The Mysterious Maid-Servant

by Barbara Cartland

  Although she spoke gratefully, the Earl had the impression that she half resented his generosity simply because it offended her pride.

  “Hungry or not,” he said, “You will dine with me. I am tired of eating alone.”

  “May I point out that your Lordship has many friends who are far more suitable as dinner companions than I am?”

  “Are you arguing with me again?” the Earl asked.

  “I am afraid so. I thought that your Lordship would not require my services so late.”

  “You have another engagement – some beau who is waiting for you?”

  “It is nothing like that.”

  “Are you expecting me to believe that you are anxious to leave merely because you wish to return to your mother and your brother?”

  There was silence for a moment and, as Giselda did not reply, the Earl said sharply,

  “I asked you a question and I expect an answer.”

  “I think your Lordship will understand when I say that you have engaged me to attend to your leg and to wait on you,” Giselda said after a moment. “I am still a servant, my Lord.”

  “And as a servant you must learn to do as you are told. If I am eccentric or peculiar, if you like, in wishing the company of one of my servants at dinner, I see no reason why they should not comply with what is not a request but an order.”

  “Yes, my Lord. But you must admit that it is unusual.”

  “And how do you know it is unusual for me?” the Earl replied. “I know nothing about you, Giselda, you know nothing about me. We met today for the first time. Doubtless you had not heard of me until yesterday.”

  “Of course I – ”

  Giselda stopped suddenly.

  The Earl looked at her sharply.

  “Finish that sentence!”

  There was no reply.

  “You were going to say that of course you had heard of me. How could you have done that?”

  Again there was silence.

  Then, as if the words were dragged from her lips, Giselda replied,

  “You are – famous. I think everyone has heard of you – just as they have heard of the – Duke of Wellington.”

  It was not entirely a truthful answer and the Earl was well aware of that, but he did not press the point.

  “Very well, I concede that I am famous, but is that any reason why you should refuse to dine with me?”

  Giselda put the basket down on the table.

  “What I am trying to say, my Lord, is that as your servant it would be a mistake for me to assume any different position.”

  “Am I offering you one?”

  “No – my Lord, not exactly – but – ” she struggled for words.

  “Let me make this quite clear,” the Earl said. “I do not intend to be tied by convention. Petty rules or regulations may apply in some households, but certainly not in this. If I decide to have one of the scullions to dinner, I see no reason why he should not come upstairs although he would doubtless dislike it as much as I should.”

  His eyes were on Giselda’s face and he went on,

  “But where you are concerned, you have a very different status. You are here to minister to me, whether it means to bandage my leg or to give me your company at the rather awkward meals I am obliged to take from my bedside.”

  His voice was hard and authoritative as he continued,

  “It is up to me and not to anyone else – I make the choice – I choose what I wish to do and I see no reason why anyone in my employment, man or woman, should oppose me on such an insignificant matter.”

  The Earl spoke in a manner that those who had served under him knew only too well and Giselda capitulated exactly as they would have done.

  She curtsied.

  “Very good, my Lord. If you will permit me to remove my bonnet and to fetch some hot water, I will now attend to your leg.”

  “The sooner the better!” the Earl said loftily.

  Giselda left the room and when he was alone he chuckled to himself.

  He knew that he had found the way to treat her, a way in which she found it hard to oppose him. He told himself with some satisfaction that, if he had not won a battle, at least he had been the victor in a small skirmish.

  Giselda came back with the hot water.

  Once again there was a little pain when the bandages were removed, but her hands were very gentle and the Earl noted with approval that she was not in the least embarrassed in tending him as a man.

  There were no women nurses obtainable, in fact nursing was considered a job essentially for men.

  But the Earl had always thought when he was on active service that the wounded attended to in Convents were far more fortunate than those who were at the mercy of rough orderlies in the overcrowded hospitals.

  “How have you gained so much experience?” he asked.

  As he spoke, he was aware it was a probing question that doubtless Giselda would try to avoid.

  “I have had a lot of bandaging to do,” she answered.

  “For your family?” he asked conversationally.

  She did not answer, but merely pulled the sheet over his leg. Then she tidied the bed and patted up his pillows.

  “I am waiting for an answer, Giselda,” the Earl said.

  She gave him a smile, which had something mischievous in it.

  “I think, my Lord, we should talk of more interesting things. Are you aware that the Duke of Wellington is coming to open the new Assembly Rooms?”

  “The Duke?” the Earl exclaimed. “Who told you this?”

  “It is all over the town. He has been here before, of course, but not since Waterloo. The town is to be illuminated in his honour and there is to be a triumphal arch of welcome across the High Street.”

  “I have seen arches before,” the Earl remarked, “but I would like to see the Duke.”

  “He will be staying in Colonel Riddell’s house which is not far from here.”

  “Then he will undoubtedly call and see me,” the Earl said, “and I expect you would like to meet the great hero of Waterloo?”

