laundry; she would only come inside to return the linens and copper tub. Any inside task was for Julia or Mother today. Julia did not mind. There was only so much walking and reading a body could do in a day, and she enjoyed having purpose. That was one thing she and Mother had in common.

  Julia tied on an apron and set about tidying the kitchen. Mother must have run out of time to do it herself. While she cleaned, Julia thought about each new position she had applied for, calculating how soon she could expect to hear back based on when the position began. One position was set to start in just over a week, and the fact that she hadn’t heard back led her to think they had chosen another candidate.

  Was she somehow so off-putting that no one wanted to hire her? Or perhaps she had been spoiled by the Cranstons; they were the only position she’d applied for five years ago, and then the arrangement had been so well suited for all of them. Perhaps that was an unusual circumstance, and this applying and waiting and feeling rejected and applying and waiting and feeling rejected was typical. How depressing.

  Julia was wiping down the kitchen table when she heard a knock. She dried her hands on her apron as she walked to the front door and opened it, expecting one of her mother’s friends to have come calling, though it was early, to be sure.

  “Mr. Hastings?” she said after a moment of shock, then looked past him and felt her face flush. “Mr. Mayfield?”

  “Good morning, Miss Hollingsworth,” Mr. Hastings said. He fiddled with his cravat. It was clearly tied too tight by the way his neck bulged around the edges. “Might we have a word?”

  Julia untied her apron, embarrassed and flustered to be anything less than properly situated to receive such unexpected and intimidating guests. “Please come in,” she said as she ushered them toward the parlor while balling the apron in one hand behind her back. “I shall join you in a moment.”

  In the kitchen, her heart raced as she prepared a tea tray, grateful that she had her mother’s bread, a pot of marmalade, and a kettle that was always kept on. She did not take the time to check her appearance. The main floor looking glass was within sight of her unexpected guests.

  Julia returned to the parlor within five minutes and apologized for the delay. From the modest home and amount of time she’d been gone, she suspected they knew she had prepared the tray herself. Normally, such knowledge would not cause her any embarrassment, but seeing these men again—Mr. Mayfield, especially—­summoned those feelings of inadequacy tha
t had consumed her after their last meeting. She’d never expected to see him again.

  She poured the tea, not having a cup herself for fear that her shaking hands would betray her anxiety. She hoped Mother would forgive her for serving the Darjeeling, which she reserved for favorite guests. When she finished pouring, Julia sat back against the chair and waved toward the tray. “My mother is renowned for her bread; it is always what we serve with tea.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hollingsworth,” Mr. Hastings said as he sipped his tea.

  Mr. Mayfield had yet to speak and seemed as uncomfortable as she was. He took a sip of tea, turned his cup as he set it down, then picked it up for another sip, and turned it yet again. For a moment, she wondered if he had come to apologize for his rudeness. Though why would he care? He was a gentleman; she was a servant. He owed her nothing, and they both knew it.

  Mr. Hastings set down his saucer and cleared his throat. “My apologies for not warning you of our visit. I’m afraid the situation is urgent, and there was no time to waste.”

  She looked from him to Mr. Mayfield, who held her eyes while Mr. Hastings continued. “Mr. Mayfield is in need of a governess, as soon as possible, and wondered if you might still be interested in the position.”

  It had been almost three weeks since the interview that had left her feeling small and discarded. “I understood that Mr. Mayfield had hired one of the other candidates, Mr. Hastings.”

  The rotund man shifted in his chair and pulled at his cravat again. “Well, yes, but then . . . well, things did not work out, and he is in need of a governess again.”

  Julia wanted to stand up and shout “It would be my greatest wish and pleasure to take the position!” But she could still hear Mr. Mayfield’s voice when he said he would hire the other woman. He’d been so resolute, so certain. Instead, she said, “What of the other applicant? I imagine she would have been Mr. Mayfield’s second choice.”

  Mr. Hastings shifted again. Mr. Mayfield looked into his cup.

  So the second candidate had not accepted the position, leaving only Julia. A lifetime of sermons about pride and humility flowed through her mind. It was difficult to sort through her feelings. She looked around the parlor, feeling trapped.

  Mr. Mayfield cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to him. “I am sorry to put you in such a difficult position, Miss Hollingsworth.”

  Julia met his eyes and could read the apology there. And the desperation. She said nothing.

  “Our interview ended . . . badly, and I offer my apology for having acted so poorly. I believe my daughters would benefit very much from your care, and I hope you will accept this unconventional offer.”

  Mr. Hastings looked confused, but then he didn’t know she had overheard Mr. Mayfield’s dismissal that day. But Mr. Mayfield knew, and he’d apologized to her—sincerely, she thought. There was something soft about Mr. Mayfield when his guard was down. She’d seen it during their interview, and she could sense it now, though his discomfort was clear.

  I could work for such a man, she thought. Part of her liked the challenge of proving herself the better choice all along. The rest of her simply wanted to find a new place.

  “I accept the offer.”

  Mr. Mayfield smiled, a bright, wide smile that lifted his eyes and lightened his whole face. She could not help but smile back.

  Mr. Hastings cleared his throat. “Might it be possible for you to leave, uh, now?”

  She broke eye contact with Mr. Mayfield and looked at the other man. “Right now?”

