by Anne Gracie
“No, it’s a relief. I confess I was dreading another battle.” She tilted her head and looked at him. “Jane mentioned you’d been in service before. What, er—”
“I was a butler to a gentleman,” Featherby said with dignity. “But I’m ashamed to say I lost my position because of an addiction to spirituous liquors.”
“He don’t drink no more,” William interjected anxiously. “We both took the pledge more’n a year ago. Not a drop have either of us touched.”
Abby took a deep breath. Surely if she had the power to fire servants, she could also hire them. “Mr. Featherby, would you consider—”
“I’d be delighted,” he said swiftly. “As long as William can come with me.”
Abby beamed up at him. “William would be most welcome. A big strong footman is exactly what this house needs.”
“And an army of maidservants,” said Jane from behind.
“Would you like me to arrange for the hire of some domestics, Miss Abby?”
Abby hesitated. She would love to have help cleaning this filthy old mansion, but . . . “How can we afford it, Mr. Featherby?”
He snorted. “Those servants weren’t short of money, stuffing their faces on roast beef like that, and I’ll wager they weren’t spending their own brass. There’s money here, Miss Abby; trust me—not a lot, perhaps, but enough to hire some girls to get this place cleaned up. My guess is the old lady has some fellow somewhere administering her accounts—somebody paid their wages, and if he can pay them, he can pay us. And some domestics.”
“Well, if you think so, that would be wonderful. We’ll make a start on things. We’re going to give Lady Beatrice a bath first—”
“And clean up her bedchamber,” Daisy added.
“Yes,” Jane agreed, “we can’t wait to hire anyone—she mustn’t spend another night like that. It’s horrid.”
“But before we do anything,” Abby said, “it’s occurred to me that since she’s ill, before we move her or anything, we ought to have her examined by a physician. Only how are we to pay?”
“Oh, nobody expects the aristocracy to pay on the spot,” Featherby said. “They send a bill. We won’t need to find the money until the end of the month, at the very least. I’ll see to a doctor at once.”
But when they found Lady Beatrice’s former physician, his very superior assistant informed them that the doctor would not be able to come, not until tomorrow at the very soonest. Or perhaps the day after that. He was, he informed them loftily, one of the most sought-after physicians in the land.
Luckily Featherby knew of another physician, a Scotsman who lived not very far away, a man with an excellent reputation who operated a clinic for the poor.
Dr. Findlay came immediately, and when he first clapped eyes on Lady Beatrice, he was inclined to report Abby and her sisters to the authorities. However, once they’d assured him they were as outraged as he at the old lady’s condition, that they’d arrived at her home only today, that those responsible had fled and that from now on Abby and her sisters would ensure the best of care for Lady Beatrice, he calmed down.
He pronounced Lady Beatrice extremely run-down and enfeebled due to prolonged and unnecessary bed rest and poor nutrition. Whatever illness had originally laid her low was no longer in evidence, but, Dr. Findlay confided to Abby, it looked as though her ladyship had gone into a decline afterward. She needed building up.
He recommended a nourishing diet, sunshine and, as for her needing quiet and rest—what nonsense! She should, he said firmly, have as much activity and excitement as she could bear.
“Not such a fool as most quacks,” Lady Beatrice said when he was gone. She sipped some beef tea that Damaris had made. “Never heard of a doctor prescribing excitement before. Where’d you find him?”
“Featherby knew of him,” Abby explained. “Featherby is your new butler.”
“I’ve got a new butler, have I? That was quick.”
“Was that all right? Do you want to interview him?” Abby said, wondering whether she’d overstepped the bounds.
She wearily waved the notion away. “No, no, I have no interest in butlers.”
“Well, you should,” Abby told her. “Look what a mess you got into because of a bad butler.”
Lady Beatrice sniffed. “I didn’t hire him. My man of affairs did. Perkins.”
“So you remembered his name at last? Good. I shall make a note of it and inform him of the staff changes. Now, drink your tea. We’re going to give you a bath.”
The old lady sighed. “I’m tired.”
