"You have been very kind."
"Not as kind as I could be, princess." He smiled down at her although he was only a few inches taller than she. "Is someone expecting you here? May I call on them for you?"
"No, no," she answered hastily, not at all sure of her reception. "Please, I must not take any more of your time. I am sure you have many pressing obligations, and I have made you late as it is."
"May I see you to the door?" He looked at the stairs that curved below the ground floor and led to the service entrance. She looked at them also but was determined that, if she did enter her father's house, it would be through the main entrance as Lady Brienne.
"No, thank you," she said, eyeing the stairway that led to the pedimented front door. "I've not been here for a very long time," she lied. "And I'm afraid it may take some time for me to reacquaint myself."
"Does your family work here? Will you be here awhile?" he pressed.
"I cannot say," she evaded.
"Well then, at least will you bestow upon me your name?"
"My name is Brienne," she faltered.
"Just Brienne?" His fine brow lifted.
"Yes, just Brienne."
"A simply beautiful name for a simply beautiful maiden. When will I see you again, Brienne?"
"I am sorry. Thank you for everything." She shook her head and started ascending the steps, obviously much to his surprise. Her forehead wrinkled with worry as she came closer to the front door, and she knew the young man was staring at her from the street. And she was feeling ill again—there was no doubt about it. She dreaded the next few moments, dreaded them with all her heart. Just thinking of her father made her mouth dry with fear. The possibility that he might be in the house before her, that he might even be watching her now from the drawing-room window, made her feel faint. But then, forcing herself to think of Osterley and its dark, demanding master, she raised the beautiful brass door knocker and let it fall.
The door opened immediately. "Yes," a footman answered dourly.
"I—I—" She swallowed and prayed that the wind would shift from the kitchen at the back. Her senses were suddenly overcome by the heavy odors of beef and lamb cooking. The onslaught was too much for her empty stomach and light head.
"Speak up, wench! You've got enough nerve coming to the door like this. You should be downstairs." The footman shook his gold braid on his red topcoat and watched her suspiciously. "Did Mallorey send you here, trying to get me ousted from the one decent bit o' living I've come across?"
"No, no one sent me. I . . ." She held the iron railing alongside the door, trying to keep her balance. "I have come to seek employment. Is the earl in residence?"
"The earl?" The footman seemed taken aback. But then with a jovial, sly smile, he exclaimed, "Ah, Mallorey did send you! But you tell him I have no taste even for your fair flesh, lass, when I've been as good as gold for nigh a fortnight! Hrumph!" The footman snorted and began closing the door.
"Wait! You must tell me!" she gasped through her increasing delirium. "Is the earl in residence?"
"The earl? Now, what would you be wantin' with him?" He opened the door again and looked at her curiously.
"I have no business with him, except that I am seeking employment," she whispered. "Is he here?"
"Bligh' me!" The footman slapped his knee and laughed out loud. "That whoremongering Mallorey has one bit o' humor in his old bones. The earl can't oblige you, lass, so take your sweet fanny back to his'n and tell him it just won't work." He stiffened at a noise coming from the depths of the house. "Look! You've got Mrs. Whitsome a-coming! Be off with you now! And tell Mallorey no more games."
"No, do not! I must know, is the earl in residence?" She watched as the door moved closer to its frame. She reeled suddenly, but whether this was from hunger, from the tantalizing scents wafting from the kitchens, or from the entire agony of the past three days, she didn't know. All she knew was that her eyesight was dimming, and as yet she still had no idea if the earl was in Bath. Gripping the wrought-iron bannister, she tried to back down the stairs. It was better to faint in the street than to pass out on the earl's doorstep.
But she was too late. Her endurance was spent. Stumbling backward, she fell limply into two waiting arms. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she missed seeing the horrified expression on the housekeeper's face as she came to the door.
