Peter was desperate to move past this particular topic. “And you would not miss London? Norfolkshire is a very different place than the city.”
“I would not miss London, sir,” she said, following his change of subject without a pause. “I am eager to live in the country again and have only applied for such positions that would allow as much.”
“Did you grow up in the country, then?”
“Feltwell,” she said. “Some thirty miles from here.”
“Hmm,” he said. Silence descended yet again. Had the interview lasted long enough that he could put a stop to this without her feeling as though he had cut it short? Peter counted to ten before standing. “Well, thank you for your time, Miss Hollingsworth.”
She followed his lead and stood, reminding him again how tall she was. Nearly eye level with him. He must have showed his surprise because she smiled sheepishly. “I promise that my height does not affect my work.”
He responded to her humor and smiled automatically. “Of course not. Neither does mine.” They stood facing one another for a moment until he remembered himself—again—and inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hollingsworth.”
“The Cranstons called me Miss Julia,” she offered. “Hollingsworth was rather long for the children.”
“Oh, well, Miss, eh, Julia, then.”
She smiled. It made him feel out of place again.
He turned to leave but paused at the doorway. “I shall be sending word through Mr. Hastings as to my decision within a few days.”
She nodded her understanding, and he left the tiny room. Once in the hallway, he rolled his shoulders in hopes of easing the tension that had settled at the base of his neck. Had he been in there for an hour or fifteen seconds? After taking a moment and a breath—the gravy smell helped to restore his senses—he headed toward the foyer of the office. What an uncomfortable meeting, he thought. She would never do.
“Ah, there you are, Mr. Mayfield.” Mr. Hastings pushed himself to his feet. “The other two applicants have departed. When might I expect your decision?”
“I have decided upon Miss Lawrence,” Peter said, striding past the man to the rack where he’d hung his coat upon arrival. It was a relief to be finished with this business, and he was more eager than ever to return home.
“Oh?”
“Yes, yes, Miss Lawrence is exactly what I am looking for. Perfect, in fact.” He put his arms through the sleeves of his coat and turned to say goodbye to the agent only to meet the light-blue eyes of Miss Hollingsworth, who was standing in the hallway behind Mr. Hastings. Their eyes met over the round man’s head, and her shocked expression struck him like a physical slap. Their eyes locked for the longest second of his life before she ducked back into the broom closet without a word. His face flushed with embarrassment.
He hated to be the cause of her distress, but in the next moment he wondered if he should even want to make it right. He knew she would not suit, and to go after her and apologize would only extend the discomfort that already had him feeling so unraveled. Perhaps it was not very gentlemanly, but ignoring it still seemed the better course.
He straightened. He’d done nothing wrong by making a professional decision he believed would be best for his household. That she’d overheard him was unfortunate but not intentional.
Miss Hollingsworth would find another position better suited for her, and he would be all the more grateful for Miss Lawrence and her dour looks because he would be comfortable having her in his home. Peter thanked Mr. Hastings a final time before leaving the office without looking back. He ignored the sick feeling in his stomach and forced his thoughts toward home and all that awaited him there. Routine. Purpose. Focus.
Julia
Julia stepped back into the broom closet so she could have a moment to recover. She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut against the overwhelming humiliation.
Why did I follow him out?
If she had stayed in the room she’d have never known that it had been her interview that had made up his mind to choose another candidate. But as he’d left the closet, she’d realized she’d said nothing about her proficiency at both the pianoforte and flute. She’d hoped that mentioning the additional abilities would further recommend her for the position she felt certain was perfect for her. The country setting was familiar and enticing; there were two little girls to care for and dogs to enjoy—she missed being around dogs. Additionally, Mr. Mayfield seemed like a steady man, and his home was close enough to Mother’s house for visits, but not so close that Mother could manage Julia’s life.
The interview had seemed to go well, and yet Julia was apparently wrong about everything. She would have to return home and tell her mother that the interview had come to naught, which she feared was exactly what her mother wanted.
Mr. Hastings came to fetch her. “I shall let you know Mr. Mayfield’s decision before the week is out,” he said. “I will send word to the address on your application.” It was a kind lie.
Mr. Mayfield had looked at her, met her eye as she stood in the hall, yet he’d made no attempt at reparation for what she’d overheard.
You are only a servant, she reminded herself.
“Yes, thank you.”
It was only a few minutes’ walk to the inn where she’d engaged a room for the night, an expense justified by her belief that she would be offered the position. Now it was a waste of money. It wasn’t until she was behind the bolted door of her room that she realized she hadn’t ordered a dinner tray, though that was another expense she could not afford, especially now. Her options were either to eat in the dining hall with the other guests or return to the front desk and request the tray. Neither option felt worth the effort. She had a packet of walnuts in her bag; they would sustain her until morning when she could go down for an early breakfast before she caught the mail coach back home at seven o’clock.
She wanted nothing more than to crawl under the unfamiliar covers and stay there the rest of the afternoon, evening, and night, and since she had nowhere else to be and nothing else to do, she decided to do exactly that. There were not many chances in life to give into self-pity; she would take full advantage of it now that she could.
