Escaping Notice

by Amy Corwin

  “Of course.” Hugh said.

  Miss Leigh stared at him a moment longer, before nodding to Mr. Symes.

  “I’ll escort Mr. Caswell to the steward’s quarters.” The butler stepped aside and waved for them to precede him. After they left, he carefully shut the door. He stood still, looked around the hallway and gestured to a tall footman leaning against the wall near the front door. Rocking from his heels onto the balls of his feet, the butler waited in silence until the footman sauntered over. “You, Frank, will escort Miss Leigh’s maid to the attic, where you shall obtain a bed, a chest and a chair. These will be placed in Miss Leigh’s dressing room. When I have finished escorting our steward to his quarters, I will send a maid to Miss Leigh’s room with bedding.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Symes,” Helen replied meekly, nervous about leaving Hugh’s large and comforting presence.

  Hugh winked at her over the butler’s shoulder. Then he gripped Ned by the neck, thrust him forward, and ambled after Mr. Symes.

  Watching them leave, Helen felt another stab of trepidation. She could not manage this alone, facing the prospect of spending the night in a stuffy little room with Miss Leigh snoring just a few feet away. She had been feather-witted to think she could come here and find the Peckham Necklace in the wink of an eye.

  Servants had undoubtedly cleaned the house since the ball. Anything found would either have been reported or hidden away. Why had she thought she could manage this?

  But it would be spiritless to give up now.

  And despite Miss Leigh’s hard exterior, Helen felt sorry for the spinster. She knew only too well how people judged women by their appearance. Helen was fortunate. She had a flair for dressing which convinced most acquaintances that she was pretty, when in truth, she was merely a plain, insipid blonde. What people mistook for beauty consisted mostly of well-placed lace and flattering ribbons.

  If Miss Leigh had been lucky enough to have an eye for color and detail, she might have been a handsome woman. She might have married and have had her own children to fret over, instead of fussing over her nephew’s guests.

  No wonder she seemed so sad and bitter.

  In a spurt of fatalistic determination, Helen decided to make Miss Leigh her project while she searched for the necklace. She would make Miss Leigh realize how attractive a mature spinster could be, given the proper materials.

  Someone deserved to be happy, even if it was not destined to be Helen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Carefully avoid all reproachful, indecent, or even familiar terms in speaking of your master ….” —The Complete Servant

  That went well, Hugh thought as he followed the butler through the servants’ door, Ned trailing dejectedly in their wake. They climbed the narrow, twisting staircase which led from just outside the kitchen to the third floor. Mr. Symes escorted them to a tiny corner room occupying one of the turrets.

  Hugh glanced around. He had forgotten the towers even had rooms. They were rarely used, being small and ill-lit by the slit-like windows, but this one had a relatively large bed with an additional trundle bed peeking out from underneath it, a plain maple desk, a chair and a wardrobe. If he overlooked the dust and cobwebs decorating the legs of the desk, it would be quite serviceable.

  “This is your room.” Mr. Symes clasped his hands at his waist, as if afraid he might get his white gloves dirty by accidentally touching something.

  It was a perfectly justified fear.

  “Send up a maid, will you? To give it a good dusting. And air the bed. Better yet, change the linens on it. It looks damp. Good thing Mr. Petre found me, isn’t it? To manage things when the earl is not in residence. Like now.” Hugh flicked a finger over the dark green coverlet. A small maelstrom of dust arose and sparkled through the air before settling down again on the bed.

  Although Mr. Symes’ face remained bland, his eyes flickered, betraying his annoyance. But he could only acquiesce. The house steward was the earl’s locum tenens and acted for him to superintend servants of all ranks. The butler took orders from him, not vice versa.

  Mr. Symes knew it, even if he probably disliked the change in the balance of power within the ranks of the servants.

  “Do you need anything else?” Mr. Symes asked. His knuckles gleamed white.

  “Yes. I’ll need to see my office.”

  “But —”

  “I’m sure the room you’ve used until now will do,” Hugh said lightly. “There must be another room somewhere you can use.”