Watching as Brienne's tattered, limp figure was lifted up into a man's capable arms, the housekeeper cried out to her rescuer, "God bless you, Mr. Harcourt! It's Brienne Morrow! Why, no one could mistake that hair, not even when she was a babe!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The restorative scent of ammonia under her nose made her jerk her head back violently in repulsion. Her eyes opened, and Brienne looked around the Prussian blue room and at the wool flame-stitched settee that she was ensconced upon. But she saw no one and nothing familiar.
"Rest your head. You must not get up now," a soothing, maternal voice whispered from behind her. Brienne's violet eyes shot to the doorway, and she saw a white-haired, mob-capped woman standing near her. "Here, my lady. It will only do you good." Aged, lily-white hands held out a silver mug, and the mild scent of warm milk and honey filled her nostrils, tempting her empty stomach.
"Am I at The Crescent?" Brienne frowned.
"Yes, my lady. You're at Number One."
Panic made her eyes grow wide. "Is—is the earl—?"
"The master isn't in residence now, my lady. Please, you must drink this."
Hearing the words she had longed to hear, Brienne relaxed a bit and took the mug. Ungraciously, she gulped down its contents, and then she lay back on the settee, exhausted.
"I told Mr. Harcourt that it was not too likely you'd remember this old woman." The mob-capped matron sat down on a stool near the settee, careful to position her bum roll discreetly under her lavender Spitalfields silk.
"If ever it is within my power, I shall remember your kindness for not turning me away from the door. You don't know how many days I have been without sustenance," Brienne answered, misunderstanding the woman. Closing her eyes, she fought off exhaustion.
"It's payment you think I want?" The woman laughed and then grew serious. "Ah, Lady Brienne, I see what has become of you, and it's a sorry state indeed. But what, may I ask, has become of your mother?"
"My mother?"
"The good Lady Grace."
"She's dead," Brienne said blankly. "May I ask how you—?"
"Yes, love. I was your nurse at Osterley from the day you were born until you and your mother left the Park. Mrs. Whitsome is my name, although I know you'd hardly remember it."
"I suppose then you know why we left the Park." Brienne looked down at her trembling hands. "Is the earl expected anytime soon? You must know that I came here only with the hop>e that he was not in residence—"
"I'm afraid we've more to worry about than a confrontation with your father, child. The truth is, Lady Brienne, that the earl has been ruined. He no longer lets this house. Another took it awhile ago, but we were instructed to stay on. After you left Osterley so many years back, Lord Oliver bade me come here. I am Number One's housekeeper now."
A terrible feeling rose from the pit of her stomach, and Brienne forced out the question even as she dreaded the answer. "This new tenant. Is he, perchance, an American? With queued black hair and—?"
"A Colonial? You're joking, to be sure! Have you no idea the rents that are paid here at The Crescent?" Mrs. Whitsome laughed in bewilderment.
"But this one happens to be particularly wealthy."
"Never fear. The American you speak of could not be the one. I deal with his estate manager and have yet to set eyes upon the new master, but I've been told that he's a peer with a tide as old as they come."
Brienne breathed a bountiful sigh of relief. For a moment a possibility too awful to contemplate had entered her thoughts.
"But we've got a bigger problem now, my lady." The woman stood up f
rom her stool and walked closer to the settee. "You've come here expecting to find a home, and the truth is, there's not one here to be found."
"Yes, I see." Brienne lay back on the armrest and reflected on this new development. She had been in Bath but a few hours, and her life had already taken another turn for the worse.
"This is much too kind of you." Brienne looked at herself in the mirror wearing a matronly dark blue gown of Mrs. Whitsome's.
"Pooh! This woolen isn't nearly grand enough to be worthy of thanks. Stand still, child." The matron carefully placed some, long steel pins in tucks made in the waistline and then turned her around to see the final effect. "That should do it, my lady."
Brienne eyed Mrs. Whitsome affectionately. "You must not be addressing me so. It's Brienne or nothing at all for this servant."
"Ah, that will take some getting used to. Especially with your carriage, my lady—oops." Mrs. Whitsome put both wrinkled hands to her lips and then hid a rosy smile. "Well, all I can say is that it's hard to believe you were raised in that tiny town in Wales and not in the finest salons of London. Your mother would be very proud of you."