  Giselda turned away.

  “No,” she said. “No – I have no desire to – meet the Duke.”

  The Earl looked at her in surprise.

  “No desire to meet the Duke?” he repeated. “I always believed that every woman in England was on her knees night after night praying that by some lucky chance she would encounter the hero of her dreams! Why are you the exception?”

  Again there was silence.

  “Surely you can give a simple answer to a simple question?” the Earl asked in a tone of exasperation. “I asked you, Giselda, why you do not wish to meet the Duke?”

  “Shall I say that I have my – reasons?” Giselda answered.

  “A more damned silly answer I have never heard,” the Earl stormed. “Let me tell you, Giselda, that it is very bad for my health to be treated as though I were a half-witted child who could not stand the truth. What is the truth?”

  “I think, my Lord, that, as your dinner will be arriving in a few minutes, I would like to go to my own room and wash my hands after attending to your leg.”

  Before the Earl could reply, Giselda had gone from the room.

  He stared after her for a moment in exasperation, then in amusement.

  “Now what has she got to be so mysterious about?” he asked aloud.

  Then, as the door opened and his valet came in, he said,

  “Have you any news for me, Batley?”

  “I am afraid, my Lord, I have drawn a blank. I had a chat, as one might say, with the housekeeper. But she knows nothing, as she told your Lordship, she took the young lady on without a reference.”

  It did not escape the Earl’s notice that Batley, who was an acute judge of people, referred to Giselda as a ‘lady’. He was well aware of the difference in Batley’s tone when he spoke of someone as being a ‘person’ or a ‘young woman’.

  It only confirmed what he thought himself. At the same time it wa
s interesting and he knew too that Batley had got over his pique at Giselda taking over what had previously been one of his duties.

  Normally he would have been jealous of another servant valeting his master or in any way intruding on the somewhat unique relationship between them. But apparently Giselda had stepped in without opposition and that to the Earl was significant.

  “You must go on trying, Batley,” he said aloud. “It is unusual for you and me not to be able to find out what we want to know. You remember how useful you were in Portugal when you found out where the merchants had hidden their wines?”

  `That was very much easier, my Lord. Women are women all the world over and the Portuguese are as susceptible as any other nationality.”

  “I will take your word for it, Batley.”

  He was conscious of a twinkle in the eyes of his valet as they both remembered a very delectable little señorita with whom he had spent several pleasant nights when they passed through Lisbon.

  There was very little in the Earl’s life that Batley did not know about. He was devoted and had for his master a respect and admiration that amounted almost to adoration.

  At the same time he retained his individuality and his own independence of thought and judgement.

  Batley was shrewd and the Earl knew that he could always rely on him to pass judgement on a man or a woman, which would not be far from the truth.

  “Tell me exactly what you think of our new acquisition to the household, Batley,” he asked now.

  “If you are speaking of Miss Chart, my Lord,” Batley replied, “she’s a lady, I’d bet my shirt on that. But there’s something she’s hiding, my Lord, and it’s worrying her, although I can’t quite understand why.”

  “And that, Batley, is what we have to find out,” the Earl replied.

  He thought as he spoke that, however reluctant Giselda might be to dine with him, he was looking forward to it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Where are you going?”

  Giselda, with one arm full of books, turned from the desk from which she had taken a number of letters.

  “I am going to the Post Office first, my Lord,” she replied, “to try to persuade that lazy Postmaster that your letters are urgent. Everyone in the town is complaining about him because he is so dilatory about despatching the mail. I am not certain whether I should speak to him coaxingly or severely.”

  The Earl smiled.

  “I should imagine in your case that coaxingly might be more effective.”

  “One can never be sure with that sort of man,” Giselda said.

  “And you are taking the books back to the library?” the Earl asked glancing at the pile in her arm.

  “I will try to find something to amuse you,” she replied in a worried tone, “but your Lordship is very critical, and although Williams Library is the best in the county, I can find little to please you.”

  The Earl did not reply because, to tell the truth, he enjoyed criticising the literature that Giselda read to him aloud for the simple reason that he liked to hear her opinion on the various subjects they discussed.

  He was astonished to find that so young a girl not only had a very decided point of view on most matters including politics, but also could substantiate her opinions from other books she had read on the subject.

  At times they argued quite violently and when he was alone at night the Earl would go over in his mind what had been said and find surprisingly that Giselda was often better informed on some matters than he was himself.

  She was wearing her bonnet with the blue ribbons and, as there was a wind despite the warmth of the day, she wore a light blue shawl over her gown.

  Looking at her, the Earl decided that in the week she had been in his employment, eating two good meals a day in his company, she was already less thin and there was a touch of colour in her cheeks that had not been there before.

  At the same time, he thought, they had a long way to go before she reached what should be her normal weight, even though she assured him that she had always been slender.

  The difficulty, he found, was to persuade Giselda to accept anything from him except her wages.

