A Proper Charade

by Esther Hatch

  His face was stern as he berated any employer that would treat Patience exactly as he had treated her.

  “So what should a maid do if she were in a situation where her employer asked her to pretend to be a lady?”

  “No other employer would ask that. It is preposterous.”

  “So only in the Woodsworth household should I expect such treatment?”

  “No.” He folded his neat list and replaced it in his pocket. Then he picked up the grate and dumped the cold coals into the bucket in one quick motion. “Emptying coals is not part of building up a fire. I think you have established that you can pull them out one by one if the occasion calls for it. Now, tell me how you think you should start the fire.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me anything else about the men?”

  “I had no idea you had set your sights so high. I only prepared mere misters for you. It is a miracle you deigned to work here in this household.”

  “Well, in your household’s defense, your father isn’t a mister either. He is a general, and other than Wellington, he is the most respected general in all of Great Britain.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t try Wellington’s household first. He isn’t only a general but a duke. Not to mention former prime minister and current commander in chief.”

  “What makes you so certain I didn’t?” Patience asked him.

  He stood straighter. “For your information, my father has never had the benefit of coming from a good family. Wellington bought a commission in the army. He started one leg up. My father only gained a position because of his brute strength. Fortunately, once the army had him, they took note of his keen mind.”

  He was quite defensive. It wasn’t as if everyone could be Wellington. Although General Woodsworth did seem to be as close as a person could get. “Your father’s house was the only household I wanted to work in, and I was very fortunate to obtain work here.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “You know I don’t lie.”

  He finally nodded. “I know. I suppose it is a tender spot in this household. My father respects Wellington, of course he does. But he has always wondered what he could have achieved if his own family hadn’t been quite so common.”

  General Woodsworth was the only general she could think of that didn’t start his career by buying a commission. “Is that why you are so bound and determined to marry well?”

  He gave her a sad smile and then pointed to the fireplace. It looked as though she would get no answers from him today.

  She placed her hands on her hips. How hard could it be to light a fire? “I was planning on putting the kindling down first,” Patience said. “Then the wood and coal on top of that.”

  “And how were you going to light it?”

  “With a candle from the hallway. Although I know Cook has some lucifer matches in the kitchen. I’ve never lit one though, and truthfully, they scare me a little.”

  “A candle is a much safer option. The sparks from a lucifer are never very predictable, and the last thing we want is for you to catch your dress on fire.”

  She laid the kindling in the bottom of the grate while he pulled up a chair from near the pianoforte and sat down, watching her. Next she piled on a few pieces of wood. It was a simple thing, lighting a fire, and yet she felt quite powerful building it herself. She reached for the coal and laid it on top of the wood, always aware of Mr. Woodsworth’s eyes on her. When everything looked quite ready, she stood and smiled. Mr. Woodsworth smiled back at her. She must have done it right.

  “Go get your candle.”

  She walked out the door and fetched one of the candles that lit the hallway, then came back in. Not wanting to be distracted by his smile, she didn’t look at him. She put the candle just below the kindling and squealed softly with delight when it burst into a small flame.

  She turned in triumph, now ready for Mr. Woodsworth’s rare smile.

  But he wasn’t smiling. Instead he was watching her small flame. He pointed with his chin for her to turn and look at it as well. It was still burning, but not quite as bright as before. Only the outside edges of the kindling had burned, and everything under the wood was still intact. A few seconds more and her flame became nothing but a pale blue line. Then it disappeared completely.

  She lowered her head and groaned. “What did I do wrong?”

  He just shrugged his shoulder. “I thought you wanted to do it yourself.”

  “I do,” Patience said. Mr. Woodsworth was quick to go back and forth between being helpful and being the most infuriating man she knew. “You obviously knew that wasn’t right. Why did you let me do it?”

  “You had just told me you wanted to do it yourself.”

  “And I also told you I would tell you of my plan so you could correct me if I was wrong.”

  “I wouldn’t say what you did was wrong.”

  “But you wouldn’t say it was right either.”

  “You have it very close, actually. And I’m confident you will figure it out without my help. Any maid with a knowledge of Thucydides can manage a fire.”

  Ah, so that is why he had looked at her strangely earlier. A maid most likely wouldn’t have read that tome. Of course, neither would most ladies. She tried to think back to the few times she had seen the servants light fires. Or even here, when she had added coals to an already burning fire. In all her times of watching, she had never seen the coals added until the fire was already going. “Maybe if I added the coals later?”

  Mr. Woodsworth smiled and nodded. “Why do you think that is?”

  “I honestly have no idea. But if you tell me, I promise not to forget, and I will be able to do it completely on my own next time.”

  Mr. Woodsworth stood and strode over to Patience. He lifted her left arm and slid off her dirty work glove, leaving her with only her right one. He didn’t put his hand inside the glove—it was much too big for that—but instead used the glove like a cloth to pick up the top coals and place them back into her bucket. Patience watched him. Not moving, barely breathing. Her hand tingled where his hand had slid down it while removing her glove. Mr. Woodsworth was far too comfortable with her.