  Symes face flushed burgundy but he managed to agree.

  “Mr. Symes, what is the earl like? To work for?” He turned and watched a series of emotions wrinkle Symes’ face; frustration, annoyance and anger among them. “I wish to be prepared.”

  “He’s an earl,” the butler replied stonily.

  “Of course. But he appears quite placid. Doesn’t notice much.” He patted the bed again. “Apparently.”

  “You can judge for yourself when he returns.”

  “No doubt. But it would help to understand how he prefers to manage the estate. I’m sure you understand. You’ve been here for many years, haven’t you? You understand better than anyone how the earl likes his household organized.”

  Symes caught the small sop Hugh threw to him. He clearly realized that he would not last — no matter how long he had been there — if he showed anything but co-operation. “He likes things calm,” Symes said at last.

  “Does he involve himself in the day-to-day affairs?”

  “No. He’s left it to me — that is — he doesn’t try to insert himself into household matters. Miss Leigh and I have managed — until now, of course.”

  “Ah … Miss Leigh. But Mr. Petre indicated she was preparing to move.”

  Symes eyes flickered. Hugh could have sworn he saw something that looked like pity or concern on the butler’s face, but it was erased so quickly he was not sure. “Yes. The earl thought it best.”

  “But?”

  “If he feels it is for the best, then it must be so.” Symes clearly disagreed.

  Why? Puzzled, Hugh stared at him. Surely Aunt Eloise would prefer her own house? He dismissed the thought. Symes wanted things to stay the same. Any change clearly bothered him — even Aunt Eloise’s proposed move to a cottage nearer town.

  “Does he have many enemies?” When Hugh saw Symes’ expression freeze, he added, “So I may be wary of them. I would not like to make a mistake through ignorance.”

  Symes stared at the narrow slit of a window behind Hugh. After a minute of thought, he responded, stringing his words out carefully, as if each were a gold coin he was loath to part with. “He is very … good natured. He has no enemies that I’m aware of, though all great men accumulate them.”

  “So there is someone I should avoid?”

  “No one that you’re likely to meet.”

  That seemed to be that. Hugh had hoped Mr. Symes would be happy to gossip about his employer, but he appeared too circumspect to tell Hugh anything. However, Hugh did get the sense that Symes had held information back.

  Ormsby was not the happy fairy-tale castle it appeared to be from the distance.

  Somehow, he would unearth its secrets.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “The grand foundation of your good character must be Industry ….” —The Complete Servant

  “You’re Miss Leigh’s new maid?” the footman asked, looking at her over his narrow shoulder. His extreme thinness made him seem much taller, like a regular maypole complete with a round knob of a head on top.

  “Yes,” Helen said.

  “Don’t you worry, she’s fussy but not unfair.” He laughed. “Just don’t let her see any gee-gaw you don’t want her to pick up. Like a regular magpie, she is. Loves any shiny object.”

  “Oh.” Helen did not want to talk about Miss Leigh. Her words were sure to be reported back to her new employer, so she changed the subject. “Are you having a house party?”

  “The earl had a ball a
few nights back. As usual, some of the guests are still taking advantage of his hospitality even though he’s gone away.”

  “I understand he’s sailing?”

  “Yes, both him and his brother. Left Miss Leigh to entertain the hangers-on.”

  “I see.”

  “And Miss Leigh won’t be here, herself, for long.” The sly look in his eyes told her he was probing for her reaction.

  Unfortunately, she knew she should resist the bait he dangled. “Is she leaving?”

  “Here’s the attic.” He shouldered open the door and lurched into the dusty domain, hands on hips. “Not much that ain’t broken, but don’t worry, we’ll find something.”

  “Thank you. But what did you mean, she’s not here for long? Is she ill?”

  He laughed. “Lord, no! The earl is setting her up in a little cottage closer to town. He’s been thinking about getting married. Fact is, we figured there’d be an announcement at the ball.” He shook his head. “The earl’s slipped free again, though. You’d think he’d be interested in setting up his nursery, though. Past time.”

