An hour under the butler’s tutelage did more to shatter Molly’s composure than the prospect of serving royalty. Mr. Reynold’s piercing gaze and demands that she adhere strictly to a plethora of rules had Molly shaking within minutes. She doubted she could ever keep straight the order of the courses and the correct manner of serving dozens of dishes.
At noon, she helped set up the dining room, assisting Mr. Reynold and the two footmen who would also serve at luncheon. Only four would sit down at the table—Mr. and Mrs. Dundas, Mr. Stark, and the mayor of Charlottetown, who was coming by to discuss business with the lieutenant governor. The small party would be less nerve-racking in some ways than a larger one—fewer people would see Molly’s mistakes. But with so few diners, Mr. Stark would be difficult to ignore.
Molly wasn’t sure when he noticed her presence, as she forced herself not to look his way when he and the others entered. He chatted genially with the Dundases and the mayor, and every time she sneaked a look at him, she intercepted his smile. In fact, he didn’t seem to stop smiling throughout the meal. She determined not to glance his way too often, as her stomach did odd contortions each time that she knew weren’t caused by her hunger—she wouldn’t get to eat her own lunch until she was finished serving. Instead of thinking about Mr. Stark, she made herself concentrate on following Milton’s lead as the head footman flawlessly performed his duties. It fell to Molly to serve the mayor his soup, and it took every ounce of calm she could muster not to spill any.
Course by course, they went through luncheon. Mr. Reynold had assured her that this meal would be much simpler than the late dinners served in the evenings. Molly was not to serve that night but should be prepared to serve at either luncheon or dinner on Thursday if needed. Of course, that depended on how well she performed today.
When at last the time arrived for the dessert course, Milton kindly allowed her to pass plates of sweets rather than expect her to pour coffee. While Eustace, the second footman, whisked away the dishes from the previous course, Molly carried the confections to Mrs. Dundas first, then to the mayor, and then around the table to Mr. Stark. She kept her gaze downcast, on the tray that she held precisely level.
“I’ll have the strawberry compote, please.”
She set the cut-glass dish carefully on the table before him.
“Thank you very much, Molly.”
She caught her breath. His gentle, intimate tone startled her. Unable to keep her gaze from him any longer, she glanced upward for an instant. The intensity of his brown eyes made her look away at once. She bobbed her head in acknowledgment of his comment and went on around to Mr. Dundas, her pulse hammering.
The lieutenant governor looked over the selection of desserts, an amused smile playing at his lips. “The chocolate cake looks good.”
“It’s a torte, my dear,” his wife murmured.
“Ah. I’ll say it again—it looks good. Consider that a ‘retort.’ ”
Mrs. Dundas smiled indulgently, but the mayor let out a huge guffaw and Mr. Stark chuckled. But Molly knew he was watching her, not his host.
Servants must never, ever react to the conversation among the family and their guests. That was one of Mr. Reynold’s top rules. Molly clenched her jaw so tightly it ached to keep from laughing. If only she could leave the room—but that would be a horrible blunder. She stood holding the tray until she’d quelled the shaking in her stomach. Carefully she set a plate with a generous slice of torte before the master of the house.
“Thank you,” Dundas said. “Molly, is it?”
“Aye, sir.” It came out so low, she cleared her throat…lest he speak to her again and she had to answer.
He nodded and she turned away, relieved to step back out of his notice. Eustace winked at her, and that helped her overcome her urge to laugh. Eustace did not amuse her, though he’d tried once or twice to impress her over the last few weeks and often attempted to flirt with the unmarried maids. He held no interest for Molly, however, and she was able to smooth her features into neutrality. As she carried the tray toward the sideboard, she couldn’t help being very aware of Peter Stark’s constant gaze and gleaming brown eyes.
