by Esther Hatch
Some other place? And four shillings a week? It was nothing. Surely hiring one more maid wouldn’t be any trouble for General Woodsworth. Oh, this was ridiculous. If a person wanted to clean out fireplaces or help ladies get dressed, it seemed like someone would let them.
Mrs. Bates placed her hand back on the door, and as it started to swing shut, Patience stepped forward and halfway into the home. “I don’t need the four shillings.”
“We don’t need more servants.” The housekeeper frowned.
“I’ll do it for one. One shilling a week.” The amount of money made no difference to her. What she wanted was the work. She would have agreed to do it for free, but that may have made the housekeeper more suspicious.
“Maids don’t make only a shilling a week. General Woodsworth wouldn’t allow us to undercut those in his employ.”
A well-dressed older man walked into the kitchen.
“Mrs. Bates—” he began just before noticing Patience. “Who is this?”
“Another relative of one of the general’s men looking for work.”
The man, clearly the butler, nodded but didn’t interfere. Instead he motioned for Mrs. Bates to continue.
Mrs. Bates didn’t say anything, so Patience took that as her cue to continue to plead her case. “So don’t undercut me. I’ll undercut my work. One day off a week and evenings off as well. If you like the work I do—” Patience was quite sure she wouldn’t; she had no more idea how to do housework than she did to fish for spiny eels, but at least she might get a chance to try.
The housekeeper was stroking her cheeks with her hand in thought. “Evenings off? And one day off every week in exchange for a fourth of the pay?”
“And a place to stay. I will need a place to stay.”
“Of course.” The housekeeper wasn’t looking at her any longer. Instead she looked over her shoulder and behind her toward the butler. Was she considering it?
“How do you know the general, again?”
“My brother served under him.”
“And who is your brother?”
Oh dear. She could hardly say, His Grace, Nicholas Kendrick, Duke of Harrington. Nor could she lie. She never had been any good at it. Her eye always twitched and her fingers shook if she lied. By the age of twelve, she had decided to give up the practice. She sometimes twisted the truth a bit, but she never lied.
That meant only one thing: it was time to twist the truth.
Patience pulled at one tight ringlet that had fallen loose from the knot at the back of her head. “My brother was a good soldier, although it probably took him a while to catch on to what was expected of him.”
“A name. I need a name if you expect us to hire you on the spot.”
She needed a name? That she could provide.
I’m sorry, Mr. Young, to use you so shamelessly.
“Donald Young. He fell at Kabul, but he was a fine man. One who would have gone far had he been allowed to live, and he would have vouched for me.” Donald Young was the only man who had been comfortable enough around her brother to call him a friend. Before Mr. Young left for Kabul, he had visited their home and was one of the nicest men Patience had ever met. While in training, Nicholas’s letters had been full of him, until Mr. Young had died. He would have helped her; of that she was certain. Patience’s hands didn’t shake—she hadn’t lied. Not outright.
The housekeeper’s face softened. She took a deep breath and straightened. The shadow that had crossed her face disappeared.
“This household lost a son in Kabul as well. And although the casualties are nothing like the wars when I was young, when it is your casualty, it is different, isn’t it? Still, we haven’t room for another servant.”
“What about Doris’s room?” The butler asked, still on the other side of the room. “She will be with her family for at least three months.”
“We don’t know that. What if she returns sooner?”
“Then we can deal with it then. If the sister of one of General Woodsworth’s men needs work, we can provide work.”
Mrs. Bated sighed but then nodded. “All right, Miss Young, and what is your name?”
Oh dear. She hadn’t thought the details through very well. How many half-truths would she need to tell every day just to maintain this charade? “Patience,” she said, even though perhaps she shouldn’t have. It was a lot harder to twist the truth of one’s own name. And it was one less misunderstanding she would need to keep track of.
“Patience,” said the housekeeper. “I am Mrs. Bates. This is Mr. Gilbert. We run a very tight household. I will expect work done on time and done well. Do you understand? No matter how cheap you come, you will be expected to work as hard as anyone else here. You traded that money for time off, not for an easier workload while you are expected to be working.”
Patience nodded, biting the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. It had worked. Despite the thousand times she’d told herself her plan would never work, it had.
“We won’t be paying you less than you deserve.” Mr. Gilbert was looking kinder every minute. “You will get four shillings a week, and if you need time off, you will let us know.” Mr. Gilbert smiled, and the white of his hair rose above his ears.
“Thank you, Mr. Gilbert.” The pleasant butler would be remembered in her prayers.
He only nodded. “Mrs. Bates, I had come to speak to you of the fruit stores, but I will return later after you acquaint Patience with her duties.” He turned and left the room.
Mrs. Bates nodded, but once he was out of earshot, she muttered under her breath. “Time off. I never get time off. Doris gets time off, a new maid off the street gets time off, but I would like to see him try and do without my services for a night or two.”
“Pardon?” Patience asked.
“Nothing,” Mrs. Bates huffed. “Don’t ask for nights off if you expect to keep your position.”
