Groom by Design

by Christine Johnson

  Aware of the unlikelihood of finding the stranger in the crush of people and that a solid quarter of an hour had passed since he’d first caught sight of her, he soldiered on as though some insistent, yet invisible force were pulling him forward.

  Half a block later he began to wonder if he should retire to Bedlam. If there’d ever been a wild-goose chase, he was on it. Feeling foolish to his core, he scanned the hustle and bustle along the street and shook his head at his own stupidity. The woman, whoever she was, had disappeared like a vapor in the wind.

  Annoyed by the bitter disappointment that assailed him, he wedged the portfolio under his arm, removed his top hat and combed a hand through his short, black hair. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he’d ever be truly free of Rose Smith.

  His hat back in place, he was determined to forget the blonde and the lunacy that compelled him to chase after her. The pounding of workmen’s hammers making repairs on the row of buildings behind him mixed with the call of newspaper boys and the clamor of horses and carriages. In the distance, the bass notes of a church bell announced the ninth hour.

  A momentary break in the rank of pedestrians allowed him a glimpse of his quarry on the corner at the next block. His heart kicked against his ribs. He sprinted after her, her lovely hair drawing him like a lodestar as he pushed through the gaggle of people meandering along the footpath.

  A gust of wind swished the lady’s cape up and out behind her. She carried a battered valise he hadn’t noticed before, and the black garb she wore appeared to be the typical frock of a servant.

  A passing barouche and row of horse carts impeded his progress at the corner of Holles Street. For a few, tension-filled moments he feared he’d lost her again, but the way cleared in time for him to see her stop in front of a Palladian townhouse on the east side of Cavendish Square. Although she stood in profile, the details of her face were obscured by the bill of her bonnet. Her head nodded as she looked from the front of the building to a piece of paper she held.

  The paper gave him pause. Rose didn’t know how to read, or at least she hadn’t when he’d known her. Perhaps she’d learned in the past nine years, the same as he had acquired new skills and bettered himself.

  He picked up his pace. “Rose!” he shouted, drawing startled looks from the other walkers, but he paid them no mind. “Rose!” he called again, dodging several horses as he crossed to the square. No response. Either she didn’t hear him over the activity in the street or he had the wrong woman altogether.

  And yet she seemed so familiar. The fluid way she walked, the expressive tilt of her head... The cape she wore made it difficult to tell, but now that he’d had a better look, she seemed shapelier in the hips and bust than his Rose had been. But wasn’t that to be expected? She was no longer a girl of sixteen, but a mature woman of twenty-five.

  The mystery lady disappeared down the townhouse steps leading to the servants’ entrance. Sam yanked off his hat and broke into a run. A door slammed just as he reached the front of the house. He moved to the narrow flight of steps he’d seen the woman take and stared at the scuffed black door that led to a basement and the source of the rich aromas filling the air.

  Sam slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. He considered inquiring after the woman but discarded the notion. Servants were often a prickly lot with an abhorrence for being intruded upon by outsiders.

  Besides, what would he do if he found out his quarry did happen to be Rose? Strangling her wasn’t an option and he doubted she’d come willingly to the door to hear his abysmal opinion of her.

  He noted the address. The townhouse boasted mansion-size proportions, wide front steps, imposing columns and lead-glass windows. If he wasn’t mistaken, the edifice belonged to Baron Malbury, a shifty fellow who’d risen to his current status through the untimely death of his predecessor in a boating accident the previous month.

  Sam had been reluctant to take on the self-important, nearly impoverished peer as a client, but if Malbury employed Rose, he’d have to reevaluate the situation and determine the best way to use the connection to his advantage.

  Sam returned to the corner across the street and called to a newspaper boy leaning on the gas lamp.

  “Aye, govna?” the boy rang out as he bounded over to him. A child of no more than seven or eight, he was unkempt with dirt smudges on his cheeks, his muddy-brown hair uncombed. His ragged clothes were too big for his scrawny frame and the hungry look about him reminded Sam of his own miserable childhood. “You wan’ ta buy a paypa?”