"I'm afraid she wished better for me." Brienne shrugged out of the unaltered dress. "But she at least left me with a friend, and ail the gold in Versailles cannot purchase that." She smiled timidly. "Shall I start by helping in the kitchens, or—?"
"No! No! I would deem you my assistant. I've already informed the household of your position, and perhaps, if you're still determined to find your own employ at a bookshop, then I daresay, I can allow you to stay here until the master arrives. You can be a relative of mine if it comes to that. But who's to say? Bath could turn unfashionable, and then we'd not have to worry about his visit at all!" The woman took the fallen garment in hand and swung the material over her arm.
"It's funny," Brienne mused. "If I'd truly had all the relatives that people have recently claimed I have, I would not be in this position." Pensively she tied the worn laces on her stays and slipped into her old, raggedy but now clean round gown.
"Has this to do with the American you spoke of the day you arrived?"
Brienne stiffened. Mrs. Whitsome had been a blessing and a true angel of mercy. She had cared for her for almost a week after she had arrived and had devised a scheme by which she could remain at The Crescent. But not once had she questioned Brienne's straightened circumstances, and not once had she mentioned her father after their very first conversation.
"I have not told you very much about myself, have I?" Brienne said.
"And what explanations are there to give? You told me you grew up in Wales, and you told me Lady Grace seemed to be happy there." Mrs. Whitsome bustled busily about the immaculate bedroom.
"I was at Osterley before I came here," Brienne burst out before she could stop herself.
"Your father was an evil man." The matron shook her head as if she feared what Brienne might tell her. "I want you to know, we were glad to be rid of him. I and the entire household could find nothing redeeming in his character."
"I didn't see my father at Osterley. The Park is in other hands now, just as this place is."
"How wonderful!" Mrs. Whitsome brightened.
Brienne sighed. "Not so. For I am afraid the new master is my enemy."
"The Colonial?"
Nodding her head affirmatively, Brienne answered, "He didn't want me to leave Osterley. You see . . ." She tried to find an explanation that the good housekeeper would approve of.
"Those things don't matter, love. You're here now. So it's best to forget the past." The woman patted her hand, then moved to the jib door at the rear of the room, which was papered in a French lily-of-the-valley print that matched the wall.
Brienne smiled wryly and nodded her head. She then turned to the window, hoping the pastoral scene below would help her do just that. Horses clip-clopped along the newly paved cobblestones and among the greening fields and trees; the river, Avon, swung a path through it all, still gray and icy from the last freeze. Staring at it, Brienne found herself thinking of a certain pair of eyes, similar in color to the thawing Avon, and also of the one night she'd seen them melt.
Three days later, wearing the ill-fitting, scratchy blue woolen, Brienne ascended the stairs from the servants' entrance and walked out to Brock Street
. The late morning was nippy and bright, and it put her in an optimistic mood as she looked about her. It was her first journey from the house since her arrival there, and she was determined to make the best of the gorgeous blue-skied day and see the magnificent city she had heard so much about during her long and lonely childhood.
Rounding the corner, she gazed at The Royal Crescent that arched in an elliptical curve across the great lawn; it rose in Palladian grandeur with not less than one hundred columns marking its presence.
"How some people live," she mused as she watched a lovely bewigged young woman dressed in pink-and-green- stripe satin over stupendous collapsible hoops being helped into a waiting carriage from Number Fourteen. As the carriage passed her, Brienne saw the woman seated between a spinsterish chaperone and a ladies' maid, while a young man courted her from the opposite seat.