  “As soon as you have had a chance to pack your things. Mr. Mayfield’s former governess and a maid have been assisting with his daughters, but the arrangement is not ideal for any of the parties. If you are willing, I can review the contract during the journey to Mr. Mayfield’s estate. We could arrive by this afternoon if we can leave quickly enough.”

  Right now? Julia repeated in her mind. Mother was not home, but she would discourage this course to be sure. If, however, Julia left before Mother returned from her visit . . .

  Julia stood, and the men followed suit. “I shall need half an hour to ready my trunk.”

  “We shall return in a full hour, if that is all right, to give you a bit more time,” Mr. Mayfield said. “We can help with your trunk when we return.”

  That is a better plan, Julia thought. And Mother will not be back before then. “That would be much appreciated, thank you.”

  Mr. Mayfield smiled, softening his face again, and inclined his head. “Very good, and . . . thank you, Miss Hollingsworth.”

  “Call me Miss Julia, please, and feel free to wait here in the parlor if you like. I shan’t be long, and my mother’s bread really is remarkable.”

  Julia walked with decorum from the room, but as soon as she was out of view, she ran up the stairs to her room. She opened her trunk and began throwing dresses and shoes onto the bed from her wardrobe. She would not take any of her fancier dresses as she would not need them as a governess, and she stuffed all her toiletries into a canvas sack, which she threw into the trunk as well. Once she had packed her clothing, she folded her quilt—made by her mother years ago—and placed it on top.

  Only then did she consider if she were doing the right thing. After a few moments, she sighed. She was not doing the right thing, but leaving now would spare a negative parting with her mother. Julia’s sewing bag and three of her favorite books went on top of the quilt before she latched the trunk. Then she sat down at her desk, removed a piece of paper, and wrote a note to her mother despite the tightness in her chest. Every word on the paper included a prayer that her mother would not be too angry. Or hurt.

  Amelia

  Julia,” Amelia called when she returned to the house that afternoon. She tugged at her bonnet ribbons with one hand as she closed the door behind her. “I ran into Mrs. Partridge, and she’s invited us to supper. Her nephew is visiting from Dover, and . . . Julia?”

  The house was still. Had Julia gone out? Amelia had stayed too long at Mrs. Harris’s—it was nearly four o’clock—but the woman was not coping well with her husband’s death. Amelia could not fault her; nothing prepared a person for such a loss. She had folded some laundry—washed by another neighbor the day before—and tidied the kitchen while Mrs. Harris recounted the horror of finding her husband cold after coming home from church.

  “It is because he doesn’t go to service, I’m certain of it,” Mrs. Harris had said.

  Amelia offered words of comfort while remembering how difficult it had been for her to accept Richard’s death. He had contracted pneumonia, and she’d known a few days before he took his last breath that he would not survive the illness. There had been a measure of peace in attending him those last days, administering—as it was—to his final moments.

  One night, she’d crawled into bed beside him and, though he was not aware of her, cried into his shoulder for the last time. The heartbreak of that moment—knowing that every future challenge she faced would be faced alone—was something she would never forget. How she missed him. How different things would have been if he had not died. He made her better, and sometimes she felt as though she’d been floundering ever since, though no one would guess it from watching.

  Julia was certainly floundering. The fear Amelia felt for her daughter’s future was exhausting them both. If the girl would just settle down . . .

  Or maybe it was time Amelia accepted that Julia was going to find her own way. She’d had to manage everything after Richard died—was she trying too hard to manage her daughter?

  Amelia hung her bonnet on the peg in the hall and continued into the kitchen, taking note of the copper tub set on the shelf inside the door, which meant Beth had finished the wash. Perhaps some of Amelia’s noble blood still influenced her from time to time because if there was one task Amelia could take no pride in doing herself, it was washing, though she often felt guil
ty for not helping. She put on her apron and hoped Julia would return soon. They would need to be to the Partridges by five o’clock. Mrs. Partridge’s nephew was on his way up the ranks in the King’s Royal Navy, and he would be in attendance for dinner. Julia would hate the effort at matchmaking, and Amelia was feeling embarrassed for creating the situation now that it was done. Maybe the first step to backing off would be telling Julia of the collusion and letting her skip dinner if she would rather.

  Amelia was halfway across the tidied kitchen when she spotted the paper, folded and propped against her clean and stacked baking pans. The note had not been there when she’d left for Mrs. Harris’s, and she and Julia were not in the habit of writing notes to one another. She picked up the note, confirming Julia’s handwriting across the front before unfolding the paper.

  Dear Mother,

  Mr. Hastings from the employment office came to the house with an offer for a governess position that needed to be filled immediately. I had to leave within the hour. The position is exactly what I hoped for and much closer to Feltwell than the London position was. I will be working for a man by the name of Mr. Peter Mayfield. His estate is located outside of Elsing, where he lives with his two young daughters, who sadly have no mother as she passed away some years ago. I shall write to you with the exact address as soon as I am settled. In the meantime, know that I am safe and happy to have had this turn of events. Be glad for me, Mother.

  Much love,

  Julia

  Amelia stared at the letter, her chest hot and her hands cold. The newly born thoughts of letting Julia choose her own course crumbled like ash as the floor tilted slightly beneath her feet. “Mayfield,” she whispered in disbelief to the empty house. Elsing was not far enough away from East Ashlam to allow her to think that it could be a different Mayfield family than the one that had come immediately to mind. Of course, Amelia had heard the name from time to time, the scandals and dissidence of the family were well known, but those things were secondary to the true hook of that name in her heart.