“I know,” Abby said softly, laying a hand on the old lady’s hand. “A great deal has happened today, and you must be feeling exhausted. But you’ll feel a lot better after a nice hot bath, I promise you.”
Just then there was a knock on the door and Featherby entered, carrying a large hip bath. He was followed by William carrying two large cans of steaming water.
Abby introduced them. They put down their burdens, bowed and waited for their new employer to speak. Featherby’s expression was wooden. William looked like an anxious bull mastiff.
Despite her expressed disinterest in butlers, Lady Beatrice gave both men a long, leisurely scrutiny. Abby felt certain the old lady missed nothing about them: not Featherby’s beautifully pressed but slightly shiny suit, not the cuffs that were worn, but not quite at the point of being frayed. Nor did she miss the restrained anxiety in both men’s posture. Abby hoped she also noticed the immaculate linen, the clean fingernails and the highly polished shoes.
She and the other girls were not the only ones desperately needing a second chance.
“So, you’re my new butler, are you?” she said at long last.
Featherby bowed again.
There was a long silence; then she sniffed. “Well, go on then; I suppose that’s my bath. Don’t want the water getting cold.”
William let out the breath he’d been holding. A quiver of emotion passed so swiftly across Featherby’s face that if Abby hadn’t been looking for it, she would have missed it. He picked up the bath, hesitated, then said in a low, heartfelt voice, “Thank you, Lady Beatrice, you won’t regret it; I promise you.”
They set up the bath in the small dressing room that adjoined the old lady’s bedchamber. William hurried off to fetch more hot water and returned with Daisy, bearing a sponge and towels. “And I found this soap and some bath salts. Smell lovely, they do,” she told Lady Beatrice cheerily.
Abby looked at her in surprise. Was Daisy actually volunteering to act the maid?
Daisy must have read her thoughts. “Thought you might need me help,” she said in a low voice. “It’s going to take two of us to get her in that bath. I don’t reckon she can walk without help, do you? Besides,” she added with a wink, “I reckon I’ve seen more naked bodies than you’ve had hot dinners.”
Lady Beatrice could barely stand unaided. She’d been too long bedridden, the doctor had told them, but there was nothing physically wrong with her limbs. They struggled to hold her upright, until, “Here, let me,” William said, and gently scooped up the surprised old lady and carried her into the dressing room. Before she could utter a word, he’d set her carefully on a chair and left the room.
“While you’re taking your bath, we’ll tidy up out here, m’lady, make it nice and comfortable for you,” Featherby said, and shut the dressing room door.
Almost immediately thumps and bumping sounds started coming from the other side of the door.
“Whatever are they doing out there?” the old lady muttered.
“Just tidying up,” Abby murmured soothingly, as she undid the grimy gray nightgown. She’d been dreading this procedure. It was necessary, but . . . Thank goodness for Daisy, so matter-of-fact and unembarrassed.
They peeled the old lady’s soiled garments off her and gently lowered her into the warm water. She was like a shriveled, plucked chicken, so thin and frail Abby was shocked anew.
“This is going to make you feel so
good,” Daisy murmured, soaping up the sponge. “I’ll give you a good scrub from this end and Abby will wash your back and shampoo your hair.”
From outside came more bumping noises.
“What the deuce is that? Tidying up? More like a herd of elephants stampedin’ around out there,” the old lady said irritably, but under Abby’s gentle pressure she leaned back in the hot water, closed her eyes and gave herself up to their ministrations.
Abby tried to untangle the strings of long, iron gray hair. It was horribly matted. She glanced at Daisy with dismay.
“Lady Beatrice, I think we’re going to have to cut your hair,” Abby said.
The eyes flew open. “Cut my hair? I’ve never cut my hair in my life!”
“Time you tried something new.” Daisy was up to her elbows in water, scrubbing unmentionable old-lady parts without turning a hair.
Abby tried to soften the blow. “Short hair is very fashionable at the moment. And it will be so much easier to look after.”
“Most ladies can’t carry it off,” Daisy declared. “Short hair only suits women with good bone structure.” She squinted critically at Lady Beatrice. “You got good bones.”