I love you. The words clung to her like cobwebs to a chandelier. Slowly her hand rubbed the headache from her forehead. "Forget! Forget! He's not worth crying over," she whispered to herself as she watched couples stroll along the green. Chiding herself for allowing her thoughts to stray to Avenel, she bitterly pushed away her longing and reminded herself that she would never return to Osterley. Avenel's warmth and charm could be a powerful opiate for one starved for both, but she wouldn't permit herself any sweet remembrances. She only needed to remember that last afternoon in the taffeta bedroom to make her blood boil. After that, humiliation and anger had become her constant companions. But at least they had kept her going after that terrible last day at the Park. She bit her lower lip and frowned. Pain pulled heavily at her chest, and she was forced to wait until it was gone. She would never forgive Avenel for that day! Never!
"Mind you, bide what I say, child." Mrs. Whitsome, still in her mobcap, came to the top of the servants' stairs and called to her.
Brienne walked from the corner and met her. "I'll remember. No talking to strangers, especially well-dressed men. And keep my head covered." She smiled sheepishly as she pulled the hood that had fallen back in the breeze over her locks.
"These things are important, miss! If you insist on looking for employment, you cannot be too careful." The matron eyed her with misgiving. "I wish you wouldn't go, love. You should wait until I've heard from the estate manager. I've already posted the letter to him, you see. I'm sure that when he sees I need the extra help—"
"I know, I know. But what if he does not answer your letter right away? And then he could say he doesn't feel extra servants are necessary at a house that his master has yet to see. You couldn't find fault in that logic."
"How will you ever find a husband working in a bookshop?"
"Perhaps I will find one who loves me dearly."
"And with not a tuppence to his name, no doubt," she scolded.
"A spinster's life would not bother me. I'm living a spinster's life now, and I say, I am happy."
"Pooh." Mrs. Whitsome frowned. "You hardly ever sleep. I hear you tossing and turning all night. And you've a measly appetite at best."
"Please—" Brienne tried to stop her.
"Stay here where you're safe." The housekeeper made one last attempt.
"Let me at least inquire into the possibility of working in the bookshops. I can't be a burden on you just because my father no longer lets The Crescent." Brienne gave the old woman a peck on her wrinkled cheek and then waved her small cold hand as she watched the woman descend the stairs to the warm servants' rooms.
The Circus was behind her now, and she walked by the new Upper Assembly Rooms, in which she could hear a pianist practicing. The townsfolk—if that was what one could call the dukes and ear
ls, painters and poets who hobnobbed between rides in their chairs—were beginning their promenade through the bookstalls on Milsom Street, their hands full of expensive, fashionable bound volumes. She took a deep breath to still her suddenly jangling nerves and approached the first shop, trying to imagine what it would be like to work in this place. The huge painted door creaked as she opened it, and a young man, well outfitted in a forest green topcoat, came to the counter.
"But have you worked before, miss?" He looked at her with a doubtful, kindly glance as he answered her inquiry.
"No," she answered truthfully.
"Well, the fact is, I would like an assistant who has experience."
"I am very well read." She looked up with hopeful eyes.
"I am sorry." He seemed to shrug with genuine regret.
"I see. I thank you anyway." She gave a half smile and then left the shop, refusing to feel the least bit defeated. There were other bookshops along the busy, congested avenue, she assured herself. She would just have to continue until she found one with a more willing shopkeeper. With rekindled enthusiasm, she inquired along the hilly fairway. Her hood had fallen off her head after she'd left the first shop, and she didn't heed Mrs. Whitsome's warning until two wealthy men started following her down the street, trying everything imaginable to get her eye. When she finally noticed them, she quickly pulled her brown hood over her locks, silently cursing her hair for attracting so much unwanted attention.
Well after four o'clock, she reached the last shop. All day it had been one rejection after another. The shopkeepers either found her appearance too shabby, or refused to hire a female, or were simply not hiring at all. Soon she would have to give up her independence and hope that the mysterious master of Number One would allow her to stay on as extra household help. But how she pined for an existence of her own! After months in captivity at Osterley, she longed for a little cottage of her own in the hills that overlooked the city, perhaps one that was old and solid like the one she and her mother had lived in in Tenby. She closed her eyes and pictured it in a daydream. Well, it wouldn't remain a fantasy if she could help it! She gritted her teeth and entered the last shop.
No Choice But Surrender Page 27