August 9
The prince’s ship arrived in the rain on Thursday. A salute of twentyone guns fired from St. George’s Battery by the Volunteer Artillery alerted the city. Lieutenant Governor Dundas and the members of the legislature hurried down to the wharf, where they stood in formation, tolerating the drizzle that beaded on their fine hats, as the ship anchored. The mayor of Charlottetown was also present, along with the members of the city corporation, the judges, the high sheriff, the colonial secretary, the attorney general, the archdeacon, the postmaster, and so many other dignitaries and businessmen that Peter could hardly believe they’d all squeezed onto the wharf. If the pier’s supports should give way, all the city’s highbrow citizens would be dumped into the saltwater below.
In addition to this collection of welcomers, a troop of Queens County Volunteer Cavalry was on hand to lead the procession of carriages. A company of the Prince of Wales’s Volunteers and the 162nd Regiment’s band formed a guard of honor at the end of the wharf, prepared to march along to Government House as an escort to His Royal Highness.
Peter hung back at the edge of the crowd and watched the royal party disembark. A barge brought them from the steamer to the pier. The prince made the landing unaided and waved to the people, who responded with cheering. Albert Edward, though young, with a stillboyish face, carried himself with military bearing. His scarlet uniform tunic of the British Army was set off with a blue sash and black trousers with a narrow red stripe down each leg, glinting black leather boots, white gloves, and a black cocked hat that sported a tuft of white plumes, signifying the Prince of Wales. His regimental sword hung at his side. The crowd grew more boisterous as their distinguished visitor waved and smiled, yelling until they were hoarse in welcome to their future ruler, the beloved Queen Victoria’s eldest son.
Among the other aristocrats, Lord Washburn climbed the ladder to the wharf. Peter couldn’t hope to get near his master yet, but he saw the earl scan the throng as the initial welcome addresses were given. Washburn nodded in satisfaction when his gaze picked out Peter, and Peter gave a smile and a quick nod in acknowledgment.
After Dundas’s formal greeting, the presentations were cut short so that the prince could retire to Government House, where he could dry off. Even in the drizzle, thousands of people lined the streets and cheered as the cavalry preceded the royal carriage from the waterfront and under several decorative arches sporting patriotic sayings and designs made of flowers. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, one triumphal arch made of spruce bows declaimed. Another shouted, RULE BRITANNIA. HOWEVER, THE HEIR APPARENT was one that had been hastily modified after some citizens protested the original saying on the arch—OUR FUTURE KING. Some folks had taken umbrage with that, as it seemed to show a mild disloyalty to Queen Victoria and imply that the folks in the colony anticipated the end of her reign. It took several public meetings, but the flowers had been ripped off that morning and replaced in a pattern that formed the new accolade for the prince.
Peter followed along in the wake of the carriages. He could have ridden in the fourth carriage with the prince’s physician and the attorney general, but when Governor Dundas had suggested it, he’d declined. He preferred to walk with the crowd and remain in the background.
The walk to Government House, where Mrs. Dundas awaited her regal guests, was less than a mile, and the clouds overhead so far held back their fury. Everyone seemed to be in a cheerful mood as they followed along behind the prince, many walking in step to the band’s lively tunes. Peter had no trouble keeping pace as the vehicles moved slowly up Queen Street, giving the people a good view of the man who, despite the nuances of the mottoes on the arches, might one day rule them—and allowing the prince ample time to face his public and respond to their exuberance.
The Masonic Body had turned out in force, as had the Highland Society,
the Benevolent Irish Society, the Sons of Temperance, and several other civic groups. Admirers tossed bouquets of roses and wildflowers at the carriage—so many that the street was carpeted with those that missed the mark. Ladies stood at open windows overlooking the route and showered posies upon the prince and his companions. The shouting assaulted Peter’s ears worse than the cannons firing the official salutes had. The local newspaper editors could relax and forget their worries that the islanders would not turn out to show their support of the monarchy. To Peter’s way of thinking, the Prince Edward Islanders were giving one of the best welcomes he had yet seen on the tour.
As the carriages turned in at the driveway to the governor’s residence, the honor guard of the Prince of Wales’s Rifle Corps formed a line and held the crowds back outside the grounds. Peter quickened his pace and slipped through the gate beside the carriage in which his master rode. He managed to be the one who opened the door for the earl as the carriage came to rest before the pillared front of Government House.