Lady Beatrice gave her a shrewd look. “Don’t try to butter me up, young woman. I never trust the word of people with their hands on my privates. Just do what you have to do.”
Abby fetched some scissors. “I’ll just trim it, and later on Jane will cut it properly for you. She’s very good at cutting hair.”
She snipped and snipped. Matted clumps of wet, gray hair fell to the floor. Lady Beatrice observed them sadly. “I used to have beautiful hair. Russet, like autumn leaves at sunset. My crowning glory as a gel.”
“Red, eh? You could go red again if you wanted,” said Daisy, scrubbing energetically.
“You mean dye—Ouch! Must you scrub so vigorously, young woman? I’m not a horse, you know! You mean dye my hair?”
“Dye? Nah. I mean restore your natural color.”
Abby grinned to herself. Daisy was showing signs of a born saleswoman. A useful skill in a budding modiste.
“The girls in the . . .” She glanced at Abby. “Some girls I used to know used this stuff; henna, it’s called—you can get it down the docks—and it dy—er, brings out the natural red highlights in your hair. Stinks like a sailor’s armpit, but the smell don’t stay and the color comes up lovely and it makes your hair real soft and shiny. Now, there you are, m’lady, all done now. Just a rinse off and you’ll be lovely and clean and smellin’ like a rose.”
They helped the old lady to stand, and Abby poured the last of the clean water over her. Then they wrapped her in bath towels and sat her on the chair while they dried her and dressed her in a clean nightgown.
Abby combed out her wet hair, fluffed it dry with a towel and then trimmed it a little more, just to neaten it; then she and Daisy trimmed her nails.
“You got nice feet,” Daisy commented. “Most old ladies don’t. You oughta paint your toenails.”
“What am I, a whore?” muttered Lady Beatrice.
Daisy shrugged. “Who’d see?”
Lady Beatrice snorted, but peered critically down, watching Daisy’s ministrations.
Finally they were finished. “There, now, don’t you feel better?” Abby said.
“I feel tired,” Lady Beatrice grumbled, but she patted Abby’s hand. “You’re good girls, both of you. Not many would have done that for a stranger.”
“Stranger?” Daisy had been tidying up the towels. “Who are you calling a stranger? I’ve had me hands on your privates, remember?”
Lady Beatrice choked, then laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. “Now, that,” she gasped when the laughter had run out, “has done me a power of good. But now I need my bed.”
Hoping everything was ready, Abby opened the dressing room door, peered out and beckoned to William. Perfect, she thought, as she glanced around the room.
William came in, carefully picked up Lady Beatrice and carried her to her bed.
Her new butler held the bedclothes ready for her to be put into her bed, and when she was comfortable, he and William stepped back. Featherby’s face was properly expressionless, as a butler should be, but William was grinning. Jane and Damaris hovered with expectant smiles. Damaris stood by, holding a covered tray.
The old lady gazed around her, openmouthed. Her bedchamber—her gloomy, grubby prison for the last who-knew-how-many months—had been transformed.
The floor was swept and mopped, the furniture gleamed with beeswax and the bed had been moved into a different part of the room, closer to the window. It was made up with fresh bedclothes, a bright scarlet coverlet and . . . She poked the bed beneath her. “Is this a new mattress?”
“Almost, m’lady,” Featherby said. “We found it in an unused bedchamber. The old one will be burned.”
Lady Beatrice nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. On her bedside table sat a jug of water, a crystal glass and a blue Chinese vase containing wallflowers and sprays of leaves picked from the overgrown garden. The room smelled of beeswax, fresh linen and the scent of flowers.
The dusty old curtains were gone and replaced with a temporary covering, a pink swathe of fabric pinned across the window. And everywhere, all around the room—on the mantel, on the dressing table, on every available surface—there were candles banishing the coming night, banishing the dark thoughts and bathing the room in a soft, golden glow.
The old lady’s face crumpled and her eyes filled. She couldn’t speak. All she could do was hold out her hands to Abby, grip her fingers tightly and nod to the others in silent appreciation.
