by Anne Stuart
CHAPTER FOUR
BY THE TIME MADDY arrived at the captain’s house on North Water Street she had regained her composure, even if she couldn’t quite forget what his mouth had been like. It wasn’t like her to let any man fluster her, and unless she made the very foolish habit of wandering the back alleyways near the docks she was unlikely to run into him again. She couldn’t quite place him socially. One of the men had referred to him as “captain,” but it was more likely a generic term of respect for power, which the stranger clearly had. The ships’ captains she’d met, and there had been many of them, were always impeccably dressed, whether in uniform or day clothes. Perhaps this man was a first mate or a quartermaster—something a little higher up than an ordinary seaman.
She shook herself. She had to hope her father’s captains hadn’t hired any foul creatures like the three who’d attacked her. But had her enigmatic rescuer ever sailed on her father’s ships? It was a disturbing possibility.
It didn’t matter. Her father had no ships—his empire was torn apart, the ships sold off one by one, including the one that bore her name. She needed to forget the rude stranger and his shocking kiss. She would never see him again; no one would ever kiss her like that again. When she found her wealthy, titled husband she would never allow him such liberties.
But still…
She straightened her shoulders, determinedly dismissing the stranger and his mouth, and stared at her destination, the place she would call home for the next few weeks.
It was a narrow terrace house, painted blue, with a ship’s flag flying from a post near the front door. She looked up at the windows and sighed. They were dirty, and she had a sinking feeling she knew who was going to be cleaning them. She shifted her valise to her other hand.
It was a blessing that Mrs. Beeton’s Guide to Household Management had gone into its second edition. Inside that heavy tome was everything she ever needed to know about the duties of a maid and the arcane details of housekeeping. She knew how to clean a grate and set a fire, wash windows and sweep, make beds and iron sheets. Nanny Gruen had seen to it, at Maddy’s insistence. She had no intention of living a life where these skills were required, but once she married her viscount or duke she would be a better mistress of the household if she understood the details of the tasks required.
The front steps needed scrubbing as well—wayward seagulls had left their calling card. She sighed, hefted her valise, and started down the basement stairs next to the front entrance. Maddy Russell was gone. Mary Greaves was now onstage, and she had no intention of fumbling her lines.
She knocked politely on the door, setting her bag down, and waited. It took less than a moment for a thin, sour-faced woman to swing the door open, eyeing her up and down.
“You must be Mr. Fulton’s young lady,” the woman said in dubious tones.
Maddy kept her head lowered just slightly. If they were dogs she’d be cringing at a lower level, letting the woman have dominance. Unfortunately at five foot seven Maddy stood taller than most women and a great deal of men as well, so she was immediately at a disadvantage in the act of appearing humble.
“I’m Mary Greaves, missus,” she said. She’d decided on a bit of a Northern accent. She’d never been terribly good at accents during their childhood theatrical endeavors, but a cross between Lancashire and Yorkshire would do her well. Irish would be easier, but that carried with it all sorts of trouble, and plain English kept things simpler.
“Well, come in, girl. No need to shilly-shally out there in the cold, and freeze us all,” the old woman muttered.
Maddy walked in, standing in place when she longed to sit. It had been a longer walk than she’d expected, not to mention her unsettling encounter, and her feet hurt despite the comfortable shoes. She was going to have to build up her stamina, and fast, if she was going to succeed at this deception.
The kitchen, at least, seemed cleaner than the front of the house. The wide table in the center had only four chairs around it, and the stove was putting out vast, welcome amounts of heat. It had felt a great deal colder with the brisk wind off the ocean, and Maddy surreptitiously moved a little closer to it.
“I suppose you ought to sit down,” the woman said grudgingly, and Maddy didn’t wait for a second invitation.
The housekeeper was a thin woman with a beaky nose, sharp eyes, and a narrow mouth, but it took more than a crabby nature to intimidate Maddy.
