She couldn't wait to have her own place—finally. Take her party face off, so to speak, and relax. Even the acres of parkland before her didn't impress. The famous elm trees lining Queen Caroline's Broad Walk held no allure.
Soon Serenity would set up her office and write anytime she wanted. Heaven!
"I can't wait to move. Not that your parents haven't been wonderful,” she rushed to explain, “but I'm really looking forward to having my own place again. After living in, ah, Blanchland, you see."
She suddenly quieted and studied her hands in her lap, appalled. Motormouth! “I fear I'm behaving as a chatterbox. I suppose it's because everything here in London is new to me. I've so much to learn in such a short time. I hope I haven't bored you.” Inflicting boredom could be a cardinal sin in Regency England.
Serenity looked anxiously at the man. What was he thinking? She didn't understand it but somehow his presence forced down her guard. Her professional hard-edge she'd worked so hard at maintaining was crumbling.
With his mouth slashed into a frown, his expression was forbidding. What was going on inside his head? His hooded eyes gave no clue.
He replied stiffly, “I have not been the least bit bored, Mrs. Steele. Far from it. Indeed, I find your enthusiasm ... refreshing."
Though his words should have reassured her, his tone gave her doubts. He guided the horses to the pathway out of the park. This was a sign of dismissal as surely as if he'd said the words.
Feeling she'd made herself vulnerable, she was reticent to continue the conversation the rest of the way back to Rotterham House.
Chapter Eleven
After saying her farewells and making promises to visit soon, Serenity left Rotterham House and headed for the new residence at Twenty-three Bedford Street. At the crossroads, she and Maggie alighted from a hackney carriage, then stood to survey the small townhouse's three modest levels.
Not sumptuous, like the Marquess’ mansion, but for a year it would be home sweet home.
The red brick facade blended in with the other houses, each with its own pilaster column beginning at the first floor and ending at the roof. Understated elegance. The Bedford Street neighborhood was part of a seventeenth-century housing development built by architect Inigo Jones. At that time, this had been one of the premiere areas in London. Now many of these townhouses were rented to actors and actresses from Covent Garden's theater district.
Some considered that a comedown in circumstances, but not Serenity. After all, she was an actress of sorts, too.
Situated close to the notorious Strand, Pall Mall, and Drury Lane, she looked forward to watching notable actors John Kemble and Sarah Siddons perform. Perhaps she could pick up a few pointers to improve her own “performance."
But first things first. Serenity had to get to know her new household staff. The Rotterham butler, Rawlins, worried her with his belief that a modest London residence required no less than eight servants—excluding the personal maid. Her budget could not stand that expense.
Fortunately the housing agent had told her only three people currently worked at her townhouse. The dearth in help was because of marriage, change in employment, and, the agent had lowered his voice, a death.
Four employees sounded like a manageable number. “Well, Maggie, we might as well knock on the door. Otherwise, we'll never get inside."
The maid gave a nervous titter and followed Serenity up the front steps.
When the door opened, Serenity inadvertently gasped. A stocky bull of a man stood in front of her, taking stock of her even as she looked at him. He seemed more suited to the labors at the Surrey and East/West India docks along the Thames, than the position as butler of a gentlewoman's house. He and the majestic Rawlins had nothing in common.
The new butler must've seen her dismay. “Mrs. Steele? ‘Tis an ‘onor to serve you. Now please, ‘tis cold out. You must come in."
As he led her into the first room on the right, Maggie excused herself to start her new duties. Serenity entered the drawing room and gingerly sat on the edge of an Egyptian couch. Not Egyptian again! In the corner, another Egyptian piece, a sarcophagus, stared at her.
She gulped. The decor left a lot to be desired.
The butler paced in front of her, obviously preparing to make a speech.
"I know ‘ow this looks, ma'am,” he began, gesturing a hairy hand up and down his body. “'Owever, I can assure you that Beasley will serve you to the very best of me ability. None better than Beasley. Worked night and day since me youth to deserve this position. And I'll not let you down. Beasley's word. I be a stickler for propriety. A bulwark of conservatism. A champion of routine. A proper butler!"
