He stopped. On the second floor, I guessed, from the count of his steps. There was no sound of a door opening or closing, and the sudden creak of a certain hallway floorboard disclosed his location. What was he doing just standing there in the gallery? Minutes ticked past. The silence persisted. There was no other noise, no other indication of where he had gone. My curiosity was overwhelming. Donning my robe and slippers, I left Ginny to the peace that eluded me.
I took the servants' corridor. I had no need of a lamp; that was how well I knew the hidden maze by now. I stopped on the first floor. Groping carefully for the latch, I cracked open the panel, no more than the width of three fingers. I aimed my gaze upward to the second floor. He was there, above me and across the way in the open gallery. With his back turned to the stairwell, I could only see the silhouette of his upper half. The glow of his lamp revealed the broad span of his shoulders, the narrowing path to his trim waist. The rest of him was obscured by the railing.
I saw, then, what he was doing. Puzzled, I could not countenance it at first—so at odds was his intense concentration, his absorbed stillness with the object of his regard. But it was true. He was standing there, his lamp raised to the wall, staring at the painting.
I had passed the small canvas dozens of times. The piece had struck me as odd—a humble and dissonant tone amidst the otherwise decadent landscape of his lordship's domain. From what I surmised of my employer, the portrait in the library—the one of the woman combing her hair—more suited his taste for the sensuous. But he remained there, seemingly riveted to this painting in its simple wood frame.
Myself, I liked its sentimentality. The brushstrokes told a tragic story. It depicted a dog, head upon its paws, lying alone on the nursery floor. No mistress or master was in sight. There was only the cradle, empty and half-visible through the swath of black gauze. This was the sort of narrative art currently en vogue; it was for this reason alone I had thought it to grace my master's walls. I could not imagine Lord Hellfire, sophisticated libertine, being captivated by such naïve emotion.
My employer turned suddenly, and in that instant I glimpsed his profile. My jaw slackened. Almost I did not recognize him. In the reddish glow, his face was transformed. His elegant beauty ravaged by lines of grief, by fury so great it spurred the beat of my own heart. He gripped the banister with one hand, his figure bowing to some internal anguish. A single sound was ripped from him, muffled, held-back. Yet I knew it for what it was.
I closed the panel. Sitting back in the darkness, my arms hugging my knees, I let the tears come.
NINE
Mrs. Beecher came for me the next morning. Her lips a tight seam, she shoved a note into my hands. My glance flitted to the folded paper and back to her again.
"Well, open it," she said.
I hesitated before doing so. I scanned the boldly scrawled summons. With hands that trembled, I folded the paper and placed it in my apron pocket.
"He wants a response," Mrs. Beecher said.
My words came sluggishly, due not to uncertainty, but regret for what was to come. "A quarter hour, if it pleases his lordship."
The lines around her mouth deepened, but she said only, "You've thought it through?"
"Yes, ma'am, I have." Seeing the earl, so alone in the dark, had made the decision for me. "Please, you must understand—"
Any hope I harbored that Mrs. Beecher might soften in her stance vanished as she turned heel and left without another word. With a heavy heart, I used the handful of minutes to gather myself. I neatened my appearance as best as I could before heading to the library.
I found Earl Huxton pacing before the bookcases. He paused when I entered. His bright gaze latched upon me, as if surprised by my entry into the room. Confused, I dropped a curtsy. "Good morning, my lord. Mrs. Beecher conveyed that you wished my presence."
He gave no indication that he wished anything of me. After a moment, he issued a terse wave toward his desk. I managed to make my way there without stumbling and took the chair on the opposite side. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Titian-haired woman smirking.
He continued to examine the shelves I had begun to organize. No longer were the precious volumes stacked in mish-mash style. All the spines stood outward, gleaming and free of dust, a proud regiment for his inspection. As he surveyed my handiwork, I did the same of him from beneath my lashes.