“You’re too pretty,” the woman announced in a flat voice, taking the seat opposite her. “That’s never a good thing in a household, but fortunately my Wilf is the only other male here and he’s too old to even notice.”
Maddy was about to ask about the aging sea captain, then realized he must be even older than Mrs. Crozier’s husband. That, or in the world of the serving classes the master wasn’t considered a viable male.
She ducked her head, trying to shield her face. “I’m a hard worker, Mrs. Crozier.”
“You’d best be, or you’ll have no place here,” Mrs. Crozier warned. “We’ve been understaffed for too long, and there’s only so much I can keep up with in a place this size. Captain Morgan doesn’t pay attention to the household—he’d rather be at sea, and he looks at this place like a hotel. But he’s getting married and the new mistress isn’t going to accept such slovenly lack of attention to details.”
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.” It seemed the most likely response, instead of the “indeed?” that almost popped out.
“There are four rooms on the ground floor—the kitchen, scullery, laundry room, and Wilf’s and my quarters. On the first floor are Captain Morgan’s study, a large salon, and a dining room. On the second are four bedrooms, one for the captain and the other three unoccupied. There’s also a modern bathing room. You’ll be sleeping in the attics. No one’s been up there in a while so you’d best allow yourself enough time to make a habitable space for yourself.”
“So the only members of the household are the captain and the three servants?”
“Oh, we have another member of the household: Mr. Quarrells. He was at sea with the captain, and he serves as his secretary, best friend, and business partner. He lives in the apartments over the stables, back in the mews. He’s a formidable man, is Mr. Quarrells, but you shouldn’t have any trouble with him as long as you do your duty and don’t ask too many questions.”
That was a direct answer to her previous, impertinent question. If Mrs. Crozier thought she’d ended up with a complacent, well-behaved servant she was due for an unhappy surprise. Asking questions was one of Maddy’s main occupations in this dank old house, in between searching every space she could find.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said politely. “And when is the captain planning to marry?”
“I imagine by summer. I suppose it’s possible Miss Haviland will insist he sell this place and buy something fancier. A very pretty, very determined young woman is Miss Haviland, and she’s used to getting what she wants. They haven’t called the banns yet, so I imagine there’s still time.”
“Time for what?”
Mrs. Crozier eyed her grimly. “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you? That doesn’t concern you. All you need to know is I’m in charge, and you’re to keep out of the captain’s way. In fact, don’t even go into the captain’s study without me. I don’t know where the term shipshape came from, but it certainly don’t apply to Captain Morgan. He says he has his own way of organizing but many the times I’ve heard him cursing and throwing things while he searches for something. Looks like a rat’s nest to me, but he says he knows where everything is, and if I so much as dusted it would disturb his careful arrangements.”
Clearly getting into the captain’s study should be her first order of business. “Yes, Mrs. Crozier,” she said meekly. That seemed to be the obvious response to most things. She was a servant, she reminded herself, and at the bottom of the pecking order, just one step above the boots. Which reminded her… “What are my duties?” she asked, trying to keep her voice
humble.
Mrs. Crozier bristled. All right, not humble enough. “Anything I tell you to do. You’ve been hired, against my will, I might add, as a maid of all work, which means you’ll do exactly that. All that I can think of.”
“Against your will? Didn’t you want more help?” Another question, but this time Mrs. Crozier’s flat black eyes met hers straight on.
“Of course I want help. Any fool would. But I’m the housekeeper here, and I prefer to hire my own staff, not have someone forced upon me by the captain’s solicitor.”
“Beg pardon, Mrs. Crozier,” she said again. “I was that desperate for a job, and Mr. Fulton kindly offered to help. I’m sure no one meant to overstep your authority.”
“I can imagine how desperate you were, and just how you repaid Mr. Fulton for his favor,” Mrs. Crozier said waspishly.
“No!” Maddy said a little more sharply than she meant to, and the older woman gave her a suspicious look. “I worked for Mr. Fulton’s mother, and she asked him to find me a post away from the city.”
