Maid to Be Mine: A Regency Cinderella Story

by K. L. O'Keefe

  “Now now... you shouldn't speak to me that way, Cynthia.” Georgiana clicked her tongue a few times. “You're a servant now, and in case you've forgotten, you need to show me some respect! Now... let us try again, shall we? I'll say... I require the assistance of a maid. Now, how do you think you should respond?”

  Cynthia had to draw a deep breath before replying. “I... would be happy to help you, Georgiana.”

  “Georgiana?! That's rather informal, don't you think?” Georgiana pointed out. “You don't think that man would call me by my name, do you?” She pointed at Robert. “Well, never mind. I'll overlook it... just this once. Now, when you've divested yourself of that filthy bundle, I need you to come to my room. There are several tasks I need you to perform.”

  “Very well... my lady.” Cynthia winced as she said it. She and Robert sidestepped Georgiana and continued their journey to the washroom. As soon as they were inside, she tossed the linens to the floor and unleashed a grunt of frustration. “Grr! I hate her!”

  Robert simply nodded. It didn't seem like the appropriate time for a witty retort.

  “I always hated her,” Cynthia's tirade continued, “but now I hate her even more! How can they do this to me?! She and my stepmother are heartless creatures! It's like they have no souls whatsoever! And if they do have souls, I shudder to think of where they'll end up in the afterlife! They won't be reunited with my father, I can assure you that!”

  “I'll handle the linens, Cynthia,” Robert said. “You can deal with the witch.”

  “Thank you, Robert.”

  “And why are you thanking me? Believe me, I would much rather tackle the linens than have to deal with the likes of her! I don't envy you, that's for certain.”

  Before leaving the washroom, Cynthia smiled at Robert, and the gesture was warmly returned. As she headed back to Georgiana, her stomach was gripped with fear. She could only imagine what sort of iniquitous labor her stepsister had in store for her.

  “CYNTHIA!” Georgiana was hovering by her bedroom door, eagerly awaiting the return of her unwilling maidservant. “Cynthia, hurry! I don't have all day!”

  Cynthia sprinted down the hall and entered Georgiana's room. As soon as they were inside, Georgiana grabbed a hairbrush from her dresser and sunk into a chair. Holding the brush over her shoulder, Georgiana demanded, “Brush my hair!”

  “Very well.” Cynthia stood behind the chair and started sifting the brush through Georgiana's dark tresses. She gripped the handle tightly, resisting the temptation to clobber the girl.

  “I enjoy having my hair brushed,” Georgiana said. “I don't have a maid of my own, so this is a rare luxury.”

  Cynthia inhaled, but she didn't reply. Brushing her stepsister's hair wasn't the most painful task in the world, but she had a feeling Georgiana wasn't finished with her.

  “What do you think of my hair, Cynthia?” Georgiana asked.

  Cynthia raised a curious brow. Why did Georgiana think it was an appropriate time for a sisterly coze? “I think you have beautiful hair,” she said. And it was true enough. Georgiana's hair was such a dark brown, it was almost black, and it gave her an exotic allure.

  “Well... I've always envied your hair, to be honest!” Georgiana said. “I've always wished I had golden hair. Hair that is light and bright is more likely to catch a gentleman's eye. They're a bit like dogs, really. They like flashy things.”

  “Mmm.” Cynthia didn't quite know how to reply, so she just answered with a grunt.

  “I must confess... I've always been a bit jealous of you,” Georgiana said. “Did you know that?”

  Cynthia kept moving the brush through her stepsister's hair, as gently as she could. “No. I was not aware.”

  “Well, it's true. As much as it pains me to admit it, you really are, well... you are basically the epitome of beauty. If you had been around, I am sure Lord Charmington wouldn't have taken an interest in me.”

  “And... do you think he has taken an interest in you?” Cynthia asked.

  “Oh, I believe he has! We took a turn around the garden, and it was a most pleasant experience! He complimented me several times, and we shared many common interests. I think I can safely call him one of my suitors.”