  Sam shook his head. He’d already looked over The Times at breakfast. “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Georgie, sir.”

  “Well, Georgie, I have a proposition for you. How would you like to earn a quid for say...ten minutes of your time?”

  Georgie’s brown eyes rounded with a hopeful eagerness he couldn’t quite hide. “If it ain’t on the up and up, me mum—”

  “Oh, it’s honest, all right. You needn’t worry. I want you to go to the servants’ entrance of that residence—” he pointed to the Malbury mansion “—and ask if there’s a maid by the name of Rose employed there. If so, ask if her name was Rose Smith before she married. Do you think you could do that for me?”

  “That’s all I ’ave to do for a ’ole quid?”

  Sam nodded. His gaze slid back to the mansion. His eyes narrowed on the glossy front door. Curiosity burned in his veins. “Yes, and if you hurry I’ll give you two.”

  Georgie took off at a flat run.

  * * *

  Praying she’d come to the right place, Rose knocked on the kitchen door. Ever since she’d become a Christian eight years ago, she’d relied on the Lord to direct her path. Relying on His guidance eased her mind when the shifting letters and numbers others seemed to read with ease made little sense to her.

  The scuffed black door swung open. “Ye’re late,” said a young, frowning kitchen maid.

  She blinked, surprised to see a woman instead of a footman answer the door. “I know. I apologize. The coach from Paddington station suffered a broken wheel.” Her heart racing from the mad pace she’d kept in her failed attempt to arrive on time, she switched her battered valise to her other hand and descended the final step into the basement. A blast of heat assaulted her along with the aroma of roasted fowl. “I had to walk the last few miles and I lost my way a bit. I came as quick as I could.”

  The door slammed shut behind her as the dour-faced Scot ushered her farther into the entryway. A stone arch separated the small space from the ovens and activity of the kitchen beyond. The harried staff reminded her of the frantic crowds in the maze of streets outside.

  “Then yoo’d best get settled an’ tae work straight awa’,” said the maid. Dressed in a column of black wool and a sullied white apron, the young woman inspected her with a quick, unimpressed glance. “I don’t ken how ye bumpkins in th’ coontry work, but our cook, Mrs. Pickles, isna a body for tardiness or excuses of any kind.”

  Taking exception to being called a bumpkin, Rose bit back a tart reply as she followed the maid down a hallway that led to a spiral staircase. Before leaving Hopewell Manor, the Malbury family’s country estate where she’d been in service for the past eight years, she’d been forewarned of the infamous Mrs. Pickles’s reputation as a taskmaster. It was said the cook ran her kitchen like Wellington at Waterloo and with nearly as many casualties.

  The mere thought of losing her job made Rose’s stomach churn. It was imperative that she make a favorable impression on the irascible woman who held Rose’s job in her hands. Rose was on excellent terms with the staff at Hopewell Manor and only in London for a fortnight to help with a shortage of trained servants in the townhouse kitchen, but that did not mean she couldn’t be dismissed. The tragic death of the previous baron and his wife had put the livelihood of every Malbury employee in jeopardy.<
br />
  Apparently, the new baron had inherited the title and lands with very little coin to sustain the expenses that accompanied the prize. His servants worried he planned to terminate long-term staff in favor of importing cheaper, Irish labor. Nothing could be taken for granted, nor a foot placed wrong. She could not afford to be sacked. Finding another position was nigh impossible for anyone and doubly so for a woman in her precarious situation.

  “My name is Rose Smith, by the way,” she said over the banging of pans and calls for more boiling water.

  “Ah be Ina McDonald.”

  “Have you been in service here long?” Rose asked as they reached the third floor.

  “Six months. Five and a half too many if ye ask me. Min’, th’ auld baron an’ baroness were kind enough, but Mrs. Pickles makes every day a sour circumstance.” Ina took a skeleton key from her skirt pocket and unlocked a door across the hall. “Ye’ll be sharin’ quarters wi’ me whilst ye’re here. Keep yer belongings tae yer own side of the room an’ we’ll get on jus’ dandy.”

