by Bess McBride
“This way, miss,” Lucy said, gesturing toward the stairs.
Rachel followed the petite maid up the stairs and down a hall where Lucy opened an oak door and stood back to allow Rachel in. Rachel entered a large room notable for beautiful wallpaper in soft green featuring pink blossoms and colorful exotic birds. A four-poster bed with pale-green velvet hangings and spread hugged one side of the room. The curtains on a single window matched the coverlet. A chaise lounge in rose faced an oak-mantled fireplace. The carpet in green and rose warmed the room. A small dressing table flanked another wall next to an oak wardrobe.
“This is stunning!” Rachel said appreciatively.
“It is a lovely room,” Lucy agreed. She appeared to be in her early twenties. Rosy cheeks bloomed under bright-blue eyes. She eyed Rachel’s jeans again curiously.
“I have set my dress on the bed for you. It is not grand, but we are of a size, miss.”
“Thank you so much for lending it to me, Lucy. I promise to take care of it.” Rachel moved to the bed and fingered the simple gray muslin empire-waist dress.
“Thank you, miss,” Lucy said with a blush on her already pink cheeks. “Do you wish to wash?”
“Yes, I think I will.”
Lucy moved over to a dresser and poured steaming hot water from a porcelain pitcher into a matching basin. Rachel noted a bar of soap and a linen cloth next to the basin.
“Do you need anything else, miss?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Rachel responded, not quite sure what she needed. “Oh, wait! Where is the bathroom?”
“Do you wish to bathe, miss? I can have a tub brought up to the room.”
“No, that’s okay. Maybe tomorrow if I’m still here. I meant the latrine, the toilet?”
Lucy nodded and indicated a door that Rachel hadn’t noticed, flush as it was with the wall in a discreet feat of architecture.
“Thank you!”
Lucy nodded and left the room, and Rachel inspected the bathroom—toilet closet, as it happened, for there was nothing in the small room but a cabinet with a seat. A peek into the cabinet beneath the seat revealed a chamber pot. Rachel thought of Lucy and didn’t want the girl carrying her waste around, but there was little she could do. The idea of trying to clean up after herself, hauling a chamber pot around the house...to where?...seemed overwhelming. She stiffened her spine, ignored her misgivings, used the toilet and hurried out of the closet as if the thing would bite.
Rachel shrugged out of her clothes and gave herself a sponge bath. The action reminded her of the week her grandparents had gone without power when she was about twelve, and her grandmother had insisted that Rachel still bathe. Rachel’s protestations that sponge baths were silly bore no weight with her grandmother, and she had washed with cold water and soap.
At least in the Regency era, she had hot water delivered—in an aristocrat’s house, of course.
Her grandparents had lived on her grandfather’s retirement income from his government job and their Social Security, so the threesome had lived modestly. Rachel hadn’t realized they weren’t well off at the time though. When it came time for her to get a computer for school, her grandparents had provided one. When she needed a phone to keep in touch, they had provided one.
She had truly wanted for nothing, except her parents. Both had died in a car accident when Rachel was eight, and her mother’s parents had stepped in to raise her. She had known herself to be lucky that she had family willing to take on the responsibility of a grief-stricken little girl. Fortunately, she had spent summers with her grandparents on their farm in southern Virginia, so it wasn’t a complete shock when they brought her there to live.
Her grandparents had died within a week of each other when she was in her final semester of graduate school and before she started her business. With the proceeds from her grandfather’s life insurance, she had purchased her starting inventory and opened up her bookstore upon graduation. She had meant to apply for employment at the National Archives or the Library of Congress, but decided to stay on her grandparents’ farm in Halifax County upon their death.
Rachel delighted in the sweet smell of the lavender soap, and she dried herself off before returning to the bed to study Lucy’s dress. Given the wide neckline, Rachel suspected she would have to forgo her bra, but she had no intention of going commando, and so she slipped her panties back on. She slid the dress over her head and let it fall to the floor. Reaching behind her neck, she located some strings and tied them in a small bow.
Rachel crossed the room to check her reflection in a standing oval mirror. The dress fit well, loosely in fact, which was fine since she didn’t have any undergarments other than her panties. Her chest was small, and the material of the dress was thick enough to disguise that she didn’t wear a bra or chemise. As a fan of Regency novels, she knew she should wear a chemise, drawers, stockings, some stays and maybe a petticoat, but she didn’t have the heart to ask Lucy if she could borrow her underwear as well. She imagined that the maid had very little clothing to begin with.
Her bare toes stuck out just beneath the hemline, and she turned and eyed her white athletic shoes, smiling as she realized she would have to wear them with her Regency-era dress. She turned back toward the mirror, pulled up her shoulder-length brown hair and twisted the curls up into a knot at the back of her head. Fortunately, her hair stayed in place, but she would have to see about finding some pins.
Rachel gave herself a last look and turned away from the mirror. Unsure of what to do with herself until dinner, she wandered over to the window and looked out. Her room overlooked a garden, and to her delight, she spotted Halwell strolling among manicured beds of roses, his hands clasped behind his back. He seemed lost in thought, but she didn’t care. She wanted to run down to the garden and join him.