  Your only suitor is more like it, Cynthia thought. She couldn't remember a time when Georgiana had actually been courted. As overbearing as she was, Georgiana had a tendency to frighten men away.

  “You know,” Georgiana went on, “I've often wished I could have been a better sister to you. Are you surprised?”

  “I... am.” Surprised didn't even begin to describe it. Shocked, astounded and gobsmacked would have been more appropriate. For a moment, Cynthia almost felt guilty for thinking her stepsister was doomed for eternal damnation.

  And then she said, “But really, Cynthia, it is better this way. I can see why Mama wanted you to be a maid. This way, we will never be at odds with each other. I won't have to worry about you stealing my suitors, because Lord Charmington will never spare you a second glance!”

  Cynthia lowered the hairbrush and clenched her fists. If only you knew, she thought to herself. He has given me a second glance!

  “And you'll probably end up marrying a servant! Oh my... that's a novel thought!” Georgiana said with a giggle. “You'll probably marry someone like that manservant I encountered in the hallway. What's his name?”

  “Robert,” Cynthia answered dryly.

  “Yes, Robert. You'll probably marry someone like him. And I suppose he is handsome, in a rustic and provincial sort of way... not that I was paying much attention to him, mind you. Men like him are below my notice, and well... he's nothing compared to Lord Charmington. You should really see him, Cynthia. He is the handsomest man I have ever seen... nay, he must surely be the handsomest man in the whole, entire world!” Georgiana turned around and wrenched the hairbrush from her stepsister's hand. “Now, enough with the hair brushing... this is getting tedious. There are other tasks that require your attention.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “My pelisse.” Georgiana rose from the chair and went to her wardrobe, from which she extracted a long, fur-trimmed coat. “The weather is getting cooler, and I require something warmer. However, there is a slight hole in the sleeve, and I need you to mend it for me.”

  “Of course.” Cynthia took the pelisse and tucked it under her arm. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is.” Georgiana pointed at an ornate porcelain container at the far end of the room. “I need you to dump my chamber pot.”

  “Are you serious?!”

  “Oh yes. I'm quite serious. Why wouldn't I be?” Georgiana sat on the end of her bed and crossed her arms. “Now, if you don't mind, I need my afternoon rest. If you would kindly remove yourself from my presence, I would be much obliged.”

  “Very well...” As she went to collect the chamber pot, Cynthia was sneering.

  “Very well, my lady,” Georgiana corrected her with a grin. “Honestly, Cynthia, you need to show me more respect! If you don't, I will have no choice but to complain to Mama!”

  Cynthia didn't give her the satisfaction of a my lady, nor did she give her a response. With the pelisse and chamber pot in hand, she hurried out of the room, eager to be rid of her wicked stepsister.

  And when she was alone, she had to resist the temptation to dunk the pelisse into the chamber pot.

  Chapter Ten

  “Your grandmother is ill.” As she delivered the news, Greta Albray, the dowager Countess of Charmington, lowered her needlepoint. Her son was sitting in the settee across from her, gazing out the window. He appeared to be deep in thought, and he had a habit of ignoring her, but she knew the news about his beloved grandmother would get his attention.

  “Really? How ill?”

  “Very ill, I am afraid. I believe it might be inflammation of the lungs,” Greta reported. “As to whether she will live or not, it is really anyone's guess.”

  “She's a stron
g woman,” James said. “She's been through so much.”

  “True. She is frequently ill, as of late,” his mother agreed. “So... surely you must see the advantage of an expeditious marriage? Your grandmother would want to see you happy before she dies.”

  “Mother...” As of late, his bachelorhood seemed to be his mother's primary concern. “Please don't talk as if her death is imminent. It's so... bleak.”

  “But her death is imminent. We are all dying,” Greta pointed out. “And your grandmother is very old. It is really only a matter of time.”

  James fumbled with the book on his lap, but he didn't have the heart to read it, not when his mother was filling his head with doom and gloom. “What a terrible thing to say!”

  “It may be terrible, but it is true, James. You know it is!” Greta lifted her needlepoint and resumed her task. “Honestly, I thought you would be married by the time you were thirty.”