Abby squeezed her hands. “I’m glad you like it,” she said softly.
Lady Beatrice nodded helplessly.
“And here’s your supper.” Damaris came forward, set the tray down and removed the cloth. “Soft-boiled egg and toast soldiers.”
Three weeks later . . .
Max Davenham sailed into London on the Devon Lass just after dawn. Flynn would be about a month behind him, traveling on the Dublin Lass. It was their policy never to have two partners travel on one ship, in case of disaster.
Max made a hearty breakfast at a dockside eating house—eggs, good English bacon, toast, marmalade and coffee, not quite as strong as he preferred, but good enough. He enjoyed most foreign food, but there was something about coming home to a sizzling plateful of good English bacon. For breakfast, nothing else came close.
It was still too early to call on his aunt, but he had no qualms about calling on Perkins, the man of affairs he’d appointed to oversee his aunt’s affairs. Perkins’s residence was above his office, and the man, dressed in a garishly colored dressing gown, was at his breakfast. His eyes almost popped when Max arrived.
Max didn’t know this Perkins. In the past he’d always dealt with Perkins senior, who, he learned, had passed away some five years before.
Max made his condolences, but before he could broach the subject of his aunt, Perkins poured out a torrent of accusation about some woman who’d apparently wormed her way into Lady Beatrice’s house and taken control of everything.
Taken advantage, just as the letter had intimated.
“You say she sacked the entire staff?”
“Every last one of them, my lord, from the butler down. Sent them all packing.”
“A woman you’ve never seen before?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Without so much as consulting you?”
“She did, ahem, speak to me about it. But it was after the event. She had already sacked the staff.” Perkins bristled with indignation. “And when I queried the propriety of her doing that, the lady expressed some, er, rather strong opinions about the quality of staff I’d hired in the first place, and I assure you, my lord, they had the finest references.”
“Blistered your ears, did she? A harpy, I take it,” Max said in an indifferent tone. This Perkins wasn’t half the man his father had been. Old Perkins would never have
let a woman get the better of him.
“Indeed, my lord, you have the right of it. No woman has ever spoken to me in such a manner. She informed me in the boldest way that she had employed all new staff—”
Max’s brows rose. “At her own expense?”
Perkins gave an apologetic wince. “No, she came here to ensure they were paid from the same source as the previous staff, out of Lady Beatrice’s allowance. She also made arrangements for payment for herself and her sisters.”
“Oh, she did, did she? How much?”
Perkins named a sum that made Max narrow his eyes. “Is that all?” It was quite a modest stipend. He would have expected three, even four times the sum. “What’s her game?”
“I cannot say, my lord.” Perkins gave a longing look at his plate of congealing eggs.
Max saw the look. He wanted to rub the man’s fat face in his blasted eggs. “You say she claims to be some kind of relative of my aunt?”
“Lady Beatrice’s niece, yes.”
Max snorted. “My aunt has no nieces. I’m her only relative.”
“I know that, sir.” The man’s eager fawning set Max’s teeth on edge.
“Yet you did nothing to prevent this impostor from taking over my aunt’s home, sacking her staff and replacing them with who knows what kind of servants?”
Perkins swallowed. “She bore a note from Lady Beatrice.”
“Show me this note.”
Perkins hurried out and returned with the note in a moment or two. Max scrutinized it. It was not the same writing as those other letters—the overly polite ones. This note did look like his aunt’s hand, though a little spidery and uncertain. Max had never known his aunt to be uncertain about anything.
“Did you ascertain from my aunt that she wrote this note? And that all was well with her?” Max said with an edge of steel.
Perkins fiddled with his cutlery. “I confess when I called three weeks ago, I was unable to gain entry to the house. That . . . that so-called butler she appointed had the cheek to tell me Lady Beatrice was indisposed and not receiving visitors when I called, and he was supported by a veritable Goliath of a footman. Well, naturally I had no intention of starting a vulgar brangle on her ladyship’s doorstep. . . .”