by Ranae Rose
****
“Drink it while it’s hot.”
Bundled as she was in several ridiculous layers of blankets, it took Elsie a few moments to free her hands and take the cup from Mrs. Hughes. Tendrils of steam curled from the surface of entirely too much clear amber liquid. Here and there, bits of herb leaves spangled the mysterious brew. It didn’t have much of a smell, but Elsie didn’t dare let that raise her hopes too much. With a stoic nod, she raised the drink to her lips.
The tea’s taste was surprisingly underwhelming. Perhaps she’d escaped the foul ritual the London physician had prescribed her after all. Another perk of life at Hertfordshire. If only she could convince Damon and Mrs. Hughes that she wasn’t ‘delicate’, she’d be well on her way to contentment. Of course, it would be nice to have a friend, too – she would have wished for Jenny, if the thought of her closest friend didn’t still set her blood boiling. She shoved the image of Jenny’s perfectly tamed curls and self-righteous expression from her mind, frowning.
“Drink up, dear. I have entirely too much to do after seeing you to bed.” Mrs. Hughes glanced around the kitchen – the cook’s domain. Standing idly by while supervising Elsie’s sipping didn’t seem to agree with the housekeeper.
When the tea had cooled enough to gulp without risking a burnt tongue, Elsie downed it as quickly as she dared, equally eager to escape the kitchen. The heat radiating from the ovens was overbearing, and she’d begun to sweat beneath the blankets Mrs. Hughes had forced upon her. Hopefully Damon was still on the second floor where he couldn’t catch sight of her trundling through the corridors like a massive bundle of over-heated incompetence. Even perching on her stool receiving curious glances from the kitchen maids was embarrassing. She’d hardly be popular with the other staff if she spent her time at Hertfordshire lolling about in bed. Perhaps she could feign refreshment after a half hour or so of rest and convince Mrs. Hughes to allow her to resume dusting.
“Very good. Now come along…” Mrs. Hughes took Elsie’s empty cup, deposited it on a counter and whisked Elsie from her seat. “It’s about time you became acquainted with your bed,” she said, guiding Elsie from the kitchen. “You’ll find that the servants’ quarters are nicer here than most. But of course, I’ve heard that the arrangements at the Remingtons’ London estate are similar. At any rate, you shouldn’t have any difficulty getting some rest.” She arched a steel-grey brow at Elsie. “And I do expect you to rest. I won’t be held responsible for incapacitating one of Mrs. Remington’s favorite servants. I’ve been entrusted with your health and I don’t intend to destroy it. Is that understood?”
Elsie nodded, doing her best to suppress the sinking feeling in her stomach. The other servants were bound to think her a sloth. The thought set her teeth on edge, but she wasn’t about to defy the housekeeper on top of it. She had to maintain some shred of respectability.
Apparently satisfied with Elsie’s nod, Mrs. Hughes moved briskly but silently. As they approached the foyer, Elsie’s stomach sank. Damon was standing in the doorway, the footman by his side. They appeared to be conversing with a visitor, but all she could see of the shorter man Damon was speaking to was the top of his tall hat. With any luck, the visitor would keep him engaged in conversation until she could hurry past and disappear, safely out of sight.
It seemed chance would grant her no such luck. Damon turned abruptly, showing the visitor his back. His sudden change in position put Elsie squarely in the field of his vision, making her feel like a mouse caught trying to sneak behind a cat. At least she didn’t squeak, though the look in Damon’s eyes made it difficult not to. How was it that eyes so dark could appear to be on fire? The footman moved with surprising haste, shutting the door as the visitor took his leave, heading down the steps to a waiting horse. The floor shook as the frame received the heavy oaken door.
“Come along!” Mrs. Hughes urged, seizing Elsie by an elbow that barely protruded from her wrappings. Even as she was tugged toward the corridor, Elsie couldn’t help but stare at Damon. His eyes were flashing, his normally luscious mouth compressed into a tight line. He looked as if he were on the verge of snarling. He was crushing something in his fist – a bit of parchment, it looked like. When his eyes met hers, her blood ran alternately hot and cold. The mystery behind his anger consumed her, and for half a moment, she even forgot what an idiot she must look like while being towed along in her unwanted blankets.