“Yes, ma’am.” There wasn’t anything Patience needed to do anyway. Staying in this household was the smartest of decisions, as it was. Straying from the house could result in any manner of unpleasantness, such as encountering someone she knew.
“Tell me why you are so scratched up,” Mrs. Bates said.
“I had a little trouble getting through the bushes to find the back entrance is all. Perhaps it is time General Woodsworth had some of his hedges trimmed.”
Mrs. Bates’s frown produced deep lines below her mouth. “Where exactly did you come through the bushes?”
“To the side of the house. I almost went to the front door,” Patience admitted, and Mrs. Bates gasped. “But I didn’t,” she added quickly. “It’s just that I couldn’t find the path. That passage through the bushes is a little tight; I’m surprised General Woodsworth would make his servants come that way.” And how would Mrs. Bates fit? Patience was quite slender and still managed to have a few marks to show.
In answer, Mrs. Bates strode back to the door and opened it. Patience followed her, and Mrs. Bates pointed to the left side of the house. “We come in through the side road.” At that moment, a man carrying a bundle of firewood entered the garden from a road adjacent to the home and dropped his load in a wood pile.
A side road.
Why hadn’t she thought of that? The home was situated on a corner, and if she had just followed the road to the side of the home a bit farther, she would have seen this entrance. Patience’s neck grew hot. Of course people wouldn’t be asked to climb through bushes every time they went in and out of the house. What had she been thinking? Mrs. Bates closed the door. “I trust you will use that pathway from now on and not find yourself clamoring through General Woodsworth’s bushes any longer.”
She straightened her back. She might not know how to do any housework, but she would be able to do that. “Of course.”
“Good. Well then, let’s get you to work. Wash that mud
off your boots. It’s time for the wardrobes and dressers to be polished.”
Chapter 3
Anthony Woodsworth ran over the numbers one more time before placing the final monthly expenditure down on the bottom line. It was good. Ever since investing in the railroad, it had been very good. Next month would be different after purchasing the estate in Kent. A new estate always meant several months of expenditures would be much higher than income. He hated when the numbers lined up that way, but the estate in Kent would be worth it. This land might be the final piece in the puzzle that would allow Mr. and Mrs. Morgan to finally approve him for their daughter’s hand.
Two years. Surely two years of courting should be enough to allow an engagement.
He folded the three sheets of paper in thirds, always measuring twice before creasing it firmly between his thumb and the desk. Opening the drawer to his left, he reached in without looking to retrieve his sealing wax. Father would want to see these numbers. His fingers fumbled in the desk until he took the time to glance in the drawer. His wax was missing. His hand stilled. Who had been moving his things? He never allowed his personal items to be misplaced. Everything in his study had a place, and they remained there unless in use.
He slid back, his chair grating against the floor. He would have to use the wax in the library. After sending off this letter, he would be sure to speak with Mrs. Bates about the servants handling his things. Such carelessness had cost him at least three minutes of time.
He crossed the hall and opened the door to the library. A flutter of frantic movement greeted him from the direction of the curtains. They billowed out and then closed as if someone had run behind them. Certainly enough, a pair of boots poked out from under the heavy damask fabric his mother had picked out years before her death. Who would be hiding from him? And in such a ridiculous location? The woman, for based on the size of the feet inside of the black boots—
Anthony narrowed his eyes and stepped forward. He had seen those boots before.
They were a simple black leather, but the buckles were set in a unique manner, offset and further to the outside than was common. The nearly black leather had hints of burgundy smattered about. Miss Morgan had fawned over those boots at one of the finest shops in town last week. She must have convinced the cobbler to sell them to her after all. She had offered him an exorbitant price. Anthony was not surprised he finally agreed.
His chest swelled, and the stress of a morning filled with tight finances finally seeped away.
Miss Morgan was here, in his library.
Alone.
His hand trembled slightly. He stepped slowly and carefully in her direction. She must be nervous if she had opted to hide from him. A small smile grew on his lips. After two years of persistence and steadfastness, he had finally won her over. Her parents must have agreed to the match, and then she’d rushed over to tell him.
Nothing would stop him from reaching for her now—
A flash of red caught his eye. Was that his red block of wax on the side table? It was significantly smaller than it should have been, and red, streaky wax coated the top of the table. What the devil? He snatched up the wax and then rubbed his finger on the mess that had been left behind on the century-old wood. What exactly was going on here?
A rustle of fabric behind the curtain snapped him out of his confusion. Bother his wax, Miss Morgan was waiting for him. What was the proper reaction when the woman he had been pursuing for two years finally reached out to him?
First, he shouldn’t make her nervous. He would approach slowly and cautiously. Second, he would speak to her softly and let her know he could be trusted to be a gentleman no matter the situation. And finally . . . finally, he would propose. The property in Kent would no longer be a financial burden. His father would at last see him do something he would be proud of. The Woodsworth name would be elevated, not even remotely like the way his father had elevated it, but it would be elevated nonetheless by his marriage to Miss Morgan. After all, her cousin was the Duke of Penramble. His holdings were so vast in London that society had practically forgotten about the duke’s Scottish titles. Titles that would eventually pass to the Morgan family. As long as the duke never had children.