It was noon the next day before the coach pulled up in front of Leery’s Pub in Feltwell. She was glad to be amid the safe and comfortable, but the village of her youth was not “home” anymore, and she felt as though she were returning after having lost a battle. Julia waited for the other passengers to exit the carriage before she stepped down, wishing the tightness in her chest would loosen. She would be facing Mother in a few minutes and needed to put a positive light on the interview. Otherwise Mother would ask too many questions or offer comfort that, more and more often, made Julia feel small and incapable.
“Your bag, miss?” the driver asked while another man began pulling the luggage from the underside compartments. Julia pointed to her valise—an old leather thing that had once belonged to her father. The driver handed it to her, and she thanked him. Her back and head ached from the jarring roads, her stomach hurt from hunger—she had not gone down to breakfast after all—and one would think she’d walked the whole way with how fatigued she felt. Was it too much to hope she might be able to climb under the covers two days in a row? Probably.
Julia made her way down Millborn Road and over the bridge. The apple orchard—planted where the dog yard had been when Papa was alive—filled the back half of the lot, which was larger than most. Mother managed an herb garden on one side of the flat-fronted house, and a row of irises served as a living fence around the whole of it, but it was the row of primroses bordering either side of the walk to the front door that drew her eye.
They had begun to bloom a week or so earlier, and the bursts of yellow and pink were increasing each day. They reminded Julia that all was not lost, joy would come again, but they did not entirely dis
pel the gloom she felt. She bent down and broke off one pink bloom at the base, twirling the round little blossom in her fingers. There was nothing sensational about a primrose, but there were also no thorns.
Julia looked from the bloom to the house again and felt the gloom darkening even the power of the primrose. Mother kept a very fine house and grew a lovely garden, no one would argue the point, but the longer Julia stayed in this house, the more she feared she would never leave. Instead of tucking the bloom behind her ear as she would have when she was young, she dropped it back onto the mound of color and leaves she’d plucked it from. Primroses could only be brought in the house in groups of thirteen—some folklore Mother had heard once—and Julia did not think Mother would appreciate her picking a dozen more.
Upon opening the front door, Julia inhaled the smell of yeast and fire that had forever been the scent of her childhood. The familiarity brought the first measure of calm Julia had felt since yesterday’s interview. Mother’s bread was as much a part of the household as was the porcelain tea set she’d inherited from her mother and the portrait of Papa that hung over the mantel in the front parlor. Footsteps from the kitchen preceded the swinging door that divided the home from the kitchen and, more importantly, the bake room at the back of the house. In the Hollingsworth house, the kitchen was not an out of the way room that the family rarely saw. Rather, it was a gathering place where Julia had spent her youth observing, more than participating in, the interactions of her family. There had always been enough people with something to say that Julia had been content to listen. Papa had been like that too.
Mother, with her bright eyes and a kerchief tied over her hair, smiled widely at her youngest daughter while wiping her hands on her apron. “Julia, dear, I am so glad you returned safe.” She pulled Julia into an embrace without bothering to stop talking. “I swear I did not sleep a wink all the while you were gone. I wish you’d have let me go with you.” She looped her arm through Julia’s and fairly dragged her into the kitchen, barely pausing for breath between her chatter. “I’ve just finished some bread, so your timing is exceptional.”
Once in the kitchen, Mother released Julia’s arm and moved toward the sideboard, where she picked up a towel and used it to cover her hand as she flipped the still-hot bread from the first pan. Mother liked bread baked in rectangular pans that created uniform slices rather than the typical tray-baked loaves that were higher in the middle than at either end. There were three loaves this afternoon, which meant Mother would be going out in order to give away two of them. Mother had been raised a gentleman’s daughter, but marrying Papa—a banker—had led her to learn how to be useful in ways beyond the drawing room.
Julia sat at the table and went about removing her bonnet.
“How was the interview?” Mother removed the other loaves of bread from the pans and placed them on cooling racks. “What was the father like? When will you know if he chose you for the position?”
“He did not choose me.” Julia hoped her voice sounded even. She placed the bonnet on the table and smoothed her hair, worn in a twist with tendrils on either side of her face because that was how Mother preferred it, and it was easier to avoid Mother’s advice by simply doing things her way.
Mother looked up, an upside-down loaf of bread in one towel-covered hand and the empty bread pan in the other. “You were told already? I had thought the agency would send a letter? Is that not usually how it is done?”
Julia brushed away nonexistent crumbs from the tabletop. “I know already.” She kept details of the positions she applied for to herself so that her mother could not be critical of them. She still hoped Julia would stay in Feltwell, find a husband, and give her pretty grandbabies as Julia’s older sister and brother had done. Mother set down the bread and the pan, then came behind Julia and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Julia did not want or need her mother’s comfort. Well, maybe a little.
“I am so sorry, Julia. And after you traveled all that way.”
Julia lifted one hand to pat Mother’s arms that encircled her shoulders while wishing she could feel just her own regret. To have to carry Mother’s as well was too much.