Tripping over the corner of a quilt brought an abrupt end to that. Her cheeks were flaming before she even hit the floor. From her lowly vantage point, she had a clear view of Damon’s shoes. He rushed toward her, along with the footman. She frantically moved her arms, trying to cast off the blankets and rise on her own before she could be humiliated further.
“Goodness!” Mrs. Hughes exclaimed from above, her tone a mixture of alarm and agitation.
“Is she having another one of her episodes?” Damon asked, shoving the unidentified piece of parchment into a pocket as he neared her.
“No!” Elsie managed to say, flinging off the damnable quilt that’d caused her fall. Smoothing her skirts, she stood. “I’m fine!” Damon, the footman and Mrs. Hughes had formed a sort of triangle around her. Surrounded, she gave them her best attempt at a repentant expression. At least she was rid of the bloody blankets. “I tripped and fell. I’m sorry to have alarmed you all.” Her ankle had somehow become entangled in the quilt again. She kicked it aside hastily.
“I trust you aren’t harmed?” Damon asked, giving her a not-so-quick onceover she might have mistaken for more than polite interest if she hadn’t known better.
“Not at all.” Her ridiculous wrappings had cushioned her fall.
“My apologies, sir.” Mrs. Hughes laid an authoritative hand on Elsie’s arm. “The girl’s illness has made her clumsy.”
Elsie resisted the urge to grind her teeth. Illness nothing – if anyone was to blame for her fall, it was Mrs. Hughes and her insistence on blankets. Of course, it might have helped if she herself hadn’t been gaping at Damon, but how could she have helped it? The fire still lingered in his eyes, though it seemed to be smoldering now instead of raging. Apparently, he could keep a firm handle on his emotions when he needed to. But what had upset him so severely in the first place?
It was not for her to know, unfortunately. With a final apology, she let Mrs. Hughes guide her away. As she made her way toward the maids’ quarters, listening to Damon’s footsteps echo on the staircase that landed in the foyer, she realized that for the first time, she’d encountered him without thinking of what she’d witnessed in his bedroom the night before.
Of course, the temporary reprieve from those spellbinding memories ended as soon as she thought of it. Images of his lonely passion danced in her head, swirling with visions of his anger in the foyer. What would she give to have a look at the parchment he’d tucked into his pocket, to know his secrets? His mysteries were part of his allure, and this fresh enigma would have perhaps been the most perplexing of them all, were it not for her memory of his blood-stained homecoming. It was quickly becoming apparent why those who weren’t close to him – in other words, the entire English population, including the eternally gossiping haute ton – called him ‘Demon Remington’.
“Into bed with you,” Mrs. Hughes said, turning back the neatly made linens on a narrow bed that waited among a dozen others.
Elsie climbed beneath the blankets and heard Mrs. Hughes sigh when she shut her eyes, committing her mind completely to Damon. It was impossible to erase him from her thoughts. Having decided not to try, she let her mind whirl with memories and speculations as she pretended to rest in the empty room.
****
“What’s the matter with her?” The maid’s mattress rustled beneath her weight as she settled onto it.
Elsie hadn’t given any indication that she’d been awake when the other maids had begun to file into the room, where she’d spent the day. Mrs. Hughes had stalwartly refused to let her out of bed without a phys
ician’s blessing. Unfortunately, the hours had slipped by until the day had waned to evening, and the physician had never arrived. Elsie was thusly consigned to hoping for tomorrow.
“I heard she’s got some sort of queer illness,” answered another maid. “Has fits, apparently. They say she’s delicate.”
Another maid snorted. “Whoever heard of a delicate housemaid?”
“It’s her health that’s delicate, I suppose.” The first maid sounded doubtful. “Apparently she’s a favorite of Mrs. Remington’s.” Her tone livened as she delivered a juicier piece of fodder. “I heard she was being groomed as a lady’s maid before she took ill.”
An extremely unfeminine guffaw resounded throughout the room. “A lady’s maid? Her? I can’t see why.”
