Love Finds You in Prince Edward Island

by Susan Page Davis

  “I enjoyed it, Stark. Always a pleasure to have a decent horseman as a riding companion.”

  His Honor ambled down the hallway, leaving evidence of his passing in little clumps of red mud on the rug. Peter smiled at the casual compliment, picked up his boots, and stood. Now if he could only make it to his room without dropping them. He set out cautiously, hoping he didn’t meet anyone on the way. He threw a glance over the railing as he passed through the gallery over the main hall. One of the footmen was crossing below in the direction of the dining room.

  Peter turned the corner into the hall of the north wing and stopped suddenly, face-to-face with a girl. No, not a girl—a young woman. A very pretty young woman, with golden hair and blue eyes. As he took in the shocked expression that drew her lips into an O, he realized she was the same maid he’d encountered the previous afternoon when under Milton’s guidance.

  “I beg your pardon.” He held his mud-caked boots well away from their clothes and turned sideways to keep them even farther from her dress. Her gaze traveled from his face along the length of his outstretched arm to the boots and then down to his feet. Peter’s face heated as he considered that she now regarded his stocking feet. “I…er…riding…”

  She looked up with a quick smile. “To be sure. Would you like me to take those boots for you, sir?”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Why not? It’s our job to make your stay comfortable.”

  “Oh, it is. I am. I mean…” Peter gave up with a shrug and a tentative smile. “Sorry. I’m Peter Stark.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you are…?”

  She hesitated, and her cheeks flushed prettily. “I’m Molly, but I don’t think…”

  Of course. She was forbidden to speak to guests unless they asked for some service. He should have known better. “I’m sorry, Molly. I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position.” His own awkward position, with the heavy boots held out at arm’s length, struck him suddenly, and he laughed.

  Molly laughed too and reached out. “There now, sir. Let me take those. You must have other shoes you’ll be wearing today. Breakfast will be waiting for you and the master, I’m sure.”

  Still Peter hated to give over the boots. He didn’t begrudge Molly earning her living, but this seemed too grubby a task for a woman like her. “They’ll get your dress dirty.”

  “That’s what my apron is for.”

  “All right.” Slowly he lowered the offensive boots and let her take them by the comparatively clean tops.

  “There! We’ll get these cleaned and oiled for you and back in your room before your next ride.”

  “I doubt I’ll get to ride again before His Highness arrives.” Her eyes flickered. All the young women must be aflutter over the impending visit. Peter asked, “Are you eager to see the Prince of Wales?”

  “I admit I am. Curious, you might say. But I’m much more interested in seeing Lord Washburn.”

  Peter eyed her carefully. Surely he had misunderstood. “You wish to see Lord Washburn?”

  The young woman’s face flushed, and she looked away. “I beg your pardon, sir. I shouldn’t have spoken up.”

  “Yes, you should have. Tell me, what is your interest in the Earl of Washburn?”

  “Oh, I don’t think…” She refused to meet his gaze. “I should go and tend to these boots, sir.” She stirred as though to flee.

  “Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m employed by His Lordship, and if there’s anything I can help you with…”

  “You?” Her eyes flew wide open. “Oh no, sir. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It’s really my grandfather who would like to see him, not me personally. My family…” She stopped again, and Peter sensed great reluctance on her part.

  “Yes?” he asked gently. “Your family would like to petition the earl?”

  “Not exactly.” She shrugged. “We have a connection, that’s all, and my grandfather hopes for a chance to meet him. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  Stunned, Peter stepped aside and watched her walk swiftly down the hall toward the corner. This lovely young maiden living in the colony and holding a menial job had a family connection to his master? The earl had said nothing during their voyage together of having relatives in the colonies. Peter was certain he would remember something like that. But if she was truly related to Washburn, what was she doing cleaning muddy boots at Government House? Perhaps she’d simply meant that her grandfather was at one time employed at Washburn’s estate. Still, she’d said “a connection.” Didn’t that mean a relationship? Or could it mean something else? A business connection, perhaps?

