by Kady Cross
Lady Morton smiled. “Is tomorrow morning too soon?”
“No, not at all.” She hadn’t even fully unpacked.
“Excellent.” The older woman rose gracefully to her feet. “My carriage will come by for you at nine o’clock. By the time you are settled Phoebe should be awake. We’re off to a charity event hosted by Lady Marsden and her nephew the Duke of Greythorne tonight.”
A duke, Finley thought. That was only a step down from prince. She imagined he was a plump, pasty-faced creature with bad teeth. Rarely, from what she’d seen and heard of English nobility, were aristocrats handsome or fit—too much inbreeding. Still, it sounded romantic.
“I shall be ready, ma’am.” And all she could think was how wonderful it would be if, as the daughter’s companion, she could sleep in past nine some mornings, as well. Perhaps even catch a glimpse of a duke.
“I trust you will be,” Lady Morton retorted as they left the office. Finley walked her to the front door of the shop, where the woman paused for a moment. She looked at Finley with a gaze that was both kind and somewhat…shrewd. “Thank you, Miss Jayne.” Then, without waiting for a reply, she exited the shop into the overcast morning.
Finley watched after her, still battling her astonishment.
She had never heard an aristocrat say “thank you” before.
“I’m not sure I like this,” Finley’s mother said for what had to be the one hundredth time at quarter of nine the following morning. “This whole situation smells unsavory.”
Finley rolled her eyes, taking her gaze off the street in front of their home for a few seconds. She was anxious, nervous and excited. And grateful. She was so unbelievably grateful. “Mama, it will be fine.”
Her mother, however, was so not easily convinced. “What do we know of this Lady Morton other than what little mention she’s had in the papers? There’s an air of desperation about the entire affair.”
Finley turned back to the window, feelings stung. “Meaning she’d have to be desperate to hire me?”
“No, dear,” her mother replied with forced calm. “I am simply worried for your welfare. She didn’t even ask you for references.”
“She’s friends with Lady Gattersleigh.”
“Exactly!” A pale finger was pointed in Finley’s direction. “Why would she hire you after that woman no doubt disparaged your character?”
“She couldn’t have made me sound too bad, Mama. Lady Morton’s hired me to spend time with her daughter.”
“Makes me wonder how many other companions this girl has gone through if her mother thinks a girl who punched a governess would be a good match.”
“Mother!” Finley stared at the older woman in affront. How did she know she’d actually struck Miss Clarke? Was the woman a bloody mind reader?
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” her mother asked without anger. “One of the maids brought a few of your belongings that got left behind. She told me.”
Finley bowed her head. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“Know what? That you defended a helpless child? I might not approve of the violence, but I approve of the sentiment, my dear. Though, in the future you may want to exercise better control over your emotions.” She sighed. “You’re a smart girl, Finley. Surely you wonder why Lady Morton is so adamant to have you.”
“Of course I have,” Finley replied with more indignation than she ought. “I also know I can’t afford to be too picky. Lady Morton has offered me a generous wage and all I have to do is play shadow to her daughter. If the girl is too difficult I can always quit, but I cannot afford to refuse this opportunity, Mama.”
A sigh was her only answer. Words were unnecessary, however. The rush of her mother’s breath spoke volumes. The woman made guilt-inducing irritation an art form.
“It will be fine,” she insisted once more. Perhaps this time it would stick. Perhaps if she repeated it enough times she would believe it herself. Her mother was right; there was something strange about this situation. More than likely, however, Lady Morton’s daughter was simply a spoiled brat, as many aristocratic girls were. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
The clock was still chiming the hour when a black lacquered carriage pulled up on the street below. White puffs of steam rose from the gleaming brass pipe atop the roof, and the buttons on the driver’s uniform sparkled in the sun. It was horseless, operated entirely by engine—she could hear the gentle chug of it.
“Now that’s just excessive,” Finley’s mother remarked, as she glanced outside.
Finley smiled. She didn’t know what had brought on her mother’s general distrust and suspicion toward the upper class, but she’d always harbored it as far as Finley knew.
“It looks comfortable,” she replied, easing away from the glass and picking up her coat from atop her luggage. “I’ll come to call on my first half day, and send a note on before that.”
“You’d better,” her mother said with a watery smile. She was going to cry, Finley just knew it. A person would think Finley had been home for months instead of a couple of days.
She hugged her mother, patted her on the back when she began to sniffle. Silas came round and took up her trunk, leaving Finley with a carpetbag and valise to carry downstairs.
The driver of the carriage stood on the sidewalk. He immediately came forward to take Finley’s bags and the trunk and loaded them onto the back of the vehicle. While he was doing this, Silas turned to Finley and offered her a small, paper-wrapped package.
“What’s this?” she asked, plucking at the string tied around the paper. Of course it was a book. Silas always gave her books on what he considered important occasions.
“Just a little something,” he replied with a warm smile. “I know how much you like the gothic ones. I reckon you’re old enough for this now.”
Finley arched a brow. “It must be truly frightening then.”
“Your mother certainly thought so when she read it. I found it an interesting and provoking look at human nature.”
Her lips curved. “Now you make it sound utterly boring.”