  “Really.” Helen was not interested in the earl’s matrimonial plans. All she could think about was the necklace and avoiding Miss Leigh.

  “Here we are!” He dragged a dusty bed-frame from behind a cracked cheval mirror. As the legs dragged over the wooden floorboards, clouds of dust swirled up and enveloped them both.

  Helen sneezed and stepped back, waving her hand in front of her face.

  Frank pounded and kicked the frame a few times to shake off the rest of the dirt, while Helen retreated into the furthest corner. “You’ve got the mattress. There.” He pointed to her left.

  “Where?” She stared at the jumble of broken, grimy furniture.

  “On your left. There, my poppet.” His eyes gleamed, for all the world like a stork eyeing a frog in a pond as he waited for her reaction.

  A thin mattress, rolled and tied with a rope, leaned against the corner. The stained fabric was fuzzy with cobwebs. Helen pushed it out, turning away at the gray swirls of musty filth that arose.

  “Give it a good kick, my poppet.”

  “My name is Miss Caswell,” she replied. “Not ‘poppet’.”

  “Lord, you’re not going to be as twitchy as Miss Leigh, are you?”

  Not wanting to make an enemy, she choked back her first words and finally replied, “No. I’m just not overly fond of pet names. I’m sorry.”

  “Fair enough, Miss Caswell.” He studied her before turning to search for other useable items. “There’s a chest there under the window; I’ll come back for it.” He hefted the bed-frame onto his back and tottered toward the door. “You take the mattress,” he wheezed.

  After giving the mattress another good pounding, she rolled it across the rough floor and stopped at the top of the stairs, her hands pressed into the small of her back. Her inclination was to let it bounce down the stairs to get the rest of the dust out of it. However, she suspected the maids would not be happy if she did. Not to mention the danger of bowling Frank over as he struggled with the bed half-way down the steep stairs. Resignedly, she pushed and pulled it one step at a time. When they reached the second floor, she trudged after Frank to her assigned room.

  The dressing room was indeed small, very small, and just as airless as Miss Leigh had said.

  “Sorry, Miss Caswell,” Frank grunted from under the bed-frame. The wooden legs nearly decapitated her as he moved it up and down, trying to get it to fit against the far wall. There was no window, and one wall was lined with shelves and a series of hooks supporting drooping muslin dresses in pale colors. A closer look revealed that the paleness was due to age and frequent washings. The fabric was nearly transparent from wear.

  Sadness welled up, tightening her chest, as Helen stared at the garments. These dresses were mere rags and should have been disposed of years ago. Why would Miss Leigh hang on to them, unless she simply did not have that many good dresses?

  Even Helen’s maid had a better wardrobe. That fact was so desperately telling that it made her want to weep for pity. No wonder Miss Leigh’s appearance was so … unflattering. She did not have the resources to make it better. The earl had obviously kept his aunt on the edge of poverty, not caring a whit about her.

  In fact, he seemed to care more for his castle than for his aunt, given the opulence of the rooms she had seen during the ball. Helen despised him. Thank goodness she had arrived at the ball too late to meet him. She had never liked the arrogance of the lords she had met in London, either. During her long Season, she had dreamed of meeting some amiable farmer, someone who would not care that she was not pretty and would never be the lovely ornament most men preferred as a wife.

  Too bad her family would never approve.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Hugh. She stifled a sigh and moved out of the way of the footman.

  When Frank finally got the bed wedged in against the wall, there was only an inch at the head and six inches between the foot of the bed and the shelves. While she fussed with the mattress and unrolled it, Frank escaped to the attic. He returned carrying a small chest with three drawers, and a spindly rocking chair. As if embarrassed by their condition, he pulled out his handkerchief and flicked it over the top of the dresser, before nodding at her and dashing out.

  Helen rubbed her forehead in the crook of her elbow, and stepped into Miss Leigh’s bedroom to catch her breath.