  “Wait,” he called.

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “I mustn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Of course she mustn’t. Peter turned and walked slowly to his bedchamber. If she was caught talking to him, she would probably lose her job. He should have known better than to try to engage her in conversation—to imagine that they had something in common. He wished social barriers hadn’t come between them. If she only knew that he was more on her level than the governor’s. Under other circumstances, he’d be taking his meals in the servants’ hall with her and the other maids and footmen. But because of his assignment, she assumed he was one of the aristocracy.

  That thought brought a mirthless chuckle. Even if it were possible for Peter to better himself and attain a higher station, he wasn’t sure he’d want to. Why on earth would anyone wish to climb the social ladder to gentility when such a winsome young woman belonged to the working class?

  Molly took the muddy boots down the back stairs and entered the kitchen, heading toward the laundry. Allison, who was washing dishes, caught her eye and smiled. The cook also spotted her.

  “Ack! Get those filthy things out of my kitchen!”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s what I’m doing.” Molly quickened her pace.

  “Be those from the young master who’s staying in the gold room?”

  “Aye. He went out riding with the governor this morning.”

  “You’d think it would be the horse with the muddy shoes, now, wouldn’t you?”

  Molly stared at her. Had the severe cook made a jest?

  “Uh…yes, ma’am, you would.”

  “Set them in the laundry. One of the footmen will tend to it.”

  “I could do it, ma’am.”

  “Oh, no. Mrs. Bolton says we must have everything spit-spot today, for we’ve no idea what time the royal folks will arrive, now do we? Supposing they came a mite early and arrived at the dock tomorrow?”

  Molly rid herself of the boots and scrambled back up the stairs to the second floor. She would rather stay below and clean Mr. Stark’s boots than make up the chambers of the duke. She had a feeling about Mr. Stark—that he wouldn’t lay blame on the servant if a spot were missed on his fine leather boots. Now, the Duke of Newcastle she wasn’t so sure about.

  At the top of the grand staircase she met Mrs. Bolton. The housekeeper’s starched black dress crinkled as she walked, and the keys hanging from her chatelaine clinked.

  “What are you about, girl?”

  “The gentleman had dirty boots from his ride, ma’am. I took them below to be cleaned.”

  “Ah. Well, I’ve just inspected His Royal Highness’s chambers, and I believe they are in order. Are the duke’s rooms ready?”

  “All but the fresh flowers and water. The fire is laid and ready for a match.”

  “Good. And the general’s?”

  “I believe they’re nearly ready. Rosaleen is doing the last of the dusting.”

  “Go and help her finish. And when Mr. Stark goes down for breakfast, you must tidy his room while he’s gone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Molly hurried to the bedchamber Mrs. Dundas had assigned to General Bruce, who had been designated the prince’s governor. Molly wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Was he some sort of tutor or companion? The title almost sounded like a male governes
s. But the prince was eighteen years old. Did he still need close supervision?

  “Ah, there you are.” Rosaleen turned as Molly entered the general’s room. “I believe we’re about finished in here.”

  “I’m sorry I was delayed. I had to take some muddy footwear below stairs.”

  “Well, no harm done.” Rosaleen peeked out the window toward the wooded park behind the house. “If it dries up enough, perhaps we’ll be allowed to go out and pick bouquets tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Molly couldn’t help but cheer up at that prospect. “The gardener won’t do that?”

  “He might. But I’ve been allowed to help him do it before. It’s a pleasant task.”

  “Yes, I should think so.”

  “And if it does brighten up, the gardener will be busy catching up on the work he couldn’t do while it was wet and muddy. Now, Mrs. Bolton wants us to put fresh water in the pitchers in each of the guest chambers today and to change it in the morning if they haven’t arrived. Whenever they get here, we must hurry and put hot water there as well, so that the prince and the other gentlemen can wash and shave before dinner if they wish.”

