“I think you’ll mend,” he said with a frown after he pulled her hand from the water and examined her fingertips again.
“Yes, I barely singed them.” Mia too looked at her fingers. They were a bit red and the back of two knuckles might develop blisters later, but she knew the outcome could have been far worse. She felt like a fool for standing so close to the fire, but she crossly put the blame at Mr. Attwood’s feet. If he hadn’t been so distracting, she would have been fine.
She clambered to her feet and again twisted to see the fire’s damage.
“Oh, no, my new apron,” she said in dismay. The strings had crumbled to half their length, their blackened ends in sharp contrast to the gray fabric of her skirt. She hadn’t even had the opportunity to give it a proper starching…which was likely why it so easily went up in flames.
“Your petticoats and skirt are undamaged. Maybe a bit of singing on the hem but…” he trailed off lamely.
Seeing his slight flush made her relive the last few moments with growing horror. He had pulled up her skirts to her knees. He’d seen her pink silk stockings and probably her garters. Maybe even the edge of her drawers.
Dying in flames would be less mortifying.
“Thank you for your assistance, sir,” Mia said with a fortifying breath while they both avoided looking at each other. “I’ll just finish that washing now.”
“You can’t do anything with that hand,” he immediately protested. “It could blister and then burst and become infected.”
“The clothes are already in the wash. I can’t leave them in there indefinitely,” she explained as she began her way back to the pot of now luke-warm water. “There’s only a few of your shirts and…”
“I’m sure I can go to the village and hire a woman to do it,” he called after her in exasperation.
“For a mere ten minutes of work?” Mia scoffed as she made a wide circle around the fire. “It wouldn’t be worth the walk. No, sir, I’m quite well enough to finish.”
She bent to take hold of the wash beetle handle again when Mr. Attwood nudged her to the side.
“Damn it, you’re a stubborn woman. I can manage this myself if it comes to it.” He held the handle of the wash beetle between his thumb and index finger and swished the beetle slowly through the wash water, eyeing the murky contents with a distasteful curl of his lip.
Hiding her smile, Mia tried to be encouraging. “You may have to get your hands wet but you’re doing wonderfully so far.”
“Don’t you have a wash tub for this?” Mr. Attwood said, as the beetle clanked about in the pot.
“The cottage didn’t have one. For this small amount of clothes, I’d thought we’d manage,” Mia explained. “They’ve been soaking for a while. We can rinse them in the stream now.”
“Rinse them?”
“To remove all the soap.” Really, it was like instructing a child.
Mr. Attwood shot her a suspicious look as if she were adding unnecessary steps but ended up following her simple instructions without faltering. Mia managed to remain expressionless when she saw his slight hesitation before pegging his drawers to the clothesline.
It now seemed they were even. They both had an eyeful of each other’s undergarments.
And a wicked part of Mia admitted that she’d rather have seen Mr. Attwood wearing his instead of merely blowing in the wind.
Chapter 7
“Why did you purchase that book of children’s stories?” Dominic asked.
It had taken a great deal of badgering to have Mia accompany him to the village. She had said that she had chores to finish, but Dominic had taken one look around the tiny cottage and seen that everything was in its proper place. She had even scraped the ashes out of the stove and given it a good blacking the day before. He also noticed that her right hand was still an angry red and blisters had formed on her knuckles. It had to be painful to flex her fingers in the slightest so his insistence that she take a few hours of rest was really in her best interest.
They had spent the majority of the walk to the village in silence, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. It seemed foolish for her to spend what little money she had on books. She’d rotated the same three gowns over the past ten days, and he was reasonably certain that she only had one apron to her name. His youngest sister, Edith, had at least a dozen ballgowns and would still prefer another over purchasing reading material.
“It’s interesting to learn how different countries have different traditional tales. The Irish with their fairies. The Swedes with their trolls. The ogres of France. My father and I met a great many traders and sailors who told me those stories. I couldn’t resist seeing how the Grimm brothers differed,” Mia explained.