Beasley's shaggy eyebrows rose to meet the furrows in his forehead. He sounded sincere. He sounded reliable. So what if he looked like one of the neighborhood toughs? Perhaps someone with street savvy was exactly what she needed.
"I'm so glad to meet you Mr. Beasley—"
"Beasley, ma'am."
She smiled. “Beasley. I don't suppose the housing agent mentioned there'd be no increase to the staff.” How would the butler take that information?
Though Beasley stood still, his eyebrows vibrated their shock.
"Only a cook and a ‘ousemaid! Only two underlings! Cannot be done, Mrs. Steele. I cannot oversee an establishment that, as sure as flinders, will go to rack and ruin within a week. Excuse me, ma'am. Normally, I be as tight-lipped as me butler brothers. But I got to make an exception, ‘ere. I got to express me outrage."
Whew! He felt strongly about it, didn't he? She'd have to compromise. “Well, I believe I can hire one more person, but I do need to economize. I'm more than willing to help out around the house."
"That,” Beasley said grandly, “will not be necessary. ‘Tis unthinkable for the lady of the ‘ouse to air the mattresses as a common chambermaid. ‘Orrible! The idea! But mayhap your maid can ‘elp with some of the upstairs duties?"
Just as Serenity was about to give a relieved smile, he added, “'Owever, in addition to a footman, we cannot be without a scullery maid. Mrs. ‘epplewhite be an excellent cook. A scullery maid will ‘elp ‘er continue ‘er excellence. In me experience, a ‘appy kitchen be a ‘appy ‘ouse."
That Beasley was a wise one. A bit of a philosopher, too. So, five servants plus Maggie and herself—that wasn't so bad. Actually, Serenity was getting off lightly.
Standing, she patted the butler's navy blue uniformed arm. “I'll leave the hiring in your capable hands, Beasley. Now, why don't you introduce me to the rest of the staff?"
As he escorted her out of the drawing room, she noticed his smile. It seemed they both got what they wanted out of the interview.
* * * *
At the Covent Garden Market, Serenity and Mrs. Hepplewhite, the cook, were finishing their purchases when a street crier's voice rose above the din of the crowd. He chanted:
"Come, buy my oranges fine
On sweeter ones you'll never dine.
Their price is two for a penny,
Be sure you buy a-plenty!"
Since the purpose of the morning's outing was to visit the famous market specializing in fruits and vegetables, Serenity couldn't resist the lure of fresh oranges. She crossed the dirty street to where the vender stood. A large basket of fruit was at the man's waist, suspended from a rope around his neck. As she approached, he raised his grubby hat.
Returning to Mrs. Hepplewhite's side, Serenity held a satchel of oranges, as well as a small bag of potatoes and some cherries from previous purchases.
"Lawd a-mercy, ma'am! I noticed you was gone b'fore I could stop you. You shoulda waited.” The cook shook her mob-capped head violently. “'Tis a cheaper place not three stalls down. Sellin’ three oranges for a penny. A waste of good money, it is."
The older woman's hands were also full of fresh produce, but somehow she managed to shake a stubby finger at Serenity.
"It doesn't matter, Mrs. H. We've been shopping for three hours already. I know I'm ti
red. Let's go home."
Why hadn't she asked the footman to accompany them? One week into her role as mistress of a townhouse convinced Serenity she was no superwoman. Exhaustion dragged at her feet.
Fortunately the cook agreed to return to Bedford Street. “This is the last market I do me shoppin', ma'am. ‘Tis a wonder you wanted to go to them all. Leadenhall Market yesterday, Thames Street the day b'fore—for cheese, and so on. Stands to reason that you are plumb wore out. No well-bred lady a-goes to these places, Mrs. Steele, as I told you."
Turning the street corner, Mrs. Hepplewhite continued, “I don't usually go out purchasin’ meself. That's the scullery maid's job. But I do admire you, ma'am, for wantin’ to know exactly how hard it is to put a decent meal together—in this town of robbers and thieves. Why, in me home village of Mickleham—"
Serenity had heard all about the advantages of living in southern Mickleham as opposed to London, so she shifted her bundles and interrupted. “Yes, I know. And I do admit being tired. Too bad we didn't hail a hackney carriage, as we did the other days. We can still do so,” she wistfully suggested.