  Rose found the converted attic similar in size to the room she shared with Andrew at Hopewell Manor. Her former employers had always displayed a unique sense of Christian charity toward their servants’ well-being and the snug space was pleasantly situated. Morning sunlight and a cool breeze streamed through two dormer windows dressed with faded blue curtains. Simple white moldings edged plastered walls painted in a cheerful shade of yellow.

  Three single beds hugged the opposing sides of the room. Ina had claimed the one left of the door and arranged her few belongings with obvious care and neatness in mind.

  “Hurry, if ye ken what’s good fur ye.” Ina headed back to work. In a rush to follow her, Rose moved to the bed nearest the windows and set her valise on the scuffed, but freshly swept wood floor. She would have to make up the bare mattress later.

  She hung her cloak and bonnet on the wall hook at the end of the bed before opening her valise to fish for a fresh apron. The faint hint of talcum clung to the extra work frock, Sunday-best dress and other belongings that filled the case. With no more time to find the small mirror she’d brought, she did her best to repair her hair and repin the long blond tendrils that had bounced free when the coach suffered its broken wheel. She wished she could remove her shoes and rub her throbbing feet. They ached from miles of walking and she had a long day ahead of her.

  As she stood to tie the apron around her waist, she glanced out the window and took in the bird’s-eye view. Amid the colorful parasols and scurry of pedestrians, a tall man on the corner of the square across the street drew her attention. The refined dark business suit and top hat he wore vouched for his importance, but there was a solitary quality about him that she recognized in herself.

  Despite the need to make haste, she remained nailed to the floor. The distance between her perch and the square kept her from seeing the gentleman’s face. She willed him to move closer.

  Instead, the newspaper boy he spoke with darted toward the Malbury townhouse whilst the man turned his back to her and made for one of the ornate, wrought-iron benches set along the gravel path. Tension wafted off him in waves.

  A flock of pigeons scattered like feathers in the wind, jolting Rose from her musings. With no more time to spare, she dragged herself from the window and shut the door behind her as she left the room.

  The stirring of curiosity toward the stranger surprised her. Not since Sam had she noticed a man with any personal interest on her part. After all they’d meant to each other, he’d simply forgotten her. He’d been gone for over a year before she’d given up all hope and admitted to herself that he’d cast her off the same as everyone else in her life had done. In turn, she’d banished him from her heart and mind—or at least tried to.

  “How good of you to join us,” a stern voice said the moment Rose reached the bottom of the stairs. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust well enough to see the gaunt, gray-haired woman in spectacles at the opposite end of the hot, dimly lit corridor.

  “I am the household’s cook, Mrs. Pickles. You shall report to me or the housekeeper, Mrs. Biddle, while you are employed here. Ina informed me your less than punctual arrival this morning is due to the state of the roads and an unreliable vehicle. I shall let the incident pass this once, but do not test me on future occasions. I do not abide tardiness in my kitchen. Since we’re short staffed, you will work as a between maid whilst you’re here. However, since the lion’s share of your time will be spent in the kitchen and scullery, rather than the rest of the house, you shall look to me should you have any questions. You are expected to be ready for work promptly at half past five each morning. To my way of thinking Mrs. Michaels allows you far too many liberties at Hopewell Manor. Be mindful that those privileges won’t be extended here.”

  A ring of keys she extracted from her pocket jangled as she unlocked and opened a dark-paneled door. “What are you waiting for? Come into my office, and be brisk about it, if you please.”

  Rose’s black skirts swished around her ankles as she rushed past the older woman whose rigid spine, stiff shoulders and prim collar made Rose wonder if she’d bathed in starch.

  The spotless office smelled of pine oil and drying herbs. A battered bookcase bowed with old crockery and receipt books stood in one corner. Rose checked her posture and waited like the wayward servant Mrs. Pickles apparently believed she was. The cook folded into the chair behind the heavy oak desk with the ease of bending stone and removed her wire-rimmed spectacles.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Pickles released Rose to work. Armed with the names of her superiors, the litany of her duties, a lecture on propriety and a key to her room, Rose aimed for the door.