The first maid sounded doubtful again. “I suppose she is pretty.”
“And what else?” her companion demanded. “French lady’s maids are all the rage nowadays. Everyone knows that. That girl’s every bit as English as you and me.”
“Oh, I don’t know. But who cares about that when there’s the scandal with Master Damon?”
The way the maids spoke seemed to indicate they’d already discussed the matter thoroughly, probably several times, but Elsie listened raptly anyway. “Do you think he did it?” One asked the other.
“Who’s to say? He is always out late at night. He could be getting up to anything.”
Did what? Elsie almost feigned waking up to ask. Remembering the maids’ recent remarks stopped her. It was clear she was an outsider, even if she slept just a few feet away from the others. They’d probably clam up until she fell asleep if she interrupted. She’d just have to wait it out and hope they’d rehash the matter thoroughly.
She wasn’t disappointed in the least. “Murder, though? And a lord, at that? Do you really think he would?”
Elsie’s heart seized and sped. Murder?
“I was in the foyer when he came home one night, and he had such a look in his eyes as I’ll never forget. I almost could have thought him the demon they say he is. I was so frightened I hid in an alcove and watched him pass from there.”
The other maid gave an appreciative gasp.
“And that’s not all. What really sent my poor heart racing was the blood on his collar.”
“Blood?”
“A single red drop. I’ll never forget the sight of it.”
Elsie’s arm had fallen asleep beneath her, but she didn’t dare move. She recalled all too clearly the state of Damon’s clothes when he’d returned home the night before. A single drop was nothing compared to what had stained his shirt then, let alone his face. For once, she was able to think past her sensual memories of that night. Her recollections of the scarlet stains on Damon’s shirt and skin were too clear for comfort. A chill ran down her spine. If he really had killed someone, and he’d caught her watching him in his bloody clothes… Perhaps what she’d seen him do after he’d shed them would have been the least of his concerns.
“I expect I shall hardly be able to sleep tonight.”
Elsie resisted the urge to snort. If the maid really stayed awake, it would be from excitement, not terror.
“Speak for yourself,” her companion said. “I could sleep through next week if I was allowed.”
A titter sounded from the sleepless maid’s bed. “Not all of us can be so lucky.”
Elsie frowned into her pillow. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know they were looking at her. But did their petty commentary really matter in light of what they’d said about Damon? If they’d just go back to their gossiping…
“Well, I shall sleep more soundly when he’s gone to London. If he’d murder a lord, who knows what he’d do to a maid?”
“The trial is in just three days. Perhaps we can bully news out of the footman when they return.”
“I dare say we shan’t have too much trouble. He never was one to resist much at all.”
Elsie tuned out the ensuing bout of giggles and comments on the footman’s well-turned calves and handsome eyes. Even after the gossiping maids fell asleep and the girl from the scullery eventually retired, Elsie lay awake. Could Damon really be a murderer? The question cut into her like a cold knife. For the first time, her sensual memories from his bedroom seemed forbidden, like the taboo she should have considered them in the first place. Perhaps she’d been a bigger fool than she’d realized.
Chapter 3
Elsie woke at dawn, as usual. She pretended to still be oblivious, as if years of habit didn’t make it virtually impossible for her to sleep past sunrise. Even if it hadn’t been for the noise of the other maids rising and dressing, she would have been awake. The urge to rise, slip into her clothing and don her apron gnawed at the back of her mind. She’d been in bed far too long. The only thing worse than continuing to lie uselessly beneath her blankets would be to abandon them and slip from the room with the other maids. Mrs. Hughes would send her straight back to bed, surely with a tongue-lashing. The last thing she needed was to be humiliated in front of the other servants – as if being forced to stay in bed weren’t humiliation enough. When she was finally alone in the room, she opened her eyes.