“Peter! This is a splendid turnout.” Washburn laid his hand on Peter’s shoulder as he got out.
“Yes, my lord.” Peter held the door for the others as his master moved off.
The prince was already climbing down from the royal conveyance ahead, immediately before the front steps of the lovely mansion. Mrs. Dundas stood in the shadow of its graceful columns, waiting to greet him.
His Royal Highness mounted the steps and allowed the lieutenant governor to present his wife. Prince Albert Edward took Mrs. Dundas’s hand and bowed over it. Many a lady might have swooned, but Mary Dundas was of sturdy stock. She gave the crown prince a charming smile and welcomed him to her home and the island. They retreated inside, and the other members of the prince’s retinue followed.
Peter kept an eye on his master, in case Lord Washburn needed anything. The earl fell in behind the Duke of Newcastle and entered the house. Peter followed the distinguished guests up the steps. The local officials who had been invited were stopped at the door. Their names and calling cards were presented to Captain Lea, who put the cards into the hands of Lord St. Germains, who had the duty of presenting the gentlemen to the prince a few minutes hence, in Mrs. Dundas’s drawing room.
When Peter reached the door at last, Captain Lea blinked at him. “Oh, Mr. Stark, it’s you. Is this the last of them, then?” He peered about the portico as if expecting more people to pop out at him.
Peter grinned, realizing the captain was treating him as he would one of the young equerries who traveled with Prince Albert Edward. “I believe it is, sir.”
Lea let him in and said to St. Germains, “This is Mr. Stark. Perhaps he is known to you?”
“Indeed. He traveled with us from London as far as New Brunswick. Well met again, Stark.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Peter headed across the now-familiar hall. As he approached the doorway to the large drawing room, he noticed a line of servants, drawn up in their livery and best work dress. Nearly a score had been permitted to stand beneath the gallery to observe the prince and his retinue as they arrived.
Quickly he scanned the line and was rewarded to see Molly’s glowing face. Despite the bland black uniform and white apron and cap, she stood out among the others. Her eyes were vibrant with excitement, though she stood perfectly still with the others. Only a hint of her golden hair showed beneath the edge of her cap. Peter realized how little he knew about her, other than her wholesome demeanor, her frankness, and her winsome looks. If only he had time to learn more.
As the last of the visitors entered the drawing room, the butler spoke quietly to the row of staff and they dispersed, ready to serve the dignitaries. To serve their betters, Peter’s thoroughly trained mind had told him. And yet, why should those men in the drawing room be labeled “betters”? Molly’s father probably owned a farm. What made Newcastle and Dundas and Washburn “better” than an honest, hardworking farmer?
He didn’t question that they were better than himself. None of those men was the child of a woman born on the wrong side of the blanket. No matter how dignified and genteel his mother, she and her offspring would never, ever be admitted to the upper social class.
But Molly? Why was she a servant while her neighbor down the road most likely went in to meet the prince? Dundas had told him that some of the local legislators were farmers. Others owned businesses. One or two had studied the law. Molly might just as easily have been one of their daughters, and then he would rub elbows with her father this afternoon. She would have received a ticket to the ball along with the daughters of the local gentry. Instead, she would now carry trays of food and wash dishes and wipe up the spills made by the upper crust vying for the prince’s attention.
The dust covers had been removed from the furniture in the drawing room, the windows shined, and the mirrors polished. Fresh flowers spilled from vases at strategic points, and the woodwork gleamed. Mrs. Dundas and her housekeeper had done a commendable job—not to mention the bevy of maids who’d worked so hard this week.
With a heavy heart, Peter edged his way around the room until he stood a few feet from Washburn. Once, in Nova Scotia, the earl had drawn him into a very interesting conversation with a local agriculturalist. But it wasn’t up to Peter to initiate such a thing; if his master wished to speak to him, he would. Otherwise, Peter would stand quietly at hand, ready to assist if called upon. Like Molly, he knew his place.
Mrs. Bolton startled Molly when she called her aside with Allison, Deborah, and the first parlor maid, Roberts. “You four will help Mr. Reynold in the drawing room. He and the footmen will serve the gentlemen wine, and you will carry in the trays of sweets and scones that Mr. Sanderson and Cook have prepared.”