Rachel hurriedly slipped into her shoes and left the room, grabbing up the hem of her skirts to maneuver the stairs. A footman pulled open the front door for her as she scooted toward it. She wasn’t sure if she had seen him before. They were all starting to look alike in their uniforms.
“Where is the garden? To the right?”
“Yes, miss. You can reach the garden from the front of the house or the back. It is to the right.”
“Thank you!”
She rushed down the front steps and trotted across the front drive, hoping no one saw her from the windows—of which there were many. Rounding the front of the mansion, she entered the garden through an arbor. Lovely rose bushes bloomed in a variety of colors. Fortunately, Halwell was still there, still walking with his hands clasped behind his back, as if deep in thought. He stopped and turned at the sound of her feet on the crushed stone path.
“Miss Lee! I thought you might be resting!”
Rachel blushed as he eyed her from head to foot. She ran her hands up to her hair and tightened her bun, which was in danger of falling out in the absence of pins.
“I’m not tired.”
“Lucy’s dress looks very well on you,” he said, almost kindly. “Very serviceable.”
Rachel looked down at the simple unadorned gray dress.
“Serviceable,” she repeated. “Yes, it is kind of like a uniform, isn’t it? Like the footmen’s livery.”
“No, not at all. Perhaps serviceable was a poor choice of words. I certainly do not wish to offend. I should have said that you do the dress justice. I should note that the maids do not wear uniforms, nor would I have asked you to don a uniform. You are not a servant, nor will you be considered one...by me.”
“I’m not offended. I’m lucky that Lucy could spare a dress. Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?” Rachel said with a grin. “Or peddlers?”
“Come now! Peddlers? I find Miss Hickstrom’s description to be most unfortunate.”
Rachel’s smile broadened. “I think she was just teasing,”
“Perhaps,” he said. “You must be very well acquainted with her such that she felt she could toy with you.”
“Not
really,” Rachel said.
Halwell tilted his head in that charming way of his, like a puppy who heard words but didn’t understand them. His gesture in no way suggested that he wasn’t an intelligent man, just that he was at a loss.
He offered his arm.
“Would you care to walk?”
“Yes,” Rachel said, putting her hand on his arm. They walked in silence for a few moments, but it wasn’t a particularly comfortable silence, at least not for Rachel. She wanted to tell Halwell the truth about herself, about Miss Hickstrom. She wanted to ask him about Mary Palmer, now St. John. She wanted to ask him if he was still in love with her.
But all Rachel did was press her lips together and walk alongside Halwell. The garden was extensive with dozens of rose bushes and manicured hedges bordering the path. It seemed as if one could wander around for an hour and still not complete a circuit.
When Rachel could stand it no longer, she raised one of the subjects uppermost in her mind.
“You said that I remind you of Mary Palmer. What is she like? Where in America did she come from?”
Halwell paused momentarily, then resumed walking.
“Lady St. John,” he said, the baritone in his voice deepening. “I cannot say that I know exactly where in America she is from. I always meant to ask her.”
Rachel heard the wistful note in his voice, and her heart sank.
“You are in love with her,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand from his arm.
Halwell stopped, clasped his hands behind his back and looked down at the ground. She watched the muscle tick in his jaw, a sure sign that he struggled with deep emotion. He finally raised his eyes to hers.
“I am,” he said simply.
His admission shouldn’t have surprised Rachel, but its starkness did. She caught her breath.
“I’m so very sorry,” she said. For him...for her, really.
“Thank you. I would prefer that my mother not know the depths of my feelings for Mary...or Miss Hickstrom.”
“No, of course, although I think Miss Hickstrom already knows that you’re in love with Mary.”
“Yes, it seems so. I have been able to convince my mother that my affections were modest, but she knows me well. I suspect she does not wish to see me suffer and joins in my pretense.”
“It must have been difficult seeing the couple on their return from the honeymoon yesterday.”
“It was.”
Rachel sighed.
“Meeting you was infinitely more pleasant, I assure you,” Halwell said with a crooked smile.
Rachel’s lips twitched. “Thank you...I think.”
“Will you take my arm again?” Halwell asked. “Shall we continue our stroll?”
“Yes.” She put her hand on his arm, and they resumed walking.
“I must admit I feel some relief in expressing my grief. Thank you.”
“It’s not good to hold things in.”
“Perhaps that is why I have had a pain in my breast. Here.” He pressed against his sternum.
Rachel knew he meant that his heart hurt, and she gave him a sympathetic look. She had never known thwarted love. She had never really known romantic love at all. Casual dates in college hardly counted. But she did know loss—the loss of her parents and grandparents.
“Perhaps,” she agreed.
“My mother accepted an invitation to a ball at Alvord Castle next week. I will be required to attend. As our guest, I would request that you accompany us. I think that you and Lady St. John will find much in common.”
Chapter Six
“Employee,” Halwell repeated the words. “I do not care for such a term. I do not feel it is apt. Nevertheless, I wish you to attend. Would you consent to do so?”
“Oh dear, I don’t have any clothing. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Rachel was actually desperate to meet Mary, but she didn’t want to let on. To do so would raise questions. She suspected Miss Hickstrom’s hand in the marriage of Mary Palmer and Lord St. John.