  He had thought on the second day of her entering his employment that he would be clever and order such large meals that what she took home would be more than enough for her family and herself.

  But he had come up against what he told her was her ‘damnable pride’.

  As they finished luncheon, he noted with satisfaction that there was a whole chicken untouched besides a plump pigeon and a number of other dishes, which were perfectly conveyable.

  “You had better pack up what is left,” he said casually.

  Giselda had looked at the chicken and replied,

  “I cannot do that, my Lord.”

  “Why not?” he enquired sharply.

  “Because I suspect that your Lordship ordered more food than was necessary and what is left over, being untouched, can be used again.”

  “Are you telling me that you will not accept this food, which you well know your family needs?”

  “We may be poor, my Lord, but we have our pride.”

  “The poor cannot afford pride,” the Earl countered scathingly.

  “And when they get to that stage,” Giselda retorted, “it means that they have lost their character and personality and are little more than animals.”

  She paused to add defiantly,

  “I am grateful for your thought of me, my Lord, but I will not accept your charity.”

  The Earl made a sound of impatience. Then, reaching forward, he pulled off one leg of the chicken with his bare hands.

  “Now it is acceptable?” he asked.

  There was a pause before Giselda said,

  “Because I know the chef will either throw it away or feed it to the dog, I will take it, my Lord, but another time I will refuse to do so.”

  “You are the most foolish, idiotic, tiresome woman I have ever met in my whole life!” the Earl stormed.

  She had not answered, but had merely packed up the chicken leaving the pigeon on its plate.

  The Earl learnt in the succeeding days that Giselda had to be handled with care, otherwise her pride created obstacles even he could not scale.

  What was more exasperating was that despite every effort on his part he still knew no more about her than he had the first day he had engaged her services.

  One thing however was very clear.

  Under her ministrations his leg was healing better and quicker than Mr. Newell the surgeon had dared to hope.

  “You must rest while I am away,” Giselda, said now, “and please do not get out of bed as you tried to do yesterday. You know what Mr. Newell said.”

  “I refuse to be mollycoddled by you and these damned doctors,” the Earl growled.

  At the same time he knew that what the surgeon had said was commonsense.

  “Your leg, my Lord, is far better than I had anticipated,” he answered after he had examined it. “But your Lordship will appreciate that to pull out all the grapeshot I had to probe very deeply.”

  “I have not forgotten that!” the Earl said grimly.

  “I will be frank,” the surgeon went on, “and tell you now that I thought, when I found so much had been left behind and how badly it was festering, that you might still have to lose your leg. But miracles still happen and in your case this is undoubtedly true.”

  “I am grateful,” the Earl managed to say as the surgeon’s fingers moved over the scars to find them clean and healing, as he had put it, ‘from beneath’.

  “How soon can I get out of bed?” the Earl asked.

  “Not for at least another week, my Lord. As you well know, any sharp movement or even the weight of your body might start the wounds bleeding afresh. It only requires a little patience.”

  “A virtue, unfortunately, I have never possessed,” the Earl remarked.

  “Then, my Lord, it is something you must learn now,” Thomas Newell had replied.


  He then commended Giselda on her bandaging.

  “If you are ever in need of employment, Miss Chart, I have a hundred patients waiting for you.”

  “You sound busy,” the Earl commented.

  “I have a waiting list from here to next week,” Newell said not without a touch of pride in his voice, “and they are not only veterans of the war, like yourself, my Lord, but members of the nobility who come here from as far away as Scotland and even from across the Channel. Sometimes I wonder how I can possibly accommodate them all.”

  “There is a penalty attached to everything,” the Earl smiled, “even to a famous reputation.”

  “That is something your Lordship must have discovered yourself,” Thomas Newell said courteously before he took his leave.

  “If you move about,” Giselda said now, “you will disturb the bandages, and if you do that I shall be very angry.”

  She paused as if she had remembered something.

  “My mother is making some more ointment. Perhaps I had better call for it on my way back.”

  “I owe you for the last lot your mother made,” the Earl said. “How much did it come to?”

  “One shilling and threepence halfpenny,” Giselda answered.

  “I presume you expect me to give you the halfpenny or would you accept a fourpenny piece?”

  “I can give you change,” Giselda replied with a twinkle in her eye.

  She was well aware that he was teasing her, half playfully and half seriously, because she refused to accept any money except what he actually owed her.

  “You infuriate me,” he said as she turned towards the door.

  “Then that will give your Lordship something to think about while I am gone,” she answered. “Batley is listening for your bell if you should wish for anything.”

  With that she was gone and the Earl lay back against his pillows to wonder for the thousandth time who she was and why she would not tell him about herself.

  He had never imagined that any woman who was so young – Giselda had admitted to being nineteen – could have so much self-assurance when it came to dealing with him. Yet he knew that in other ways she was in fact very sensitive and shy.

  There was some quality about her that he had never found in any other woman and what he admired better than anything else was her air of serenity.