The scrubbing of floors and making of beds was over, and Molly hadn’t considered what duties would be assigned her while the royal party was in residence. Certainly not serving dainties in the drawing room.
“Allison!”
Her friend started guiltily. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Straighten your cap.”
Allison’s hands flew to her head in obedience. Molly looked straight ahead so as not to distract her.
Mrs. Bolton eyed them all critically. Not being reprimanded meant that Molly’s uniform and appearance were correct, but she still had to force herself not to flinch under the housekeeper’s inspection.
“Yes. Now, mind you, those of you who are new maids, Roberts has been with us for six years, and she knows what is what. If she tells you to do something or if Mr. Reynold should speak to you, do exactly what they tell you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Molly murmured with the others.
Mrs. Bolton nodded, still frowning as though she had some misgivings. “All right, then. Go into the pantry and pick up your trays. And remember, you are in the presence of your future king.”
They followed Roberts quickly through the kitchen, where Cook was showing the fancy New York chef where her pans were stored.
The undercook, Mrs. Randolph, watched the maids lift the trays of refreshments and shook her head. “Imagine. New girls, green as grass, going into the drawing room to serve royalty.”
“They’re ornamental,” Roberts replied.
Molly felt her cheeks flush. Was that the reason she’d been chosen for this task? Did Mrs. Bolton find her and Allison prettier than the other maids who might have served the refreshments? They’d been chosen over Rosaleen and some of the other older women. Though it wasn’t fair, it presented an opportunity, and Molly knew she must seize it. She determined not to make any mistakes so that the housekeeper would have no regrets and Roberts would not be blamed for her ineptitude. Perhaps Mrs. Bolton would ask her to stay on after the royal visitors left. But Molly didn’t want to obtain a job simply because she wasn’t stone-ugly. She wanted it because she would work hard and do the job well.
As they slipped into the drawing room, her attention was drawn immediately to the prince. Though she’d claimed otherwise, she found herself eager for a c
loser look at him. He was so young! In his uniform, he put her in mind of Nathan in fancy dress. At eighteen, the Prince of Wales was a lieutenant colonel in the Royal Army. She supposed they kept him away from battle lines and that the rank was purely ceremonial.
The other gentlemen stood in clusters, talking and laughing together. Which one was Washburn? Her grandfather would want to know if she’d seen him. She ruled out all the men younger than thirty. Was the earl the older gentleman with the luxuriant whiskers? Or the shorter clean-shaven man with gray hair?
She realized Allison was half a dozen steps ahead of her. Molly focused her attention on her task and carried her tray to the sideboard. Allison took a quick glance about and swished over to Molly. Leaning close, she hissed, “Look. In the corner, under the portrait of the prince consort. It’s Mr. Stark, dressed to the nines. And he’s looking at you.”
Molly nearly dropped her tray.
Molly’s blue eyes gleamed as she watched Prince Albert Edward. She made a charming picture. Peter didn’t doubt her wonder and innocence as he gazed at her.
He studied her features as she unobtrusively went about her duties but now and then sneaking glances at the party of aristocrats. After a few minutes, she took a nearly empty tray from the sideboard and disappeared. When she returned a short time later, she looked in his direction but not at him. Peter zeroed in on her eyes. Her features remained calm, yet she kept looking toward one person. After a minute, he was certain. Her attention was focused not on the prince, not on her tray of pastries, but on the Earl of Washburn.
A sudden need to protect Washburn swept over Peter. He eased a few steps closer to his master until he stood almost directly behind him. Perhaps he reacted too strongly. She had no malice in her nature—did she? How could he be sure?
As Molly approached, she glanced past the earl, and for an instant Peter caught her eye. She hesitated and looked down at the tray she held. Her cheeks went a deeper rose. Before the earl, she dipped a tiny curtsy. Washburn barely noticed her. He reached for a scone and kept on talking with one of the local officials—a judge, Peter thought.
Love Finds You in Prince Edward Island Page 8