Laughing, he patted her shoulder. “You’ll like it. Of that I’m certain.” His smile faded, but the loving glint in his eye did not. “Take care of yourself, my dear girl. If it’s not what you want, you can always come back here and work with me in the shop.”
Finley hugged him. “I will, thank you.” But they both knew she wouldn’t. Silas managed to make a comfortable living for himself and her mother with just the two of them working in the store. It wouldn’t impinge upon them much if she did work there and lived at home, but she wanted to support herself. Silas had always been good to her, but there were situations when she was painfully aware that she wasn’t really his daughter—this was one of those.
He released her and she turned toward the coachman who had put down the steps and held the carriage door open for her. He assisted her into the carriage and then closed the door.
The vehicle was as fine inside as out, lined with rich, maroon velvet. Finley ran her palms over the fabric. The seat was so soft she sank into it. She’d slept in beds that weren’t as comfortable.
As the carriage lurched forward, so did she, peering out the window to wave goodbye—first to Silas, then to her mother, who was still in the upstairs window, a crushed handkerchief in her hand.
Poor Mama. Finley wiped at her own eyes, which were inexplicably starting to water, and leaned back to enjoy the drive to Mayfair.
The rhythmic noise of the engine was strangely relaxing. She leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She must have dozed because it seemed like she had been in the carriage for only a few minutes before it came to a stop. Jerking upright, she peeked out the window and saw a grand, gray stone mansion looming in front of her.
The carriage door opened. This time there was a footman to lower the steps and assist her to the gravel drive.
“Welcome to Morton Manor, miss,” he greeted her cordially. “Mrs. Gale wi
ll show you to the parlor where Lady Morton will receive you. I’ll see to your belongings.”
Mrs. Gale had to be the housekeeper. “Thank you,” Finley said. She turned toward the house. It was huge. Stately. Silas’s shop could fit dozens of times over into this grand estate—one of many the family probably owned.
Even if Lady Morton’s daughter turned out to be a cow, living in a house this fine was definitely a benefit.
Mayfair was like a different world from the bustling area around Silas’s shop. That was in Russell Square, where people lived, worked and shopped. Mayfair was where rich people idled through their days, entertained in the evening and let other people clean up after them.
Perhaps she had inherited some of her mother’s prejudice, but that didn’t make her opinion wrong.
Before she reached the top step leading up to the servants’ entrance, the door opened to reveal the kind face of a woman old enough to be Finley’s grandmother. She wore a black-and-white dress and a white cap that identified her as the housekeeper.
“Good morning, dear. I trust you had a comfortable journey?”
“Good morning,” Finley replied. “I did, yes. Are you Mrs. Gale?”
Apple cheeks lifted in a smile. “I am indeed. Come in, come in.”
Finley moved past her, into the foyer. It was small, but clean and smelled of freshly baked bread.
“Kitchen’s down below,” Mrs. Gale said, nodding at a partially opened door that led down a flight of stairs. Finley could hear the clang of pots and chattering voices.
“Smells wonderful,” she commented.
“You go down there when you’re settled in and Cook will give you bread and molasses. I declare it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Now, follow me.”
Finley trailed after the portly woman. Along the way they ran into various other staff, who nodded and said hello. Mrs. Gale introduced her to all of them, and Finley tried to remember all their names.
“I’ll show you to your room, then take you to Lady Morton,” Mrs. Gale informed her, her sturdy form moving with surprising speed toward what had to be the servants’ staircase. It was fairly wide and well-worn, partially hidden not far from what Mrs. Gale told her was the door to the corridor that led to the laundry building.
“Her ladyship requested that you be given a room on the family floor.”
There was no censure in the older woman’s voice, but Finley was uncomfortable all the same. At her last job she’d slept on the top floor, in a room she shared with three of the other maids.
“Why?” she asked.
Mrs. Gale lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug and smiled. “I suppose so you’ll be closer for Lady Phoebe. Lord and Lady Morton are good people, Miss Jayne. I’ve worked for this family for almost thirty years and I’ve never felt as though I had been treated ill.”
Too bad her mother wasn’t there to hear that, Finley mused. It might ease her misgivings. “I’m already a little overwhelmed by her ladyship’s kindness.”
“Rather sad, isn’t it? That we’re surprised to be treated well.”
“Yes,” Finley agreed. “I’m a little ashamed of myself for it.”
The housekeeper gave her a gentle smile and a pat on the arm as if to ease her mind. A few moments later, they reached a landing on the stairs and turned left, into a long, wide corridor with cream walls, delicate plaster scrolls and rich red carpet.
“Your room is here.” Mrs. Gale stopped in front of the first door on the right and turned the knob.
Finley walked in first. The room was large—larger than the room she shared with three other girls at the Gattersleigh residence. Decorated in shades of sage and cream, it was bright and airy and smelled of freshly cut grass. They must have aired it earlier, while the gardeners attended to the foliage below. She had a lovely view of the grounds from her window.
She removed her hat, checked her reflection in the mirror and smoothed her hands over her hair and skirt. She should have worn a proper gown instead of her more modern kit of stockings, boots, short ruffled skirt, blouse and leather corset. But there was neither time, nor the privacy to change. Mrs. Gale bustled about showing her the armoire, dressing table and adjoining bath.