There was no sign of the tortured man I had seen the previous evening. He appeared his usual impeccable self with his dark, wavy hair brushing his collar, his lean jaw smoothly shaven. There were no shadows to mar the austere perfection of his face. He had shed his morning coat (I winced to see the fine charcoal fabric slung so carelessly over his leather chair). Clad in a ruby-hued waistcoat over dove-grey trousers, he was every inch the fashionable gentleman.
"You have been busy."
It might have been a compliment or criticism, so tonelessly were the words uttered.
"Yes, my lord." When he said nothing further, I added, "I've begun to arrange the shelves by subject and alphabetically by author and title."
He stopped in front of the Ancient Rome bookcase. "In the works by Pliny, you have placed Naturalis Historia before Epistulae. Why?"
Leave it to his lordship to hone in upon the one issue I had struggled with.
"The former is attributed to Pliny the Elder, the latter to Pliny the Younger," I said. "E before Y. I thought it simplest. However, I do see your point, my lord. If one is to consider the full Latin names of the authors, one would place Gaius Plinius Caecilius before Gaius Plinius Secundus—so Younger would precede Elder, and therefore Epistulae before Naturalis Historia."
The earl turned to look at me. One dark eyebrow was raised, and his expression I could only describe as bemused. I had the distinct feeling he found my explanation amusing, though for what reason I could not fathom. Perhaps I did not convey my logic in a clear enough manner. Or perhaps he thought me impudent for rattling off so—or worse yet, too prideful of my work. Aunt Agnes had oft chastised me about that last part.
Clever is as clever does, my girl. Mind you remember that. Most folks don't like to be outwitted—and especially not the men folk. Keep your head down, but your mind sharp.
"I will arrange it in whatever way suits you, my lord," I mumbled, my cheeks reddening.
"You are an unusual creature, are you not, Abigail Jones?"
"No," I said quickly, "I am not."
He advanced in my direction, and I squirmed against the hard back of the chair. "She spends her nights raiding libraries, cozies herself with Aeschylus, and is on a first-name basis with ancient Romans. And she does not consider herself odd."
"As I said, my aunt—"
"Yes, the esteemed schoolmistress who raised you." I was relieved to see him go to his side of the desk and lower himself into his chair. His fingers formed a steeple. Above his snowy collar and grey silk cravat, his mouth ticked upward at one corner. "We've heard about her already. Tell me about someone else. Your parents, for example."
"My parents, my lord?" I repeated the question, not out of idiocy but out of desire to buy time. The sudden change of course in our conversation had caught me unprepared. Though I was loathe to lie to my employer, I was yet more loathe to reveal the truth.
"I had not realized the term required definition," he said dryly. "Allow me to clarify: he who sired you and she who bore you into this world."
I was now ready with my answer. "My mother died shortly after my birth. I did not know her." 'Twas the truth; I merely omitted the fact that prior to my birth she had been making her living as a prostitute and that she had bore me whilst imprisoned in an asylum for the insane. But there was no getting around the next part. "I did not know my father either. She and he ... they were not married, you see."
I forced myself to hold his gaze in the silence that followed. Beneath my plain cotton collar, I felt the gentle weight of the gold cross. I came from love, and for that, I would not be ashamed.
But hi
s lordship's blood was blue, heralding (if the servants' gossip was to be believed) all the way back to William the Conquerer. He could not be counted on so liberal a perspective concerning the circumstances of one's birth. The precariousness of my situation struck me; why had I divulged my origins to him? I felt a surge of panic. Would he scorn me, dismiss me out of hand—
"You were born a bastard," he said quietly, "and that is no failing of yours. 'Tis what you make of yourself that matters, Miss Jones."
I nodded, too relieved to do anything else.
"Which brings us to your current position. You have made good progress on your first task. Now I give you another." So saying, he reached for a bundle of correspondence and tossed it at me. I caught the thick stack. Tied up in string, there had to be thirty letters, mayhap more, in that pastel collection. The scent of expensive perfume tickled my nostrils, and I wrinkled my nose.
"Not squeamish, are you, Miss Jones?" Earl Huxton smiled faintly. A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead, and the morning light glinted off the silver at his temples.