The Woodsworth name would no longer be common. It was everything his father had ever wished for.
He reached the curtain and tried to pull it back with a flourish. But it was stuck. Delicate white fingers held the thick material fast.
Miss Morgan—shy? She had never been so before. But she had never been given permission to marry him before either. And he could think of no other reason she would be visiting him unless this was the case.
“Miss Morgan?”
There was a rustle of fabric just below his chin. Although he couldn’t see it, she was shaking her head.
“Miss Morgan, come out. I’m pleased you are here. You must know how pleased. There is no reason to be reticent.” He placed his hand over the one of hers still holding the fabric of the curtains tight around her. Her skin was delicate and soft, the fingernails smooth and . . . He rubbed the side of her forefinger. There was a substance there . . . wax? A stain of red was under each of her fingernails. What had Miss Morgan been doing with his wax on the table?
“Enough, come out.”
“No.” Her voice was muffled. And defiant. Miss Morgan usually simpered or laughed. Defiance wasn’t really part of her nature.
“How am I to propose to you if you don’t come out?”
“You aren’t. Just go away.”
“Go away? When you have come into my home for the first time unexpectedly?” He reached around the curtain and slid his hand around her wrist. Should he kneel? Had he heard that somewhere? Frankly, he had never imagined proposing while Miss Morgan stood behind a curtain. Lately he had begun to wonder if he would ever be allowed to propose at all. They had seemed to be at an impasse, and the only thing he could think to make his suit more desirable was to buy that land in Kent.
But she had come on her own, without knowing about the purchase of the Kent property. He had finally won her heart.
He knelt.
Her hand stayed where it was, which put him in the awkward position of kneeling with his hands stretched above his head in order to reach her.
“Miss Morgan—”
The curtain shook again rapidly, and she tried to pull her hand out of his, but he held firm. Two years. Two years of courting, and finally he would do something to make his father proud. No curtain would stop him now. “Will you consent to be my—”
“No!” came a shout behind the curtain. The hand loosened its hold on the material and finally let it drop away from her. Light shone from the window behind her, making her auburn curls look as if they were on fire.
He leapt to his feet and dropped her hand. Before him stood a beautiful young woman. But even if she was beautiful, one thing was for certain: she was not Miss Morgan. He had seen that thin nose, those sweeping, dramatic eyebrows, and that wide mouth just earlier today. Had Mrs. Bates actually hired the woman? He wouldn’t have thought she could have made it in the door with her ill-fitting clothes and unconventional ways of getting into a garden. He straightened his back and pulled on his sleeves. It would seem he wouldn’t be proposing to Miss Morgan today after all.
***
The man who had nearly proposed to her stood like a soldier, even though he wasn’t wearing a uniform. “Who are you?”
Patience swallowed. She needed time to think. What were the chances she would run into this same man both times she was being ridiculous today? She had no idea how to polish furniture. She had thought it had something to do with wax, and the only wax she had used in the past was sealing wax. She had found some, but the awful mess had made her certain she was doing it wrong.
“And where did you get those boots?”
“My boots?” What did her boots have to do with
anything?
“Those belong to Miss Morgan.”
“They do not.” These shoes were a present from her brother, and he’d assured her that there were no others like them in all of London. The cobbler had been so proud of the workmanship that he had displayed them in his window for two days before delivering them to her home. “I don’t know who this Miss Morgan is, but I assure you, she doesn’t own a pair of boots like these.”
The man seemed to finally take in her appearance. She stood to her full height. She wasn’t tall but neither was she short. She knew she must look a wreck, with scratches on her face and that infernal wax all over her hands. How exactly did one polish furniture? She hadn’t wanted to ask. Her cap hadn’t managed to keep her curls contained, and so at one point, she had taken it off her head and tried to rub the wax into the wood with it, using it like a rag. She was about to give up and finally ask Mrs. Bates what she was doing wrong when this man had walked in.
“Why wouldn’t Miss Morgan own a pair of shoes like those when a maid has them?”
Oh dear. He had a point. She didn’t know who this Miss Morgan was, but she did know how society worked. “Does Miss Morgan strike you as the kind of woman who would wear the same shoes as a maid?” She hoped this man wasn’t too up on his fashion. These were obviously high-quality boots, which was why she had muddied them up. She hadn’t counted on Mrs. Bates making her clean them. At home she would have just changed into slippers. But she hadn’t brought slippers—only the boots on her feet.
He eyed the boots once again and then pursed his lips together. “No, she definitely does not. Miss Morgan is very particular and has very high taste in fashion.”
“But she doesn’t mind you proposing to any maid who passes your fancy?”
“You don’t pass my fancy. I thought you were Miss Morgan.” His face started to turn a bit red. Not with embarrassment. No, he wasn’t embarrassed. Based on the set of his jaw, he was frustrated.
“I will let that disparagement of my figure and features go unnoted.”