“I don’t think I know a single fairy tale,” Dominic admitted. He wasn’t ashamed of this gap in his education, but Mia looked appalled. “What is different about English fairy tales?”
“Well, most encourage hard work but there’s a great deal of silly people – fools, really – who still manage to rise to power. Ridiculous men who marry princesses through no real effort.”
Dominic could tell from her tone that she disapproved of such outcomes. It seemed Mia didn’t suffer fools or loafers gladly. Hardly surprising. The only time he’d seen her remain still at the cottage was when she was instructing him how to wash his clothes and he already knew that she was more curious and well-read than the average country person.
There was a disparity between the ethics of the gentry and the laborers. His own class of people were encouraged to spend their days in idle amusement and now he discovers that folktales value hard labor. He wondered if she’d set him firmly as a wastrel. He had resisted reading Georgiana’s book out of mere disinterest and he’d hardly done anything more difficult than cleaning out Monaco’s stall for weeks --- and he had mentally praised himself for even that small bit of labor.
“I do know a great deal of Greek mythology,” Dominic offered quickly, then mentally mocked himself for trying to impress a maid. “Are you familiar with those tales?”
“Not a bit. Is there a common element in their tales?” she asked, turning toward him. Her almond eyes were dazzlingly blue in the summer sunlight and he forgot her question for a moment.
Sex.
That was definitely the only word that came to mind when it came to a theme of Greek myths and he certainly couldn’t say that to a young lady, especially one in his employ.
“Uh, many half-man creatures.”
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Half-man, half-beast. Perhaps the head of a bull and the body of a man. The body of a horse with the head of a man. Women who have the bodies of eagles. They kidnap young ladies, attack ships, eat young men.”
“Hmmm. So the Greeks prefer their villains to be monsters? Their behavior is so despicable that even their physical appearance is changed. Perhaps the Greeks thought such heinous acts shouldn’t even be associated with men.”
“Well, their gods were rather discourteous too,” Dominic said though he was astounded by her acute observation. His Greek professor at school had tried to lead his Harrow classmates to the same conclusion, but they had all merely stared at him, glassy-eyed and lethargic. He and his classmates had only pretended to be fascinated by the myths, so they had an excuse to goggle various paintings of Zeus seducing bare-breasted women.
“Have you been to Greece, sir?”
“Unfortunately, no. I did tour the Continent for a few months but only traveled as far as Rome. I have seen the Elgin marbles in London but that’s hardly a substitution for Athens itself.”
The tiny village appeared before them. Dominic was a bit startled to see a cow lazily chewing cud, previously hidden by a scots pine. He was continually amazed to see animals roaming about freely. Geese and sheep were constantly in the road and great red cattle, the same cherrywood color as this newcomer, wandered about where they would. It seemed the idea of orderly hedgerows had not made its way to Lincolnshire�
��or at least, not this section of the Lincolnshire Wolds.
“This is Thomasin,” Mia said with a laugh at his surprise. She walked forward and stroked the cow’s dark red muzzle. “She’s practically the village pet. She’s clever and returns home before nightfall. She won’t hurt you.”
“I’m not afraid of a cow,” Dominic said derisively and was rewarded for this slight by the red beast staring at him somberly. “I just was surprised to see its face nearly at eye level. We have many at home though they must be of a different breed.”
“Well, a cow could still kill you.” Mia ignored the imminent danger by giving Thomasin a pat on her rounded side. “But it’s unlikely. Thomasin is a Durham. You can tell by her beautiful color and her sweet short face.”
Mia continued walking again and, as Dominic trailed behind her, he took a wide step around the cow’s furry head once he noticed the long strands of drool trailing from her still-chewing jaws.
“Are you gentry, sir?” Mia asked abruptly.
“Why do you ask?” Dominic had been very careful not to reveal his title though he’d be hard pressed to explain why.
“Your accent. You’ve toured the continent and visited museums. You own cattle but don’t know what breed they are.”