"No, of course not," I said stiffly.
"I didn't think so. Your sensibilities have proved remarkably sturdy in our interactions." Realizing what he was referring to, I caught my lower lip between my teeth. I could see the devil of mischief in his blue eyes; I would not let him goad me into embarrassment. His mouth twitching, he continued, "It was one of the reasons why I hired you on. The position I require is not for the faint of heart."
"What are your instructions, my lord?" I said in the brisk tones I had heard Mrs. Beecher use.
He smiled suddenly. Although its charm tugged at my breath, I kept my expression neutral—the first lesson any servant learns. "'Tis fortunate I have taken on a secretary equipped with her own shield and spear. Goddess of war, as well as wisdom. It will come in handy indeed."
His teasing drew a pleasurable confusion. The rejoinder popped into my head, 'Twill require Athena's shield to stave off your adoring female hordes. But I caught myself, saying in a neutral voice, "What shall I do with these, my lord?"
"Sort out the invitations and decide functions which to attend. As for the others, pen them responses or throw them in the trash. I care not."
I did feel panic now. I knew nothing about what went on in the upper echelons of society. When I read the papers, I skipped over the social columns, finding them dull compared to articles on politics or the latest technological advances. Mr. Darwin's emerging theory of mankind's existence, for instance, captivated me more so than Lord So-and-So's marriage to Miss What's-Her-Name. Unfortunately, this meant I did not know a fashionable salon from a flat-bust affair. "But, my lord, how shall I know which ones you'll wish to go to—"
"Toss a coin, throw a dart. It matters not—I never stay long," he said in a bored tone.
"But my lord—"
"And that is another thing," he said, leaning back in his chair. "All this my lord-ing and Miss Jones-ing—I grow weary of it. If we are to work in close quarters, we must dispense with the formalities. What do your friends call you?"
Thinking of Mrs. Beecher, I felt my throat constrict. I had few friends left in the world. "My Aunt Agnes, she used to call me Abby."
"Abby, then. And I shall be Huxton—or Hux, if you prefer."
"Oh, no, my lord," I said, appalled. "What would people think? You are my employer, my better—"
"I am better than no one and you least of all."
There was a harsh quality to his voice that I did not comprehend. Still, the thought of Mrs. Beecher or Mr. Jessop or any other of the house staff hearing such impropriety fueled my anxiety, prodded me to plea, "Please, I cannot. Call me Abby, if you wish, but allow me to address you as I should. As befits our stations, my lord."
He gave me a brooding look. "You really care what the world thinks, Abby? About morality. Propriety?"
I remembered Jack's disapproving frown. Then Mrs. Simon's pinched countenance materialized before me. And behind her, a circle of similar genteel faces, all of them censorious, accusatory, their voices rising as one: The Ladies' Planning Committee declares Abigail Jones a no good person. No good, and cursed by the devil's own thoughts ...
Swallowing, I pushed the images away. I gave a quick nod.
He braced his arms on the desk. "You'll learn. Until then, I suggest a compromise. You may my lord me to high heaven—"
I smiled in relief.
"—whilst we are public. Alone, I shall be Hux. I shan't respond to anything else. Is that acceptable?"
'Twas apparently the best I could hope for. "Yes, my lord."
In the silence that followed, he studied his perfectly trimmed nails. Then he yawned and stretched his long arms, as if he hadn't a care in the world. When I realized what he was doing, I had to restrain the upward impulse of my eyes. Working for this man was clearly going to test the limits of my temperance.
"That is ... yes, Hux.'" To my consternation, the intimate syllable rolled smoothly off my tongue.
"Excellent."
"Is there anything else, or may I leave now?" I asked.
"You may go."
I had made it to the door, envelopes tucked beneath my arm, when his voice stopped me. Hooked me from behind, much the way Punch did Judy. "By the by, Friday morning—be prepared to leave at eight sharp."
"Leave, my—I mean, Hux?" I tilted my head. "But where are we going?"