"Lawd a-mercy, why there's Covent's King Street up ahead. And Bedford is right after that,” Mrs. Hepplewhite insisted. “No need to spend good money when the good Lord gave us feet."
Sighing resignedly at her cook's energy, Serenity gave up the idea of resting said feet in a carriage. Only four blocks to go. Four long blocks.
She regretted that her half boots were genuine Regency shoes—no differentiation between left and right. The heelless bottoms also provided no support for extended walks.
You better toughen up, Steele. If Mrs. H., aged fifty-one, can do it, than so can you.
But as soon as she returned to Bedford Street, Serenity promised herself she'd cut down on her activities.
* * * *
From atop his open curricle, Nicholas had a difficult time recognizing the precise Mrs. Steele from under her veneer of street filth. This ... this ragamuffin had the audacity to cause his family a week's worth of anxiety. Zeena had been practically sleepless with worry over the woman's disappearance, and all the while, Serry Steele was here—cavorting with street low-lives. Blast the woman!
Not that he cared a whit about his sister's insomnia, but after Zeena had paid a visit to Twenty-three Bedford Square and discovered Mrs. Steele was not in residence, his sister persistently badgered him to do something. She insisted he find her friend. When two of his immaculate morning coats had been ruined by Zeena's wringing hands and many tears, he felt compelled to take up the search.
On the brink of hiring one of London's Bow Street runners to investigate, a simpler solution had come to him. Instead of lodging at the respectable Bedford Square, perhaps, either by mistake or design, Serry Steele had given the wrong address to the Wycliffes.
So he canvassed every house on Bedford Square, as well as homes on Bedford Place and Bedford Row. He saved unsavory Bedford Street for last.
Looking around at the road's offensive clientele, he curled his lip in disgust. Evidently, the woman had poor taste in domiciles.
He pulled on the reins for a moment to watch her retreating form. “If only Zeena could see her bosom bow now."
Osborne, also sitting in the curricle, commented, “Mrs. Steele is an unusual one, I will grant you that, Brockton. No lady I know of would be performing such a useful task—shopping for food."
Nicholas gave his friend a thoughtful glance, then turned his attention back to Serry Steele. The uneven loping of her walk told him she was experiencing physical pain.
As reluctant as he was to offer assistance—subjecting himself, his friend, and his fine carriage to her dirt, deep down he knew he must.
Resigned to the inevitable, he urged his two animals forward.
* * * *
It took three shouts from the open curricle, slowing its pace to keep in step, for Serenity to realize her name was being called.
"Oh, excuse me!” She flushed at her inattentiveness, and looked up at the occupants of the carriage.
Inwardly, she groaned. Brockton and Osborne! Of all the people in London, why did she have to run into them? Damn. Glancing down at her mud-splattered dress, she grimaced again. What a dowdy sight. But even before starting this excursion at seven in the morning, she was a dowdy sight. When frequenting the lower-class markets, Mrs. H. warned her it wouldn't do to dress as Quality.
Now, three hours later, Serenity was covered in London grime. Somebody from up above must've been looking down on her and laughing.
Squaring her shoulders for courage, she faced the two impeccably dressed gentlemen. “Lord Brockton and Lord Harrison. How nice it is to see you again.” Both men saw through the politeness of her false greeting. Who wouldn't? “May I introduce my cook, Mrs. Hepplewhite?"
From his superior height, Brockton frowned down at her. “I suggest you allow me to drive you home, Mrs. Steele. Wherever the blazes that might be."
At Brockton's harsh tone, Serenity flushed. She avoided looking at him. “I thank you, but no. It's just a short walk.” Her toes protested—four long blocks—but she decided to ignore them.
"Nonsense,” Harrison interjected. Jumping down from the curricle, he said, “Anyone can see you are fagged to death. Here, let me put your bundles in the back, and you can sit with us."
She gave into her toes’ demands and allowed him to relieve her and Mrs. Hepplewhite of their burdens. “If you're sure you don't mind. I realize my clothes are awfully dirty."
Quite an understatement! Brockton's lips twisted. He must've been thinking the same thing.