  “Oh, I just saw Mrs. Bolton on my way here, and she said we must straighten Mr. Stark’s room while he’s downstairs for breakfast.”

  “Right. Maybe I’d better go do that while you fill the pitchers.”

  Molly nodded, a trifle disappointed that Rosaleen would be the one to clean Mr. Stark’s chamber. But that was silly. She had so much to do as it was; she shouldn’t wish for more work. Still, her curiosity about him had burgeoned since their second meeting. He’d said he worked for the Earl of Washburn. He could tell her what sort of man the present earl was, if she had occasion to ask him. But Molly found her interest more focused on Peter Stark himself. He seemed a bit mysterious, and she wished she knew more about his background.

  She took the pitcher from the washstand and headed for the chamber next door. So many details to remember. Her mind kept jumping back to her encounter with Mr. Stark, which didn’t help her concentrate on her work. Just thinking about his smile and his slight embarrassment when she’d caught him tiptoeing stocking-footed through the halls made her pulse accelerate and her cheeks heat. Had she made a mistake in telling him that she had a connection to the earl? Would Grandpa Anson be angry if she told him?

  Telling Mr. Stark might turn out to be a good thing, she reasoned. The gentleman might be able to help her grandfather gain an audience with his master. She shook her head and threw that thought aside. She was unlikely to speak with Mr. Stark again, and even if she did, she could hardly ask him for a favor for her grandfather.

  Chapter Six

  “And is this a fair sampling of the population?” Peter skimmed the list of more than two hundred names. “The prince will want to meet dignitaries and businessmen but also plain, upstanding citizens.”

  “Yes,” said Dundas. “We’ve included farmers, merchants, and shipbuilders. We’ve tried to make Friday’s levee accessible to any of the male islanders who wish to take part. Of course there won’t be time for more than a couple hundred to be presented to His Royal Highness. After the list was filled, the rest were told to come to the afternoon party in the garden. They can at least get a glimpse of the prince then.”

  Peter nodded, knowing it was probably the best arrangement they could make—unless it poured rain and washed out the garden party. The more people who saw the prince up close, the better. So far this tour was proving good public relations for the Crown.

  He and Dundas faced each other across the desk in the lieutenant governor’s office, on the first floor of his home. Peter’s mind reeled at the thought of receiving so many guests in an hour, and yet the prince had done so—with good humor—in Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, and New Brunswick. The Duke of Newcastle had insisted that the levee in Charlottetown be limited to an hour. Peter wondered if the Earl of St. Germains would be able to read that many names in the limited time.

  “And St. Germains will stand on the prince’s right?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, and the Duke of Newcastle on his left. When the gentlemen enter the drawing room from the hall, they will give their cards to Captain Lea—a most reliable man—and he will give them to St. Germains. After the men have been announced and they’ve bowed to the prince, they will retire through the folding doors at the end of the room.”

  Peter nodded. “That sounds reasonable. I shall probably be on hand to help keep the line moving. Oh, and if you’ve any questions whatsoever about royal etiquette, St. Germains is your man. He is Lord High Steward of Her Majesty’s Household, and he knows simply everything about proper conduct in these situations and the correct address of the aristocracy.”

  “Good to know. Now, for His Royal Highness’s entertainment…” Dundas shuffled some papers on the top of his desk. “We’ve planned a carriage ride into the country on Thursday afternoon if he lands in time and the weather cooperates. And as you’ve seen, we have excellent horses waiting, if he’s able to get a ride in either before dinner on Thursday or the next morning. Whenever he wishes, actually.”

  “He does love to ride. What about hunting?”

  “Yes, I think there is time for a shooting party after the levee. It’s all very closely planned, of course. The public is invited to the lawn party at half past three on Friday, and the prince can make as long an appearance as he likes. There will be a band and so forth. And at dusk, before he goes over to the ball, he’ll view the illumination of the ships of war with my wife and me. The lanterns and fireworks should be spectacular, provided it’s not pouring rain. Such a bother, this rain.”