“I merely said we also have cows in Hampshire. I believe all of England has cows.”
“No, you said ‘we have many at home.’ Not ‘My father has many cows.’ Or ‘We do have cows throughout Hampshire,’” Mia countered as they made their way through the tiny village. “The ‘we’ is implying a family unit whether you wanted it to or not. And it’s really only aristocrats who speak in such grandiose terms.”
“Still, that’s not entirely…”
“And the way you walk,” Mia interrupted him. “Only a man used to being the most powerful figure in the room walks like that.”
“I may just be an arrogant ass.”
Mia raised her eyebrows and smiled smugly as if his assertion wasn’t too far from the truth either.
“Mine is not the grandest title in the land,” he grudgingly admitted. “Though you’re hardly being deferential to a member of the peerage.”
“As a tinker’s daughter, I’m already at the bottom of our social order. Everyone is my superior,” she said with a laugh as she opened the chemist’s door wide. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “But your secret is safe with me…my lord.”
Insubordinate and irreverent. But it was hard to be indignant when she was laughing up at him.
He was about to enter the shop when a voice called behind them.
“Mia, may I have a word?”
They both turned to see that tiresome preacher, Reverend Martin, standing in the middle of the street. He must have been visiting another parishioner and spied them from a window. Mia glanced at Dominic to ask his permission and he nodded. He could certainly navigate a chemist’s shop without her.
But as he entered the store, he realized he hadn’t an inkling of where to begin. He usually had tailors, hatters, and shoemakers come to his home. He’d been in various ladies’ shops to buy presents for his sisters or lovers…a pair of gloves, new stockings, a rather hideous hat covered in artificial cherries that he was assured was the newest in fashion…but this shop was a mystery to him.
Huge barrels nearly blocked the door, and the items stacked in front of the windows effectively hampered sunlight from entering the low-ceilinged room. Stepping into the gloomy interior, Dominic looked about the room. The tinctures, concoctions, and ground up bits of…something unidentifiable…were more mysterious than any trick a street magician pretended to conjure.
“May I help you?” A voice cheerfully asked, a voice completely at odds with the grim surroundings. Dominic turned to see a bald man with a wide smile and twinkling blue eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles wiping down a jar with a rag. “You’ve come from Neville Lindsey’s place, right?”
“Yes,” Dominic answered. “I need a package of lucifers.”
“The name’s Sidney Guest. Pleased to meet you. Lucifers are back this way.” The man motioned for Dominic to follow him through the maze of shelves. “We have everything you need right here. Well, not much that’s edible. We do keep some tinned food on hand though it hardly ever sells. And why would it? It’s awful. That’s fo’ navy men and bachelors, to be sure.”
“Just the lucifers.” Dominic’s eye was caught by a large metal tub leaning against the wall. “Is that a wash tub?”
“Yes, it’s one of those new dolly tubs.”
“I’ll need one of those too.”
“You’ll need a dolly then too. A wash beetle wo’ reach the bottom.” The salesman’s eyes were very merry behind his spectacles as the sale grew larger. Dominic nodded dismissively. The expense didn’t concern him.
“Do you have any aprons?” he asked, remembering Mia’s obvious disappointment when her own apron, though plain and unremarkable, was blackened.
“Certainly, right this way.” Mr. Guest picked his way over brooms, mops, and a precariously balanced saw. “Don’t suppose you need washing soap too? Oh, no, you’ve plenty of that.”
“This is an unusual chemist shop.” Dominic muttered, as he followed the shopkeeper and smartly stepped over a sleeping hound that sprawled across the aisle.
“Well, we could hardly survive on merely selling medicines and tonics and tinctures in a village this small! We pride ourselves on providing everything a person could want. No need to venture to Lincoln at all.” The shopkeeper stopped in front of a hook where dozens of aprons hung. “Now, are you needing a leather one or your standard cotton? What color is preferable?”
At Dominic’s blank look, the shopkeeper continued. “Well, what kind of work are you doing? Butchering? Blacking shoes? Forging, perhaps?”