  “I'm not thirty,” he pointed out, “...yet.”

  “True, but you are nine and twenty. If marriage before thirty is your goal, you have only seven months remaining.”

  “It isn't my goal.”

  “But it should be your goal!” his mother insisted. “If not for my sake, then for your poor grandmother's sake. Nothing would make her happier.”

  “Nothing would make you happier!” James countered. “You want grandchildren.”

  “True. And you need an heir!”

  “You make it sound as if I'm running out of time... as if I will be beyond hope within a year!”

  “You should be glad you're not a woman, because at your age, you would be beyond hope!”

  “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should be looking for a wife.” With a sigh, James turned his attention back to the window. As he stared at the glass, an image of an enchanting blonde angel flashed before his mind's eye. “You know, Mother... I met a woman.”

  Once again, she cast her needlepoint aside. “Really!? When?! Who is she? Where did you meet her?”

  “At Montforth Hall,” James said, though he immediately regretted his confession. If his mother happened to meet the women of Montforth Hall, she would assume he was talking about one of the ladies of the house—Georgiana and Edith. However, the woman of his dreams was a maid, and he knew his mother would never accept that fact. “She was a rare beauty.”

  “Wonderful! Then you must call on her tomorrow! And bring flowers, James. She won't be able to resist a handsome man bearing gifts!”

  James closed his eyes, and a sinister smile curled across his lips. What would the maid think if he handed her a flower? How would she react? Would she accept it, or would she think his behavior was inappropriate? Would she let herself fall for him, or would she push him away?

  When James opened his eyes, his gaze was fixed on the window. The lack of sunshine did little to bolster his hopes.

  As he stared out the window, the crystalline lattice of a single snowflake fluttered near the pane.

  * * *

  “Cynthia, here.”

  That was the only warning Robert gave her before he tossed the onion in her direction. She tried to catch it, but it ended up bouncing off her shoulder and tumbling to the floor.

  “Robert!” she shrieked.

  “Sorry.” He retrieved the onion from the floor and, with a cheeky smile, gently passed it to Cynthia.

  Cynthia laid the onion on the counter and gave her shoulder a dramatic rub. “So, you're going to start pelting me with vegetables now? That hurt!”

  “Oh, come on. I'm not pelting you with vegetables! That was a gentle toss!”

  “Let me see your hands!” Cynthia demanded.

  “My hands?” Robert held his hands behind his back. “Why do you want to see my hands? Are you going to smack my knuckles?”

  “No!” Robert's petulant behavior had her rolling her eyes. “I want to see if they're clean! The state of your hands often leaves something to be desired. If we are going to cook, your hands should be impeccably clean!”

  “Maybe they should be dirty?” Robert countered. “Wouldn't it give you satisfaction to know your evil stepmother might be ingesting some of the filthy fungus under my fingernails?” When he saw her wrinkle her nose, he chuckled. “I'm not serious! There's no filthy fungus on my hands, I promise. As a matter of fact, I even washed my hands before we got here. They're so clean, they're practically sparkling!”

  “Let me see them!” she insisted.

  Robert shoved his hands in her direction. As Cynthia looked them over, he said, “See? They're as crisp and clean as a morning dew!”

  “I don't know about that, but they don't look dirty anymore.”

  “Shocking, isn't it?” Robert turned his back to her and started busying himself with the carrots. “Now, turn your attention to that onion, Princess. It's not going to chop itself.”

  Cynthia stared at the onion and knife on the counter, but she didn't know where to begin. It was her first attempt at doing anything of the sort, but she didn't know how to tell Robert, since he had a tendency to tease her about anything and everything. With a shrug, she started flaking off the onion's skin. As she reached for the knife, her hand was quivering.

  Robert peered at her over his shoulder, “You have no idea how to do that, do you?”

  “I confess that I... do not.”

  “Here, hand it over.” When Cynthia passed him the onion, he showed her how to cut the ends, remove the skin, and properly mince it. At the end of his lesson, which was over before she knew it, he passed her another onion.