  “It must be a trial for you, with so much planned for the prince’s short visit. Now, about the guests at His Royal Highness’s meals…”

  “Here are the lists. Local dignitaries at Thursday’s dinner in plain clothes, in case the royal party arrives later than expected.”

  Peter nodded.

  “Other guests, including several ladies, have been invited to enjoy the evening’s entertainment after dinner. Then a small party at luncheon on Friday, after the levee—with a short carriage drive in between if possible, so the prince can see more of the countryside. And at Friday’s dinner, we’ve invited the same number of guests as on Thursday evening but different people, so more can have contact with the prince. Ladies will also be included in that party.”

  “Good. I see that a generous supper is planned for the ball.”

  “Indeed. We’ve been informed that the caterer should arrive on the same ship as the prince.” Dundas grinned sheepishly. “I’m afraid our cook is a bit put out that the government hired a New York chef to accompany the royal party.”

  “Oh, yes, the chef is going with the prince wherever he goes and will cook whenever members of the royal suite stay in private homes.”

  “I understand perfectly. It’s our cook whose nose is out of joint.” Dundas laughed. “Personally, I’m looking forward to a change of cuisine, but you mustn’t tell any of our staff that I said so. It was dreadfully hard to find as good a cook as we have.”

  Peter laid down the papers he’d been studying. “I think, Governor Dundas, that you and your people have prepared very well. Better than some, in fact, though you mustn’t let out that I said so.”

  Dundas laughed. “Excellent, my boy. You warm my heart, and we shall keep counsel together. My wife was in a dither about the fireworks, but I told her that we cannot control the weather, not even for His Royal Highness. If it is wet, she and I will view the illumination with the prince from the balcony. That will have to suffice.”

  “I’m sure it’s the best plan, with all the activities scheduled for that evening.”

  After meeting several local officials who would take part in the welcoming ceremonies, Peter left his host for an hour’s stroll about the grounds before luncheon. Afterward, they were due to inspect the site of Friday evening’s ball, which was to be held in the legislative chambers of the Colonial Building. They�
�d already viewed the prince’s specially prepared rooms, which were plush indeed for the colonies. Peter’s head swam with numbers and details. He appreciated the chance to get away by himself and relax in the wooded area with an illusion of being miles removed from the city.

  The reluctant sun slid out from behind wispy gray curtains, and the woodland path he followed was nearly dry underfoot. This would be a good place for the prince to walk to get away from the crowds, he thought—though “Bertie” might find it rather tame. The young Prince of Wales enjoyed bustle and activity. He’d be pleased that shooting and riding had been squeezed into his itinerary.

  Peter found himself eager to see the Earl of Washburn again. His master was a steady, levelheaded man. So far Peter had managed to stay calm while dealing with the lieutenant governor, the mayor, and others responsible for bits of the presentations, addresses, and entertainments, but the minutiae threatened to overwhelm him. He had never before assumed responsibility for anything so large or so public. His usual duties for the earl consisted of much smaller and more personal matters.

  In England, Peter tended to details such as making certain the tenant farmers had the supplies they needed and that transportation was provided for any new livestock the earl bought at auction, while Washburn’s steward took care of such concerns as rents and plans for the estate. Overseeing the farmers’ tenants on Washburn’s country estate was Peter’s favorite part of his duties. The four months or so spent in London each spring for “the season”—that is, the social season of the upper class—were, in Peter’s mind, wasted. He would much rather be riding about to different tenancies and watching the farmers plant their crops. Not only did he enjoy that position of trust, but Peter realized how blessed he was to have a job he liked so well.

  Still, he wished he could forget the old scandal that had led the earl to seek him out and the stigma it brought. He didn’t expect lavish patronage from the earl—Washburn had his own family to think about and leave his wealth to, and his estate was bound by strict and complicated laws that did not include the likes of Peter Stark. But this job had meant a world of difference to Peter and his mother. With his small salary, they lived without fear of hunger, and he could walk with his chin up and not feel shame.