  While she struggled to find a place for the chair, a maid entered with a small pile of linens, a thin woolen blanket and an even thinner pillow, stained rusty-brown on one side. After one last foray to the attic, Helen brought down a chipped pitcher, a bowl and a tiny rack for a fraying linen towel which the maid had given her. The broken cheval mirror yielded a small useable fragment when propped up on her dresser. The small size also meant it could be stored in her drawer, along with the meager contents of her portmanteau.

  As she unpacked, she hurriedly folded and stuffed her dresses and shifts into the dresser. The heavy feel of her own garments embarrassed her, given the thinness of Miss Leigh’s gowns hanging behind her shoulder like a row of ghosts.

  The room was so dreary that she was glad to finish and escape to Miss Leigh’s bedroom. The gowns in the dressing room were beyond anyone’s skills to repair and could not be worn, so Helen began to search for other dresses.

  A large wardrobe in the corner yielded an assortment of newer gowns. Unfortunately, as Helen pulled them out, she realized they were almost as unwearable as those in the dressing room. The materials were wonderful, though. Lovely muslin prints, two rich silk evening gowns and some work-a-day bombazine dresses were attractive enough — for anyone except Miss Leigh. Apparently, her employer had a preference for bronze and rust colors that looked absolutely dreadful with her silvery brown hair and brown eyes.

  She sighed and glanced at the clock, feeling overwhelmed.

  Miss Leigh would be dressing for dinner soon, and Helen could not send her downstairs dressed in either the bronze silk or the red. Her very being revolted against the notion.

  No. She could not do it.

  What about the attic? Perhaps there was something there? Or a fichu? Not the best solution, but better than nothing. After a last quick search through the wardrobe in case she had missed something, she dashed back up to the attics. Several trunks abutted the far wall. She yanked and tugged to move them so she could lift the heavy lids. Inside, layers of tissue separated dozens of dresses, their silken folds glimmering in the dusk of the attic.

  She pulled one out and shook it, thrilled at the heavy feel of the silk. But when she smoothed the folds, she realized the garments were not immediately useable. The dresses were panniered monstrosities from the previous century, with outrageously wide skirts and narrow bodices; however, the materials and colors were extraordinary. She pulled out more gowns, running her hands over them. Rich rose silks, deep blue, soft ocean-green and straw yellow, cerulean, silver tissue and elegant lace spilled across the
trunk and onto floor around her.

  Grabbing an armful of gowns in the best colors for Miss Leigh, Helen carefully descended and returned to her employer’s room. She selected a few fragments of lace and the silver tissue and worked them over the bodice of the bronze silk evening gown, replacing the black velvet trim and softening the neckline with an overlay of lace.

  Miss Leigh might not be so happy to have her best gown reworked, but if she saw the results …. If Helen could only get her to don it and see her reflection in the mirror hanging above her chest of drawers, she would realize how it flattered her.

  Assuming it would.

  Biting off the thread, Helen shook out the dress and refolded it, placing it back onto the top shelf of the wardrobe just as the door opened.

  “What are you doing in here?” Miss Leigh asked from the doorway.

  Helen took one look into her faded brown eyes and felt guilt wash over her in a cold wave. She clasped her hands in front of her and cast her eyes down in her best imitation of her maid when she had done something silly.

  Miss Leigh would adore the dress. She could not possibly have thought its original design flattered her. Or could she?

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Leigh. I was just tending to your clothing —”

  “Well, don’t! I don’t like prying.”

  Curtseying, Helen took a step away from the open wardrobe. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Don’t let it happen again. If I wish your assistance, I will ask for it.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  Stalking into the room, Miss Leigh eyed the shelves behind Helen. “Why is my best gown on the top shelf? I always keep it on the second.” Not waiting for an answer, she pulled it down. “What is this?” She shook it out. “What is this? What have you done, you wretched girl?”

  “It’s the latest fashion, Miss Leigh! I — I found the lace when we were in the attic. I knew you had guests, and it is always so important to present a fashionable appearance.”