As the cook continued her way home, Harrison helped Serenity into the carriage. There was barely enough room for her on the bench. She found herself in the embarrassing position of having two handsome gentlemen's thighs pressed firmly against her own. Thankfully, the men pretended not to notice this intimate touching.
For a second, a warm texture of spongy bread deluged her senses. But it was only for a second. She probably was too overloaded with fatigue to register synesthesia ... and to be concerned about the fine powder of dirt drifting over to the men's light-colored trousers.
Serenity took refuge in polite conversation. “I'm surprised to see you two in this area of town. And so early in the morning. Surely you aren't shopping?"
Harrison coughed behind his hand. Was he trying to hide a laugh?
"As it happens,” Brockton said slowly, “we were looking for you."
"Not that we expected to find you at the Market,” Harrison commented. “But I must say, Mrs. Steele, you are full of surprises."
Before Serenity had a chance to reply, Brockton brusquely demanded where, exactly, were they headed?
"Twenty-three Bedford Street. Didn't Lady Zeena give you my address?"
A stony silence was Serenity's answer. Heavens! That was why none of the Wycliffe household paid her a visit yet. Somehow, she must've left the wrong address. The excitable Zeena most likely had assumed her new friend was missing ... or worse.
Oh no! That explained why the toplofty Lord Brockton was driving his stylish curricle down the produce lanes of the Covent Garden Market. He'd never willingly exert himself to interrupt his daily routine—unless persistently nagged to do so. And Zeena could be as persistent as she was loyal.
"I gave the wrong address, didn't I?” She stared at her gloved hands, completely humiliated. “I must go immediately and apologize to Lady Zeena."
As difficult as it was to do, she had to apologize to him as well. “Um, I'm also so very sorry for inconveniencing you."
"May I suggest you change your clothes before you go calling, Mrs. Steele?” Brockton stopped his horses in front of number Twenty-three. “Lord knows, you are unpredictable enough to head out to Rotterham House just as you are."
"Doing it too brown, Brockton,” Harrison admonished. He helped Serenity alight, and walked a pace with her to the brick townhouse.
"Don't pay any heed to Brockton, Mrs. Steele. He is
just bluedeviled at rising so early in the morning. Knowing Lady Zeena, it is very likely she misunderstood your words. Never fear, when you visit Lady Rotterham this afternoon, all will be well."
A sting of tears blurred her vision, and she thanked Osborne for his kindness and reassurance. When he patted her hands, she heard Brockton mumble something—in all likelihood, something unflattering.
Saying her good-byes, she hurried inside the townhouse.
* * * *
"I must pull myself together. I must!” In a fit of anger, Serenity stomped around her bedchamber, her gown swishing behind her. “Here I am, an associate director for the prestigious United Anthropological Institute, on a plum assignment, and I'm behaving as a perfect fool ... or ninnyhammer—whatever. Oh, damn it all!"
She'd almost broken down and cried outside the townhouse. Now her emotions threatened to overcome her again before visiting Zeena. She had to get herself back on an even keel. How could she have been so stupid, giving the wrong address?
Now spotless in a gingham striped round gown, Serenity looked at her pale face, and pinched her cheeks for color. That done, she rushed over to Rotterham House to apologize.
The Marchioness and Zeena would have none of it. They sat in the Gold Salon, deflecting the blame from her, and shifting it onto the butler.
"It is likely Rawlins misunderstood you, Serry,” Lady Rotterham said. “You do have a bit of an accent. The North country, I presume. At times Rawlins has been known to be deaf."
An occupational requirement, Serenity thought in the butler's defense. Again, she tried to shoulder the blame, but found herself invited to the Duke and Duchess of Lyndon's ball, instead.
"I have been beside myself, wanting to give you the news. It is tomorrow night,” Zeena bubbled, her anxiety all but forgotten. “It will be the first ball of the season. Everyone will be there. Even Lord Byron is planning to attend."
"Zeena!” The Marchioness was scandalized. “You have not formed a tendre for him, have you? Zeena, he is only a baron, though all the rage, I must admit. But he is also the subject of numerous on-dits around town. Especially since his name is linked with that indiscreet Lady Caroline Lamb. And they just met—at a waltzing-party—only a few days ago."
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