"Shopping," he said. "In London."
London? My pulse accelerated at the thought of the dangerous city. And shopping? Definitely not one of my fortes. I was certain Lord Huxton employed many others better suited for that task. "If you inform me of the purpose, perhaps I could suggest another one of the staff to accompany you—"
"Well, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it, seeing that the shopping is for you."
In that instant, I forgot my servant-like composure.
"What?" I squeaked.
"Tell me, are all the garments you own like this one?"
Cautiously, I nodded. The truth was I had only one other dress, and this, the untrimmed dark bombazine, was the newer of the two. Since I could no longer wear a maid's uniform, it had been my better option. For decoration, I had pinned a plain white kerchief over the high collar.
"No secretary of mine is walking around dressed like that," he said decisively.
I flushed. "But my lord, I cannot afford—"
"I shall cover the expense." He cut off my protestations with a hand. "As your employer, I require it. Think of it as another uniform. You will be seen in public as my secretary—you would not wish to reflect badly on me, would you?"
I had no choice but to shake my head.
"Eight o' clock Friday." He picked up his paper and shook out the ironed folds. It was clear that I was being dismissed. "Do not be late."
TEN
For the rest of the week, I attended to my new tasks and tried not to be distracted by the looks and whispers aimed in my direction. News of my rise in position had spread throughout the household, and I was greeted with mixed reactions from the other staff. Mrs. Beecher had already made her opinion clear; the frost emanating from her might have frozen a lake (mayhap the Thames itself). Despite my on-going efforts to make amends, it seemed only time might rekindle the warmth of her friendship.
Ginny, on the other hand, fairly bubbled over with excitement at the news. Over and again during breakfast, she made me tell her of the events leading to the promotion. Out of necessity, I provided a tailored version. When I explained that I could read and write and his lordship had discovered this fact, she wrinkled her nose. Clearly, she'd been expecting a far more stimulating reason for my rise than mere literacy.
The other servants' responses fell somewhere in between the two extremes. With the exception of Ginny, my shyness had prevented me from hitting it off with the other maids. My position was now made even more awkward. My duties no longer fell under the auspices of either Mr. Jessop or Mrs. Beecher; in truth, I was no longer a household serva
nt. My present responsibilities were more in line with those of his lordship's professional men. His land steward, for example, or his man-of-business. However, I was neither male, nor did I boast professional credentials. And I continued to live in the maids' quarters.
In the efficient colony below stairs, I was the one worker who marched out of line, who had no clear place in the household hierarchy. This fact seemed to irk some of the other staff. The second footman, in particular, began treating me with chilly disdain. Just yesterday, I'd taken the servant's corridor on the way to the kitchen and come upon Derrick cozying up with Nan, another of the chamber maids. At my approach, he'd looked up and drawled, "Lost your way, Miss Jones? This 'ere path is fer the servants." Cheeks throbbing, I'd hurried past, the sound of their laughter ringing in my ears. There had been similar incidents with others, in which my presence triggered a sly smothering of conversation, or a subtle exchange of looks.
I told myself I did not care. I had weathered worse. I would keep my head high and do my work as God intended.
However, in a turn that brought me selfish relief, another scandal emerged which usurped the whispers about me. Silver had been discovered missing. 'Twas the third instance of theft in a mere two months: the earl's cufflinks and a set of antique candlesticks had previously been pilfered. With grim faces, Mr. Jessop and Mrs. Beecher questioned the staff one by one. Rampant speculation buzzed, and my promotion was temporarily forgotten.
Friday morning, however, I awoke to a feeling of dread. Instantly, I knew why.
Shopping day.
Taking care not to disturb Ginny, I completed my simple morning ablutions, washing my face in the basin and cleaning my teeth with peppermint tooth powder. Cook and the cook maids nodded sleepy-eyed to me as I passed through the kitchen. Snagging a wedge of cheese and a hunk of yesterday's bread, I headed up the stairs to the library. I hoped work would soothe my ruffled edges.
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