“My mother would be happy to have a gown made up for you. In any event, you will need more than one dress if you are to stay and catalogue the library.”
Rachel started to protest, but Halwell held up a hand. “Allow me to do this for you, Miss Lee. It is no trouble at all.”
She gave in to his insistence. “Thank you.”
“It is settled then. I will speak to my mother about having the dressmaker visit you, and I will send a note around to Alvord Castle. Mary will be so pleased to meet a fellow countrywoman. I am certain of it.”
Rachel heard his words, the emphasis on Mary, as if he wanted nothing more than to do the woman a favor. She carefully removed her hand from his arm and clasped her own hands behind her back.
“When do you want me to start on the library?”
“Whenever you wish,” he said, seeming not to notice that she had withdrawn from him.
“Maybe you should take me there now? No time like the present to begin.”
“Yes, of course. This way.” Halwell led the way toward a side door that Rachel hadn’t seen. They entered and bypassed a busy kitchen, climbing stairs that led to the living area. Rachel recognized the foyer to her right. Halwell led her to the left, pausing before a large oak door. He pushed it open to reveal a warm room done in gold patterned wallpaper and brown velvet and brocade furnishings. Oak bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, a ladder facilitating access to the highest shelves. A fireplace centered one wall.
“How beautiful!” Rachel exclaimed.
“Thank you. I think so too. I claim no credit though. My great-grandfather built the library. I am merely the custodian and primary reader.”
Rachel approached the shelves and stared at the books, all in excellent shape and some apparently new, but which would have been rare antiques in the twenty-first century. She touched the binding of one: The Mysteries of Udolpho, by eighteenth-century author Ann Radcliffe.
“A first edition,” she murmured.
“Do you think there is a second edition?” Halwell asked, looking over her shoulder.
She jumped to find him so close beside her, and her heart thudded. She tried to focus on his words.
“Second edition? Oh, I think there will be many more. It’s a classic.”
“How interesting! I did not know it was considered a classic. The author is very promising though. I enjoyed the book and hope to see more.”
“You will,” Rachel predicted.
“How can you know?”
Rachel looked up to see Halwell tilting his head again.
“I just feel it.”
“I see.
“Now that you have seen the library, I hope you are not put off by the task. I promise not to drive you too hard. It matters not how long it takes you to catalogue the library. There is no rush.”
Rachel privately thought there was a rush. Sally could only handle the store for a few weeks, perhaps even less if she called the police on Rachel’s disappearance. She wondered what would happen then. Would her assets be frozen? She hoped not. She hadn’t had time to set up a will, or even the inclination. Her world was small, and she had no idea to whom she should leave her estate. She was only twenty-five!
No, she needed to go home sooner rather than later, or she would lose everything. She looked up at the lovesick Halwell. And gain nothing.
“No, I’m not put off by it. I’ll do the best I can in the time that I have.”
“Forgive me!” Halwell exclaimed. “I assumed that you had no particular plans given the destruction of your home and business, and I thoughtlessly assumed that you were at loose ends with no demands upon your time, no plans for the future. Was I incorrect?”
“Actually, yes, I do have to go soon, a few weeks at the latest, I think.”
“Where do you go?”
“Home,” Rachel said. “Back to America.”
“I see,” Halwell said quietly. “Back to America.”
“Yes.”<
br />
“To South Boston, Virginia.”
“Yes.”
“I hear sadness in your voice. Have you been gone from home for very long?”
“Not really,” Rachel said. How could she explain that her sadness was for Halwell? For her as well? She had felt an instant connection to George Halwell, like she had never known before—certainly not with any man in her time. Perhaps she had fallen under the spell of Miss Hickstrom’s fairy tales. She didn’t know. She only knew that she wanted to be the woman in Halwell’s heart—not the one who hurt him, but the one who made him smile, made him laugh, made his eyes light up.
Rachel shook off her fanciful fairy-tale musings and turned to Halwell.
“If you have pen and paper, I can start now.”
He looked startled, but jumped into action, pulling open a drawer in one of the cabinets and retrieving the requested items. Rachel had expected nothing less than a quill and ink, and that was what Halwell handed her.
“I should leave you alone then. There is no point in my hovering. Shall I have some tea delivered?”
“When is dinner?”
“Not for a few hours yet.”
“Yes, tea would be nice, thank you.”
“Certainly.”
He left the room, and Rachel dropped down onto a brown brocade settee to stare at the volume of cataloguing. She couldn’t possibly finish in a few weeks, certainly not without a computer. She promised herself though that she would get as far as she could until she could do whatever it was that Miss Hickstrom wanted her to do, and then go home.
A tap on the door startled her, and she jumped up with the feeling that she should be seen to be working, not lounging. The soft tap sounded like that of a woman, and she wondered if it was Lady Georgianna. Surely a maid hadn’t brought tea already.
“Come in,” Rachel called out, but the door was already opening, as if whoever was on the other side had no intention of waiting.
To Rachel’s surprise, Miss Hickstrom slipped in and shut the door behind her.
“Miss Hickstrom! You’re back! Where did you go?”