  “And one last thing,” Mrs. Pickles said the moment Rose turned the smooth brass doorknob. “I trust you aren’t in any trouble. Your personal difficulties won’t be tolerated in this household.”

  Rose paused, unable to hazard a guess as to what the cook meant by that cryptic remark. Was she warning her against the prospect of bringing Andrew up to London? “I assure you I’m only here to do my duties to the best of my ability, ma’am. I’m grateful for my place at Hopewell Manor and look forward to returning there once you no longer require my assistance. If you’re referring to my son, he’s staying with a relative in the country. I assure you I have no intention of bringing him here.”

  Mrs. Pickles returned her spectacles to the bridge of her nose before folding her hands into a tight knot on the desktop. “Ah, yes, the child.” Her thin lips curled distastefully. “Michaels mentioned him when she wrote to me about you. It seems everyone at Hopewell Manor, including the former master and his family, is quite taken with the pair of you. However, you are no pet here. I warn you that I’m wise to women of your questionable character, who put on airs and mimic their betters—”

  “Pardon?” Rose grew hot in the face. She didn’t mimic anyone. Aware that most people considered her far beneath their notice, she’d made a concerted effort to capitalize on the education she’d received while living at the orphanage.

  Although her inability to learn to read embarrassed her, she’d striven in other ways to improve herself. She had no wish to disgrace her son or give the other parents and children additional reasons to look down on him because of her lowly background or poor speech.

  “—and bear children out of wedlock, then take advantage of the charity of others. Be aware that this is a respectable household. If you wish to sell your favors or dangle men on a string, then I suggest you go elsewhere for I’ll have none of your antics taking place under this roof.”

  Offended to her core but forced to tread lightly lest she lose her much-needed employment, Rose prayed the Lord would guard her mouth. “Mrs. Pickles, I’ve made mistakes in the past to be sure, but I promise you I don’t participate in the behavior you’ve described.”

  “Then be so good as to explain
why, within minutes of your arrival, a boy came to inquire about you at the behest of a man waiting across the street.”

  “A boy?” She frowned.

  “Yes, the paper hawker from the opposite corner. He asked if Rose Smith worked in service here. When Miss McDonald told him you did, he explained about the man who’d sent him, then promptly ran away.”

  The image of the well-dressed gentleman popped into her mind and an unexpected surge of excitement made her heart flutter. “Did the lad happen to mention the gentleman’s name?”

  Mrs. Pickles shook her head. “Am I to assume you may be familiar with the identity of your admirer?”

  “No, ma’am.” Rose’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “I haven’t the slightest idea why anyone would seek me out. This is my first venture to London and other than asking for directions from a rag woman a few streets over, I’ve spoken to no one.”

  Mrs. Pickles stood, her expression skeptical. “You may claim you’re not looking for a man, but according to the boy, there is definitely one looking for you.”

  “I assure you, ma’am, I—”

  “Yes, yes, you’ve no idea who he might be,” the cook said. “We shall see. Off to work you go. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

  Rose wasted no time leaving the office and making her way to the scullery. Smarting from the housekeeper’s accusatory manner, she despised her lowly lot in life and her inability to defend herself. The foul odors rising from the buckets lined against the stone wall gagged her. Towers of breakfast dishes stood beside the sink filled with food-crusted pots and pans. Dampness from shallow puddles on the floor pervaded the small, windowless closet of a room.

  Resentment rippled through her. Thanks to someone else’s whim, she’d been sentenced to the kitchen’s dungeon once more. The years she’d spent toiling her way up to kitchen maid, then cook’s assistant might as well have never been.

  After fetching and heating the necessary buckets of water, she filled the sink and rolled up her sleeves before placing a stack of plates in to soak. She reminded herself to be grateful she had a job at all. The walk through London’s crowded, fetid streets this morning had proven she could ill afford to be particular. At the best of times, females had few, if any, real choices and a woman like her—with a young child to care for and no husband to rely on—had fewer options still.