  Cynthia returned to her cutting board and made her first slice. She chopped off the onion's end, removed the outer layer, and tried to chop to the best of her ability. In no time at all, there were tears forming in her eyes. When Robert saw her tears, he smirked.

  “Aww, are you crying?”

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but she must have had some onion juice on her skin, because her eyes started burning more than ever. “Is it supposed to sting this much?!

  “A lot of people cry when they chop onions. Not me, though,” Robert said with a shrug. “I find it's best not to form an emotional attachment to the poor fellows.”

  As Robert chuckled at his lame joke, Cynthia shook her head with disbelief. “Oh, go ahead! Laugh at my pain! It is what you always do!”

  “Trust me, I don't enjoy cutting vegetables any more than you do. I'm just trying to make the most of a difficult situation.”

  “You're insufferable.” Tomorrow, she was going to ask Tess if she could be paired up with someone else—someone like Solomon. Since he never talked, Cynthia imagined it would be a much more peaceful working environment.

  Cynthia finished dicing her first onion, which had her feeling quite pleased with herself. When Robert handed her another onion, she groaned. Her eyes were already red-rimmed and misty, as if she had spent the entire day in tears. “How many am I going to have to chop?!”

  “I don't know. A couple more, maybe.” Robert shrugged. “Would you like to change jobs? I'm going to prepare the raw meat, and that can get a bit messy. So unless you like blood...”

  “The onions are fine.”

  Cynthia chopped the second onion without any complaints. By the time she got to her third onion, she felt like she was getting comfortable with the task, and her eyes had somehow built up an immunity to the sting. However, her comfort made her sloppy. As the knife swept through the onion, it also swept across her skin. It was a little nick, but it was enough to draw blood.

  She drew a sharp breath, which alerted Robert to her injury. “Are you alright?”

  Cynthia tried to suck the blood from her knuckle before he could see it. “I'm fine.”

  “Let me see your hand.”

  She held her hand behind her back, mimicking his earlier behavior. “No! I'm quite alright. It isn't necessary.”

  “Your hand,” he insisted. As soon as Cynthia presented her hand, Robert winced. “Aww. You cut yourself!”

  “A
re you going to make fun of me?!”

  Robert's expression was hurt. “Of course not!”

  “You're not going to lecture me, or tell me I need to be more careful, or anything of the sort?”

  “Well, it never hurts to be more careful,” Robert said. He grabbed a cloth from the counter and tore off a sizable shred, which he used to wrap Cynthia's cut hand. “Does it hurt?”

  “Of course it hurts.” Cynthia raised her chin, as if to appear undaunted. “But I have a high tolerance for pain, and I'm certainly not the sort of lady who swoons over a drop of blood.”

  “I didn't think you were.” After wrapping her hand, he gave it a gentle pat. “There. Now, why don't I give you another task to perform? Would you like to make the bread?”

  Her hands defiantly went to her hips. “I'm perfectly capable of cutting onions!”

  “I'm sure you are. However, I thought you might want to take a break, what with your cut hand and all.” He motioned toward the opposite end of the kitchen, where ingredients had already been assembled. “You should find everything you need. Eggs. Flour. A recipe. Should you need further instruction, I am happy to assist.”

  “I'm sure I can... figure it out,” Cynthia said, though her voice was filled with hesitation. As she read the recipe, the corners of her mouth were sagging. Cooking certainly wasn't as easy as she imagined it would be. She almost preferred working in the stables!

  “So, I'm sure you've heard...” Robert spoke up, “your Lord Charmington will be here for supper.”

  Cynthia gasped. “He is?!”

  “He is.”

  “I don't know what's more shocking...” As she spoke, she started measuring and combining the ingredients. She didn't want her bread to be a disaster, so she tried to be as accurate as possible. “The fact that he's coming for dinner, or the fact that you actually called him Lord Charmington.”

  “I said it for your benefit, but he'll always be Lord Magnificent to me.” He punctuated his sentence with a dreamy sigh, which had Cynthia rolling her eyes yet again.

  * * *

  When Lord Charmington entered the dining room, he was fashionably late. His greatcoat was also covered in flecks of snow.