  “Are you really going to make me do the job for you? I understand I am only a mister, but surely I still demand some respect.”

  She shook her head. “Of course not.” She jumped forward, with the one glove she had left, knelt down next to Mr. Woodsworth, and began removing the coals as quickly as she could. Each time he leaned forward to reach a piece of coal, his arm slid along hers. Then he would lean back and reach behind her waist to deposit the coal in the bucket. Why hadn’t she knelt to the other side of him? Of course, then she would have been the one reaching over him. She focused on controlling her breathing as his arm once again curled behind her, this time mere inches from running across the ties in her apron.

  Why was he not affected by her nearness? Because she was a maid? They were halfway done removing the coals when she couldn’t handle his nearness any longer. She could see the faint traces of stubble on his chin, for heaven’s sake. “Why not just dump them out like you did last time?” she asked.

  “Because you have done an excellent job laying the kindling, and if we dumped everything out, it would become quite a mess. The wood just needs to be moved about a bit to add more air to the fire.”

  “So I did that right?”

  “You did that right, save one small thing.” He placed the final piece of coal in the bucket and stood.

  She rose as well. It was the perfect opportunity to step away from Mr. Woodsworth—a lady shouldn’t be examining a gentleman’s chin as thoroughly as she was—but she didn’t. Other than dancing and playing with Harry and Augusta, she hadn’t been this close to a person since Mama went to Paris. “I suffocated it.” He was only inches from her. “Everything was too close together, so the fire couldn’
t breathe.”

  “That’s right.” He motioned for her bare hand, and she held it out. He slipped the thick glove back on her hand without noticing that he was having the same effect on her as the tightly packed wood had on the fire. He went back to his chair and sat down. “Now, try again.”

  Patience was determined not to fail a second time. She looked into the grate. The wood was still stacked fairly tightly on top of the kindling. She lifted out each piece and fluffed out the small slivers of wood and bits of cotton that had been set out for kindling. She placed the wood back over it, this time laying it at different angles so it would be able to breathe. Reaching for the candle she had placed on the mantle, she turned and raised an eyebrow at Mr. Woodsworth. He gave her a short but affirmative nod.

  This time when the kindling took to flame, she didn’t squeal. She watched. Slowly the fire built and grew until she saw some of the wood smoke and flame.

  “Now should I add the coal?” she asked.

  The flames of her fire reflected in his eyes, but he didn’t answer her.

  It was still such a small fire. “I think I should wait a little longer.”

  “I think so too.”

  Patience bent low and watched as the fire caught more and more of the wood. The kindling was gone, leaving only the low burn of the thin logs. Flames lowered and lowered until they were barely there. “What am I missing? It was burning so well only a moment ago.”

  “There are only three things a fire needs.” Mr. Woodsworth lifted a finger. “A flame or spark.”

  “I have that.”

  He raised a second finger. “Something to burn.”

  “I have that as well.” Patience tried to remain calm, but her fire was quickly burning down to nothing.

  “Then it must be the final thing.”

  “What is it?” Mr. Woodsworth’s calm exterior had never been more frustrating. Didn’t he know a catastrophe when he saw it?

  “You already know what it is.”

  “It needs to breathe.” Patience fanned her hands back and forth, trying to get more air to her tiny fire. Images of servants using a bellows to help get coals back to life flashed through her mind. There were no bellows in this room. She knelt down, careful to tuck her skirt under her knees and away from the flame. Leaning forward, she blew softy. The fire needed air, but she didn’t want to blow out what little flame was left.

  Mr. Woodsworth was suddenly next to her. He must have removed his jacket while she was putting forth her measly efforts to fan the flame. His thick frame took up most of the space in front of the fireplace. He leaned forward and blew powerfully into her little pile of wood. The reaction was instantaneous. Flames jumped upward and so did a little flutter in her stomach. He was once again so very close. Leaning forward with his face lit by the fire, the lines around his mouth and eyes deepened into shadow, but they didn’t make him scary or unpleasant. He was handsome. More than handsome. How had she not noticed before? Even without his beautiful smile, the character in his face drew her in like the fire stole her breath.

  “Come now, you try it.” His shoulder was touching hers, and the heat from his body warmed her more than the heat from the fire did. She leaned forward, and the sleeve of her dress slid away from his arm. Again she was taken aback at how completely unaffected Mr. Woodsworth was whenever he was alone with her. She, on the other hand, had gone from not considering Mr. Woodsworth’s looks at all to suddenly finding him strikingly handsome.

  She blew as hard as she could into the fire, and once again, it leapt. They took turns then. He would lean forward and blow on his side, then she would blow on hers. After less than a minute, their fire was strong, and they both sat back on their heels.

  “Thank you.” She was out of breath. Hopefully Mr. Woodsworth would blame that solely on their efforts to keep the fire going. “I believe it is burning now.”