“Why?”
She’d worked this out ahead of time—she’d always had a fevered imagination. Not as impressive as Sophie or Bryony, but serviceable enough. “There was a gentleman,” she said. “A friend of the family. It seemed wisest that I simply disappear, move to a new place.”
“Ah, that face of yours,” Mrs. Crozier said knowingly, and it took all Maddy’s concentration not to grimace.
“I can’t help what I look like, Mrs. Crozier,” she said with only a trace of asperity. “I just need someplace quiet-like where I can work and not be bothered by anyone. This household should suit me fine.”
“Not even by Mr. Fulton?”
“Certainly not!”
Mrs. Crozier didn’t look entirely satisfied, but she nodded. “Then you may as well start. You won’t be getting any coddling from me. I’ll show you the attics and you can spend some time making a place for yourself before you start in on the public rooms.”
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.” She was going to get extremely bored if the entirety of her conversational opportunities consisted of “yes, Mrs. Crozier,” and “no, Mrs. Crozier.”
“The post doesn’t come with uniforms—it’s too small a household, but it looks as if what you’re wearing will do. I’ll have fresh aprons and a cap for you.” She tilted her head sideways, like an old crow. “I don’t suppose there’s anything we can do about your face, is there?”
Not short of throwing lye on it. “No, Mrs. Crozier.”
“Well, keep your head down.”
Blast it; she needed to remember that anyway. She was a serf, a drudge, a maidservant, for heaven’s sake! If she had absorbed the information correctly, the more servants a household maintained, the more pride a servant might have in her employment. Which, given that she was the only maid, pretty well put her at the very bottom of the domestic social ladder.
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.”
The housekeeper eyed her warily, as if expecting open rebellion, but Maddy simply plastered a docile expression on her face, waiting for her next set of instructions.
“You can put your shawl on the peg there and follow me.”
Hunch your shoulders, Maddy Rose, she reminded herself.
If the windows of the captain’s house had been grimy, the trip to the attic was even more depressing. Some effort had been made to keep the stairs and hallways clean, but she could see dust lurking in the corners, and the walls needed a good scrubbing. Once Mrs. Crozier opened the narrow door leading to the attic stairs, it took all her determination not to flinch.
“What’s that?” Maddy said, pointing to a moldering lump on the shadowy third step.
Mrs. Crozier moved closer, not touching it. “Probably a dead bat. You know what attics are like, having been in service. Bats are always a problem.” Climbing the first two steps, she prodded the lump with her foot and a noxious smell emanated from it.
“Bats?” She tried very hard not to stammer, but there was a small, nervous hitch in her voice. She wasn’t afraid of hard work, filth, or facing the man who might have murdered her father. Bats were another issue entirely.
Mrs. Crozier was watching her closely. “You don’t have a problem with bats, now do you? A strong Northern lass like you?”
At least her accent had worked, Mattie thought dimly. And there was no doubt at all that Mrs. Crozier was enjoying her discomfiture. “Of course not,” she said, her voice stronger. “Do you have rats as well?”
“The rat catcher comes in every month. The nasty creatures don’t come up here that much. They’re after the food stores.”
“The rats get into the food?” She couldn’t quite hide her horror.
“Hoity-toity, miss,” Mrs. Crozier snapped. “What kind of household do you think I run? There’s no way any kind of vermin can get into my kitchen. That doesn’t mean they won’t try.” She kicked the malodorous corpse again. “Are you going to clean it up?”
It was a test, but Maddy had no intention of being bullied. “Of course. But dead animals breed disease. I’ll use a rag. And where shall I put it?” In your bed, she thought, wistfully rebellious.
“Out the window, of course.”
“Onto the street?” Maddy said, horrified.
Mrs. Crozier looked at her with contempt. “Of course not. What were they thinking, sending me a useless git as a maid? I thought you had years in service.”
For a moment Maddy was affronted. She hardly looked her twenty-two years—how old did the woman think she was? And then she remembered some of the younger girls in service and she swallowed her outrage.