“It’s been outfitted in the latest innovations,” the housekeeper told her. “The tub even has a burner to keep the water hot.”
And a fancy commode, too—one that flushed with water.
Two footmen arrived with her luggage as they exited once more.
“If you wish, I can have one of the maids see to your belongings,” Mrs. Gale offered.
“No. Thank you. I’ll see to my own unpacking. I’d feel strange letting someone else do it.”
For that comment she was rewarded with another smile. Back down the stairs they went, but instead of returning to the kitchen, they turned in the opposite direction.
The main part of the house was just as impressive as the outside, with cathedral ceilings, marble floors and classical statues. Finley paused for a moment to take it all in. She clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping—wouldn’t do for her to show her awe. Standing around with one’s mouth open made one look like a lowbrow commoner, which she might very well be, but was determined not to look it.
Down another corridor. Mrs. Gale stopped and knocked on a partially open door, and when she was given permission from the lady within, she opened the door the rest of the way. “Miss Jayne has arrived, my lady.”
“Send her in.”
And then Finley was on her own, wishing she had the sturdy housekeeper to cling to. She crossed the threshold into a small, pretty blue parlor and found herself being stared at by three identically green eyes, and one stormy one.
“Miss Jayne,” Lady Morton greeted with a smile. “How lovely to see you again. Allow me to introduce my daughter, Phoebe.”
“Hello, Finley,” the girl said. She was about the same age as Finley. At the oldest she might be seventeen. She was about the same height, with a similar build, but her hair was auburn and her skin as pale as milk, with just a hint of pink along her cheeks. “How do you do?”
Finley was prevented from curtsying, as she had been brought up to do, by the girl offering her hand. Was she to be treated as an equal then? She closed her fingers around Phoebe’s and tried not to squeeze too hard. The girl’s grip was firm.
“I’m well, thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Phoebe.”
“Just Phoebe,” she was told. “We’re to be friends after all. Please, sit. Tea?”
“Yes, please.” Finley sat on the edge of the sofa beside Phoebe and watched as the girl fixed a cup for her. She even placed a couple of biscuits on the saucer.
“We’re to a party tonight, Miss Jayne,” Lady Morton informed her. “You will accompany us. I assume you haven’t an evening gown?”
“You assume right, my lady.” Embarrassed, Finley took a sip of tea to hide her flush. Would the lady think twice now about hiring her?
“No worries,” Phoebe said with a wave of her hand. “I have plenty. You may borrow mine until we can get you some of your own. We’ll go to the dressmaker’s tomorrow.”
Finley paled. If the cost of gowns came out of her salary she’d still be poor next year.
Phoebe chuckled. “It won’t be that horrible, trust me. I’ll make certain they don’t put you in anything horrendous, and Papa will pay for it. You don’t have to do a thing but stand there and hope they don’t stick you with a pin.”
Any minute she was going to wake up from this amazing dream and find herself in a workhouse or something equally awful.
“You’re too generous.”
Phoebe laughed again and flashed a smile at her mother, who also looked amused. “You won’t think that this evening when you’re bored out of your skull.”
She’d never been to an aristocratic function before. What if she made a fool of herself? Or worse—of Phoebe? The thought made her biscuit taste like ash in her mouth. “What sort of party is it?”
; Was it her imagination or did Phoebe turn even paler? Her smile certainly followed. “I thought Mama would have told you. It’s my engagement party.”
CHAPTER THREE
Engaged? The very idea continued to baffle Finley for the remainder of the day, long after she’d unpacked all her belongings and had taken a quiet luncheon in her room reading the book Silas had given her.
It was Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, a book Finley hadn’t been allowed to read prior to this because her mother thought she was too young. The mention of “evil forebodings” in the first line grabbed her attention and she sat by the window reading until teatime, when she joined Phoebe and Lady Morton for tea, sandwiches and tiny cakes so delicious it took all her willpower not to eat six of them.
They didn’t speak anymore of the engagement then. In fact, they didn’t speak of it at all until that evening, when Phoebe came to Finley’s room.
“Am I late?” Finley asked. She was just putting on the earrings Phoebe had loaned her. In fact, everything she wore except for her undergarments was on loan from Phoebe.
“No, I’m early,” the girl replied, pearls shining in her thick, upswept hair. “I’ve been assured by many of my friends that constant punctuality is a failure of the worst kind.”
Finley smiled at the humor in her voice. “Are most of your friends constantly late?”
Phoebe returned the grin. “Exactly! You look lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Finley blushed. She wasn’t used to compliments, and she wasn’t accustomed to wearing such beautiful gowns as the deep plum silk one she wore now. It made her eyes brighter—like the amber her mother compared them to. The color brought out the honey in her hair, as well, which she had always thought of as plain dark blond.
“You’re stunning,” she told the other girl. Most debutantes wore pale colors, but Phoebe was dressed in a rich peach that really made her green eyes stand out.
“Thank you. One of the perks to being an engaged woman is that now I don’t have to wear pastels all the time.”