Early sunlight made the panes of the high, rectangular windows glow. Bars of faint light and the shadowed areas between them striped the room. Elsie’s bed lay in shadow, but as the sun climbed higher in the sky, its light drove out the dimness and filled the room. It was almost peaceful – would have been, had it not been for the persistent desire to do something that was causing her limbs to tingle unpleasantly. Would the physician never arrive? Maintaining her sanity seemed possible only when she imagined the man trotting up to the estate’s gates, turning his horse over to a groom and striding briskly toward the front door, where he’d enter and make his way straight to the maids’ quarters…
The door swung open. Elsie nearly jumped as her heart leapt, buoyed by anxious hope. Surely her bed-rest sentence would be over within the hour. She’d even tolerate being prodded and bled if it meant freedom.
“Breakfast.” A maid bumped the door out of her way with a hip, carefully balancing a covered tray. Her eyes narrowed as she eyed Elsie appraisingly. She was the first to see Elsie awake – in the maids’ quarters, anyway. Elsie refused to drop her gaze as the woman – a girl, really, perhaps barely her own age, if not younger – lowered the tray onto her lap. If only she could will the heat out of her cheeks. Mrs. Hughes could have at least let her venture to the kitchen to fetch her own breakfast. She didn’t even want to imagine what the other maids were saying about having to serve her breakfast in bed.
“Thank you.” Elsie gripped the sides of the tray, steadying it on her lap. She would not spill it and force the girl to mop up after her.
The maid didn’t reply, only slipped out of the room after one last, long glance over her shoulder.
Elsie suppressed a sigh and pulled the cover off the tray, revealing a bowl of broth and a plate of thinly sliced bread, without butter – apparently the makings of an invalid’s breakfast at Hertfordshire. A cup of herb-spangled tea was clearly the same sort of brew Mrs. Hughes had given her the day before. She lifted it to her lips and drank. It was something to do.
The door swung open again just as Elsie wiped her bowl dry with the last slice of bread. She steeled herself for disappointment this time, expecting a maid who’d come to fetch her tray. The sight of a portly man toting a leather bag was a welcome surprise. Mrs. Hughes followed closely on his heels, fixing Elsie with a business-like gaze. “There she is.”
As if anyone else would have been lying in bed at such an hour. Elsie smiled politely at the short, greying man as he fixed her with an appraising gaze – she’d certainly had her fair share of those lately. She faced it with a fixed smile. Let him do his worst. She’d endure his scalpels and bleeding cups. Anything to escape this confinement. “Good morning, doctor.”
He nodded curtly as he lowered his bag to the floorboards and wasted no time in unlatching it, moving with an air of exp
erience that was faintly comforting. Mrs. Hughes provided him with a stool and he perched on the edge as he rifled through his supplies with practiced precision. Despite her determination to endure whatever treatment he deemed appropriate, Elsie couldn’t help but feel relieved when he pulled out a long metal tube. She recognized the instrument – it was used to listen to a patient’s heartbeat. Cold, but painless.
The physician proceeded with his examination, checking everything from Elsie’s heartbeat to her eyes and the back of her tongue. It was perfectly unexciting, and the man’s methodical manner infused Elsie with a spark of fresh hope. If he wasn’t upset over her health, Mrs. Hughes would have no reason to be.
She recited her symptoms and their history when the physician asked, relating her spells of bodily weakness and fainting. The only detail she omitted was, of course, the fact that she’d fainted in Damon’s bedroom instead of the library. By the time she finished speaking, the faintest of frowns was creasing the doctor’s face. Or was she just imagining it? She willed her heart to slow and her palms to stop sweating. Why should she feel so nervous waiting for this man’s diagnosis when she’d privately scorned the London physician’s advice?
‘A doctor of some renown…’ Damon’s words echoed through her mind. She couldn’t quite bring herself to spurn anyone he recommended. But perhaps her faith in Damon would prove foolish, if he was indeed proven guilty of murder…
The physician gave her a peculiar look, perhaps noticing the sudden paleness Elsie could feel cooling her face. She shoved thoughts of murder from her mind and quickly conjured her secret memories of Damon instead – those were guaranteed to put some color in her cheeks.
The doctor seemed satisfied, though the ghost of a frown still lingered on his face. Tucking the metal tube back into his bag and straightening on his stool, he fixed Elsie with a grave expression. “I am a great believer in the value of honesty,” he said, “though I never relish delivering a grim prognosis.”