“I served in large households—removing animal carcasses was left to the footman.” Too late she realized she was casting aspersions on the current domestic arrangements and she struggled to find a way to lessen her implied criticism. “Really, those large households are so tedious. You just do the same thing over and over again. I expect I’ll be much happier in a smaller household with a greater variety of tasks.”
For a long time Mrs. Crozier said nothing, clearly not mollified. “Tedious, is it?” she said finally with awful majesty. “And your enjoyment is, of course, my main concern. Let me tell you, young miss, that I may not have hired you but I can most certainly fire you.”
All right, so far her impersonation of a maid was pathetically inept. She had no doubts that Mrs. Crozier could get rid of her quite easily, and she swallowed her irritation. “I’m a hard worker, I am,” she said, pleased with the added “I am.” “You won’t find any cause for complaint with me.”
“Hmmph,” Mrs. Crozier said derisively, pulling her voluminous black skirts aside as she started up the stairs. Maddy gathered her own skirts and followed suit.
The attics could have been worse, she supposed. At one point the household must have supported a larger complement of servants. There were two long, narrow rooms on each side with four beds each buried beneath boxes and broken furniture. She glanced nervously up at the ceiling, but there were no ominous figures hanging from the eaves.
At one end the attics were simply an open space, now crowded with the same castoffs that filled the bedrooms. At the other end was a closed door, and she felt a faint moment of hope.
“Is that the water closet?”
Mrs. Crozier’s laugh was downright cruel. “You think we have a water closet up here? You’ll use a slops jar, and carry your own bathing water up here like any decent Christian.”
Maddy had no idea what Christ had to do with slops and carrying water up three flights of stairs, unless Mrs. Crozier was thinking that cleanliness was next to godliness, but she doubted it. Not considering the state of the windows.
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier,” she muttered.
“That room is more storage, things of the captain’s. It’s locked, and we’re not to touch it. Even I don’t know what’s in there.”
Bluebeard’s nine wives, or however many he had? Maddy looked at the very solid padlock that had been set in place. She was
going to have to brush up on her lock-picking skills.
“Take whichever room you want. If you need help hauling things I can send my Wilf up to help you.” The offer was definitely grudging.
“I’ll be fine. Where can I find water and cleaning supplies?”
“I’ll have them ready when you’re finished up here.”
Maddy took a calming breath. “I’ll need them to clean my room. This place is covered with dust and what I presume are… are you sure there aren’t rats up here?”
Mrs. Crozier surveyed the obvious droppings littering the floor, the chewed up mattresses, then shrugged her skinny shoulders. “Rodents do what they want to do. In the meantime you’ve got duties downstairs. Pick a room, find a bed and a mattress that suits your highness, and put your clothes away. You can do your personal cleaning on your own time. Be downstairs in half an hour—I’ll need help with dinner and you need to dust and sweep the dining room and salon. You don’t have time to dawdle.”
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.” She stuck her tongue out at the housekeeper’s ramrod-straight back as the woman departed. Well, no one said this was going to be easy.
She removed her hat and turned to look at the rooms on either side of her. The one on the left had broken furniture stacked to the ceiling and only a small window. The one on the right was less jumbled and it had a huge dormer, but it smelled very strongly of mouse and at least two of the four mattresses had been chewed.
She glanced back to her left, about to attack it when she noticed some ominous shapes in the eaves, the kind that belonged in dark caves. She slammed the door shut and turned back to the rat room. She could fight rodents with the help of an imported cat—she couldn’t fight bats.
The thin, mouse-shredded sheets on the beds ripped as she pulled them off, and she placed them at the head of the stairs very carefully, not wanting to drop any more mouse dung on the floors. She held back a piece of the fabric, and her first act was to descend the stairs and retrieve the dead bat. Flinging the rag over it to hide it from her view, she then gingerly scooped it up, trying not to breathe.