“No, I’m looking for a female apron,” Dominic explained.
“I shoulda’ realized,” Mr. Guest laughed after giving Dominic’s expensive clothes and well-manicured fingernails a once-over. “We stock a few bolts of cloth, but you’d have better selection at the clothiers. Women know how to make an apron themselves, so we don’t sell many of those here!”
Mildly insulted that the shopkeeper didn’t think Dominic was capable of any type of labor, Dominic explained, “It’s for my maid. Hers was ruined this morning in a fire.”
Honestly, Dominic thought Mia’s apron was salvageable since only the strings were burned but it seemed ridiculous for her to have only one apron to her name.
“No! She just had that apron made!” The shopkeeper shook his head in dismay. “She likely didn’t starch it because the last time she was in, we hadn’t any. It’s restocked now though so I’ll add that to your order too. The starch, I mean, not the apron. Like I said, we don’t have women’s aprons here. Mia’s not handy with a needle but Mrs. Foxe – the seamstress across the street – likely still has her measurements and could make up another by the end of tomorrow.”
“It isn’t a gift…” Dominic began to explain himself. He hardly needed rumors spreading about the tiny village about his and Mia’s relationship. He would return to Hampshire in a few weeks, but she’d be left here to weather the speculation.
“Oh, no,” Mr. Guest waved away Dominic’s words airily. “No one would even blink. It’s not as if your purchasing lace-edged garters! And our Mia’s head couldn’t be turned by an apron.”
“Yes, I believe that is all,” Dominic said, refusing to be shocked or amused by Mr. Guest’s mention of garters, lace-edged or otherwise.
“Will you be taking these with you, or would you prefer we deliva’ them this afternoon?” Mr. Guest bent to scribble item descriptions and numbers on a piece of paper.
“This afternoon would be fine.”
“And should I ask Mrs. Foxe to begin working on that apron?” Mr. Guest kept his expression politely blank.
Dominic paused for a moment. “Yes.”
“Yes, Mia is no hand with a needle,” Mr. Guest reiterated as he continued to scribble on the p
aper. “Tom Tillman could hardly be expected to teach her how to sew a fine seam.”
Dominic wanted to come to his maid’s defense, but he could hardly champion her sewing skills when he hadn’t seen her do more than repair a ripped hem and replace a button. And thinking of her poor abilities reminded him that Mia was also not the most accomplished cook.
“My maid – Mia – also burned her hand in that same fire this morning. Is there a baker in the village or perhaps a widow who would be pleased with an extra shilling or two for making a meal and bringing it around to the cottage?” Dominic found himself holding his breath in hopes eating something other than another watery soup.
Mr. Guest grinned widely. “Now, Mia’s no hand in the kitchen eitha’. Lettice found that out the first week. Her old man, John Denning, told Lettice to give Mia all the heavy lifting chores while Lettice herself should man the stove.”
“I have no complaints,” Dominic assured him. “Mia’s hand is blistered and shouldn’t be near the heat of the stove for the rest of the day. Perhaps longer.”
“Now, the baker, Oliver Ruston, still hasn’t gotten ove’ Mia refusing his marriage proposal. He’ll likely spit in your suppe’. Or worse,” Mr. Guest mused, thoughtfully chewing on the end of his pencil for a moment. “But the widow Marwood makes a tasty haslet and a fair pie.”
Dominic was unfamiliar with ‘haslet’ and he’d known too many variations of pie to feel entirely certain of what the Widow Marwood would produce. But he hadn’t tasted pork or beef or even had a bite of bread since the village fair and his stomach growled uncomfortably at the thought of eating anything that hadn’t bubbled for hours in a soup pot.
“I’ll tell Widow Marwood to make it a fair size portion. Big fellow like you is probably starving if Mia’s holding the ladle.”
“I’m not complaining about Mia’s cooking,” Dominic insisted loyally.
One Enchanted Summer Page 7