Thankfully, she wasn’t alone. She had the Lord to depend on and He had yet to fail her. She never forgot that before she loved Him, He had loved her. Even in her darkest hours, when she’d been near starving, expecting a child and leeched of hope that Sam would ever return, He had not forsaken her. Instead, He’d brought Harry Keen into her life and then the Malburys, a loving and godly family who cared more for people than convention. Without them and their willingness to take her on despite her being an expectant mother, she would never have been able to keep Andrew or supply a roof over their heads.
Picking up two of the buckets by their rope handles, she headed outdoors. The thought of losing Andrew chilled her to the marrow. He was a gift from the Lord and the center of her existence. She’d do anything to protect him, to ensure he remained with her and in the happiest home she could provide. If that meant scrubbing pots and pans until her fingers bled, then that’s what she would do.
The first luncheon dishes arrived to be washed just as she finished drying the last pan from breakfast. By midafternoon, her hands were raw from the hot water and strong soap, and her feet ached from the hours she’d spent standing on the unyielding stone floor. It was a great relief when Ina fetched her to help the chambermaid make beds upstairs.
Early evening found Rose back in the scullery, another teetering mountain of pots and pans beside the sink to be washed. Hearing Mrs. Pickles’s joyless voice in the corridor set her teeth on edge. She glanced around for a bucket to empty outside as an excuse to escape the stern woman.
“Smith, there you are.” The cook stopped in the doorway. “I have revised instructions for you tonight.”
Rose faced the older woman. “What am I to do, ma’am?”
Mrs. Pickles dried her hands on her long, white apron. “You’re to go with Ina to a house on Hanover Square. There’s a well-to-do gentleman, a Mr. Samuels, I believe, who is short staffed for a dinner party he’s hosting this evening. Baron Malbury is keen to win his favor and has graciously offered to send the two of you to assist.”
“When are we to leave?” She wrung out her dishrag and laid it over the edge of the sink to dry.
“Immediately. I’ve already given the address to Ina. Be certain you change your apron before you depart. You look like day-old porridge,” she tossed over her shoulder as she left.
Rose wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple and pushed back the damp tendrils of hair falling around her face. As she climbed the stairs to her room, she removed the offending apron and wished she could crawl into bed. Exhaustion crippled her. Considering the day had started with a carriage accident before dawn and gone progressively downhill from there, she began to wonder what trials the night held in store.
A downpour accompanied Rose’s unfamiliar trek through Mayfair’s confusing maze of slippery cobblestones and fog-shrouded streets. Her shoes squeaked from more than one dunk in a mud puddle and her soggy bonnet had quit shielding her face from the rain two blocks earlier.
The short jaunt should have been uneventful, but due to a pugnacious individual who seemed to believe he owned the entire footpath, Ina had been pushed off the curb and sent reeling into an open sewer. Her twisted ankle and filthy skirts left her unfit for work. After calling a hack to convey the other girl home, Rose had pressed on alone.
Shivering and keenly aware that she was late for the second time in the same day, Rose made use of the knocker on the glossy, black kitchen door of the Samuels’s townhouse. As she always did when visiting a new place, she worried she’d misread the address and come to the wrong establishment.
The door swung open. Heat from the stove and the delicious scents of savory dishes emanated from the large work area beyond. A uniformed footman stared down at her.
“Hello, I’m Rose—”
“My name is Robert. Weren’t there to be two of you?”
“Yes.” She explained about Ina’s predicament. “She twisted her ankle and had to return home.”
“I suppose that’s why you’re late?”
She nodded.
“The master’s waiting for you and his guests are expected soon. Follow me.” The footman stepped back to allow her entrance into the warm, cavernous basement that smelled of herbs and cinnamon.
“The master wishes to see me?” Struck by the oddity of the situation, she handed over her sodden bonnet, muddy cape and umbrella. Damp patches spotted her gown and a rip marred the hem. Water from her wet hair trickled down her temples and the back of her neck. “You must be mistaken. I’m in Baron Malbury’s employ. Mrs. Pickles sent me to help with the shortage of kitchen staff this evening. Why should your master wish to see the likes of me?”
Robert shrugged. “It’s not my place to ask, miss.”
“Does he interview all the temporary help?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
As she followed the footman, she noticed the copper pots bubbling on the wood stove and the variety of roasted meats resting on the chopping blocks. Kitchen maids buzzed about doing chores and putting the final touches on the sauces and desserts. Unlike the Malbury townhouse, or even Hopewell Manor at times of late, this kitchen seemed well staffed—perhaps overly so.
A flight of stairs delivered them to the ground floor where a checkered pattern of black-and-white marble anchored the central hall. Massive paintings of somber individuals looked down on her from ornate, gilded frames hung on walls covered with blue-watered silk.
Until now, she’d found Hopewell her ideal of refinement, but the grand manor where she’d worked for the past several years seemed like nothing more than a pretty house compared to the opulence on offer here.
“This way, miss.”
The faint sound of servants discussing the proper placement of cutlery filtered out of the dining room as Rose trailed the footman past marble busts, cut-crystal vases filled with hothouse flowers and a massive etched mirror. She cringed at her ghastly reflection of bedraggled hair and cold, blue-tinged lips.
Robert stopped in front of a door and rapped on the dark wood.
“Enter,” came a muffled order.
The flash of pity that crossed Robert’s expression gave her pause. “He’ll see you now.”
Trepidation snaked through her as he opened the door. The peculiar situation couldn’t be discounted. Employers usually took as much notice of their lower servants as a fallen leaf in the park.
With nervous fingers, she brushed damp tendrils off her face and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt before she hesitantly crossed the threshold.
The scent of lemon polish and leather greeted her. Despite the glow from the fireplace, shadows lurked in the corners of the masculine room. Shelves crammed with books lined the walls and her exhausted brain began to ache at the thought of trying to decipher even the simplest among them.
“That will be all, Robert.”
Gasping, she spun in the direction of the deep voice.
Sam’s voice.
Disbelief coursed through her. Her heart clamored in wild abandon even before she found him standing behind a wide, polished desk at the head of the room.
“Hello, Rose.”
Copyright © 2014 by Carla Hughes
ISBN-13: 9781460335413
GROOM BY DESIGN
Copyright © 2014 by Christine Elizabeth Johnson
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