“It is all right,” Julia said, keeping her tone light and unconcerned. “I shall be better prepared next time.”
Mother released her embrace. “Hmm.” She moved back to the bread as her focus shifted from compassionate to problem-solving. Her solution would be predictable, and Julia readied her response—equally predictable. “Will you still not consider going to Louisa instead? You were such a help for her, and you would be nearby.”
Julia had spent two weeks with her sister Louisa, who lived two miles west of town. She had enjoyed the children—all five of them—but Louisa’s home was too small to afford any privacy, and Julia felt the same obligation to meet expectations as she felt when she was at Mother’s.
“I want a paid position, Mother. I enjoy my independence.” Not for the first time Julia wondered if she ought to write the words on her forehead so that every time her mother considered advising differently, she would be reminded of Julia’s opinion. But, then, Mother would likely ignore words written on Julia’s forehead as easily as she ignored the words that came out of Julia’s mouth.
As the youngest child in her family, Julia was prone to be parented by her mother, her sister, and her brother; even Simon’s wife had taken to clucking over Julia like an overanxious hen. Julia must seem incapable—it was the only explanation. That, and the fact she had so often let others make decisions for her in her youth. Perhaps it was simply a habit for them to continue to do so.
At seventeen, she’d begun assisting the teacher at the school she attended with Louisa. Julia had loved teaching, and Mother was willing to let her take some time before she entered into the business of finding a husband.
By the time Julia turned twenty, she had decided she wanted to be a teacher. Mother wouldn’t have it and had pulled her from the school, taken her to a dressmaker, and put her in the shows. Or at least that’s how Julia had felt about the dances and dinner parties and garden teas that were all about making the right connections in hopes of making a match. The process brought out her worst anxieties, and after two years, Julia decided she’d had enough. There must be better things to do with her life than say the right thing and wear the right thing and do the right thing—all the time. There were few options for Julia to have a different future than the one expected of her, but she liked teaching children and had been well educated herself.
To apply as a governess was the first decision Julia had ever made completely by and for herself. When she announced to her mother that she’d taken a position . . . oh, the fury had been unprecedented, but the freedom of taking a coach alone for the first time the next day had been everything she’d hoped it would be.
In London, no one asked why she was not married or told her what colors to wear or how best to style her hair to complement the shape of her face. She socialized with her own class when she wanted to, attended church when the mood suited her, and wore her hair however she liked. She’d enjoyed the children in her care, read books, walked through the parks, and enjoyed her own company. Now, however, she was home again. The unmarried daughter who had gone into service—the worry of her mother, the project of her siblings. Not quite right. Not good enough.
Julia hadn’t realized her mother was talking and became attentive in time to hear again of the benefits of Julia going to Louisa’s home—all things Julia had heard before. She would be nearby. She would be connected to her family. She would have the opportunity to socialize.
Julia kept her expression attentive and listened politely as Mother cut two slices of bread and spread them both with butter that melted immediately. Mother made the very best bread in town—everyone said so—and Julia’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. If she were not so hungry, perhaps she would not have been so patient with this tired advice.
Julia took a bite of bread and chewed slowly, truly trying to savor it appropriately, then swallowed and smiled at her mother. “It is delicious.”
Mother grinned, her cheeks plumping up, but her eyes—the same light shade of blue as Julia’s—showed concern. Julia ate the bread while her mother’s smile lines fell back into worry ones.
“My poor girl,” Mother said, reaching out to press her hand against Julia’s cheek.
Julia pulled away, startling her mother . . . and herself. “I am all right.” Her words were as tight as her chest, and she looked away from the hurt that sprang into her mother’s eyes. She laid the slice of bread on the table, not hungry enough to prolong this conversation. She placed a hand on her mother’s arm and smiled without trying to hide her fatigue. “I am tired, Mother. Forgive me. I think I shall rest until supper, if that is all right.”
Julia stood and turned from the bread, the table, her mother, and the pity. In London, she’d been confident and comfortable with herself, but as soon as she’d come home, she was “poor Julia” again. At Louisa’s, she was “Julia, dear.” Why could she not just be Julia? Why did her accomplishments not count in the minds of the people who were supposed to love her best? How had five years of living away not served to change her family’s opinion of her ability to make her own decisions?
As Julia climbed the narrow stairs to her bedchamber, she thought again of Mr. Mayfield. He’d been disappointed in her too—disappointed enough to hire someone else and dismiss Julia without a second thought. Maybe it wasn’t only her family that did not see her. Maybe no one did.
Once in her room, Julia stepped out of her shoes and, for the second day in a row, crawled beneath the covers and wished she could shut out the world completely.
There will be other positions, she assured herself with the blanket pulled over her head. She had applied for three and was waiting to hear back on the other two. This was obviously not the right one. God has a different path for you to trod. She’d been so sure she was meant to have this place—with this family—but it had come to nothing. She would wallow one more afternoon and then accept what was. Her father used to say “Smile it away, come what may.” She’d try that tomorrow.
Promises and Primroses Page 3