  “No need to thank me. You did most of the work.” He stood and reached for his jacket. Her eyes froze as his broad shoulders and thick arms slipped into his sleeves in one effortless, smooth motion. “Next time it will be no trouble at all for you.”

  “Why are you so proficient at building fires? Surely the servants do it for you.” One side of his mouth twitched at her question. “I mean your other servants, the ones who aren’t so . . .”

  “Unruly?”

  “Yes.” Unruly was better than incompetent. Or at least she hoped. He hadn’t seemed to mind it with his niece and nephew, anyway.

  “My father never grew up with servants, and he worried about his family not knowing how to take care of themselves. His situation changed so drastically over the course of his lifetime. I believe he feels like that could happen to anyone and in any direction. I suppose he didn’t want me to be useless.”

  “Like me.”

  “No,” he said, brushing off some nonexistent lint from his jacket. “You just built a marvelous fire. Sophia’s children are already happier with you than they have been with any of their nursemaids, and you have given up your time and comfort in order to help me procure a bride. Indeed, I don’t think this household has seen anyone more useful cross its threshold since my father left.”

  Patience placed a hand to her stomach. She searched his face for any sign of jest. But he was, as always, sincere. “Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

  He frowned a little. “I would think a servant would be used to being useful.”

  “You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Patience replied. Mr. Woodsworth thought her useful. It had been a good choice to help him, even if she did have a slight risk of exposure. The next time her brother claimed that she was useless, she could bring up this conversation with the son of one of his heroes.

  “I don’t think there will be very many more reasons for you to dress up as a lady. If Miss Morgan’s plan doesn’t work within a fortnight, I believe we can assume it won’t work at all, and you will be free to go back to your normal duties. But if, for any reason, you don’t feel like you can continue, please inform me at any point, and we will form an alternate plan. I never want you to feel like you have no choice in the matter.”

  Did she want to stop? The pleasant orange of the flame reflected in Mr. Woodsworth’s eyes. Since she had come into this house, she had learned how to sweep, clean out grates, polish silver, and now build a fire. Those were useful skills. She had learned to be useful. Still, all of those things could be done by any number of maids. They were being done before she arrived here, and they would be done after she left. But helping Mr. Woodsworth with his plan? That was something only she could do. Mr. Woodsworth was relying on her, and she would not let him down. “I’d like to continue to help.”

  “Good.” He took a deep breath. “I know I owe you a report on three men as per our agreement. I will find you when I have gathered information on three that fit your criteria.”

  “May I add one more trait to that list of criteria?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Don’t worry about informing me about the frivolous lords. I think I should like to know about the more serious ones.”

  Patience thought he might find her request odd, but if he did, he didn’t show it. He just nodded. Then, with a pointed look at the coal still in the bucket, he strode out of the room.

  The fire was still burning strong, but if she didn’t add the coal soon, it would go out once again. She dashed over to the bucket and carefully dropped in the coals one by one until the grate was filled. She would never build another fire, or even bank a fire, without thinking of Mr. Woodsworth and how he had knelt down next to her and blown on her faltering flames in that calm and steady way of his. For the first time since becoming a maid, she felt as though perhaps she wouldn’t always need Mr. Gilbert to make excuses for her. And when it came time to return home, she wouldn’t miss polishing furniture or sweeping floors, but she would m
iss building fires. She watched the blue and orange flames begin to engulf the black of the coal. It was beautiful and satisfying, and she had created it.

  She had almost three weeks left to prove herself to Mr. Woodsworth, not just as a maid but as an accomplice in his plan. He would be able to write a glowing recommendation for her brother to read. She had one slight mishap with Lord Bryant being at the Simpsons’ ball, but what were the chances he would be at their next social gathering? Slim to none. From now on, pretending to be a maid who was pretending to be a lady would be simple.

  Chapter 10

  Anthony shuffled closer to Miss Morgan while pretending to have an interest in the shelf full of gloves. He had received a note from her the day before, not long after he had finished helping Patience start her first fire.

  Secret notes and clandestine meetings. Their courtship was most certainly taking a turn for the better.

  The modiste shop was busy with only two months left before the Season started. Many of the ton were putting in orders for new gowns and hats. Miss Morgan’s aunt was busy examining a bolt of fabric on the other side of the crowded room, and with a wall of fabric between them, Anthony hoped they could converse without anyone noticing.

  “I have discovered where Lord Bryant will be next.” Miss Morgan didn’t look at him but instead lifted a red ribbon high in the air and examined it in the sunlight shining through the window.

  “How do you manage to find out these things?” He stepped to one side so he could examine a row of hats.

  “Once you study the man a bit, he is easy to trace. His current passion is a young daughter of a vicar.”

  “A vicar? Has the man no shame?”

  “My only question is how long the young woman can resist him. He is quite charming.”

  “And has he managed to charm you?” He snuck a quick glance at the woman he hoped to marry. The red ribbon was no longer being inspected. Instead she balled it up into her fist and clenched it hard enough that he would need to return and purchase it after she left. It would be terribly wrinkled.