The Lady’s Secret

by Joanna Chambers

  She gave him a deferential bow and turned back the way she’d come, forcing herself to walk at an unhurried pace. Behind her she heard the scrape of his key in the lock.

  When she entered the busy, chaotic kitchens a few minutes later, her stomach began to rumble at the wonderful smells that permeated the air and she realised it had been many hours since she’d last eaten. Mrs. Watt was giving the footmen their instructions for service of the meal while the cook and his assistants served up the second course.

  Georgy felt dizzy watching the feast being ferried past her on its way to the dining room. Gleaming silver platters were heaped with roast fowl—capon, quail, partridge and something large that she guessed must be goose or peafowl. There were several large joints of roast meat, lamb cutlets and stewed sweetbreads. Veal escalopes too, these last swimming in creamy béchamel sauce. Footmen carried up trays of potatoes, celery, endive and salad. And then there were the sweets—fruit tarts, pineapple jelly…the dishes kept coming and coming.

  She waited until all the food had left the kitchen before she stepped forward and Mrs. Watt noticed her.

  “Ah, Mr. Fellowes, at last. I was wondering when you’d arrive. How is your hand?”

  “It is fine now, ma’am. Thank you for the salve. My apologies for my lateness.”

  “No matter, Mr. Fellowes. You are not late. None of the upper servants have eaten. The others are waiting in the servants’ dining room.”

  Mrs. Watt pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen, then turned her attention back to the footmen, effectively dismissing Georgy.

  The servants’ dining room was a large, plainly furnished room dominated by a huge oak table. Numerous tallow candles burned brightly on the table, sideboards and on wall sconces. There were perhaps sixteen servants in the room, most of them ladies’ maids and valets by the look of them, the personal attendants of the lords and ladies presently sitting down to dinner in the formal dining room upstairs. They stood at the far end of the room, drinking hot punch. Steam rose from a large glass punch bowl on the sideboard, giving out the scent of Christmas, spicy and rich.

  In its small way, this group of upper servants was as elite as their masters and mistresses upstairs. None of them needed to scrub floors or black stoves or clean out fireplaces. They received their employers’ hand-me-down clothes, did not wear uniforms and earned many times more than the scullery maids.

  As one, they turned to look at Georgy.

  “Good evening,” one of the younger women said, smiling. She wore a smart pale blue dress and had brown hair coiffed in a simple but attractive style. It was her slightly flat vowels that gave away her status more than anything else. “Are you Lord Harland’s man?” she asked. “I’m sure I’ve met all the others now.”

  Georgy banished her nerves and smiled. “Yes, I am. George Fellowes, at your service, miss.”

  The girl—who looked to be about the same age as Georgy—smiled. “I’m Tilly Brown, Miss Howard’s maid. Gosh, you do look young to be a valet to a man like Lord Harland! However did you get such a position at your age?”

  Georgy shrugged. “I’ve only had one position before this—I was lucky his lordship was willing to take me on.”

  At last Mrs. Watt appeared, accompanied by the cook, and they were ready to eat. The butler, Mr. Jenkins, took the head of the long table and the rest of the servants gradually filled in the seats on either side, silently following long-standing rules of precedence. Georgy saw that Dunsmore’s valet took a seat at Mrs. Watt’s right hand so Georgy aimed for a seat close to him, in recognition that her master was also an earl.

  Within a very few minutes, several kitchen maids appeared bearing platters and trays and tureens of soup. Some of the food was left over from the first course that had been served to the guests upstairs, the rest were dishes that had been prepared for the servants themselves. It was an odd mix of plain English cooking and fine French cuisine. Meat pie on one platter, then trout à la genevoise on the next.

  “Is it true there’s to be a servants’ ball, Mrs. Watt?” Tilly asked once they had all been served and were tucking in with gusto.

  Mrs. Watt inclined her head as regally as any duchess. “It’s a Christmas tradition at Dunsmore Manor. I’ve been here for eighteen years and we’ve had it every year. And for many years before my arrival.” She paused. “The family—and their guests—take an early dinner so we can finish our duties early. The ball starts at ten o’clock. The family and guests usually come for the first hour and then the staff are left to enjoy themselves for a few more hours.”

  “It sounds wonderful.” Tilly sighed.

  Mrs. Watt glanced at the girl reprovingly. “It’s hard work. The staff have to prepare all the food and drink for the ball as well as an early dinner for the family and then we’re all up early as usual to prepare for Christmas Day.” Then she smiled, looking almost warm for a moment. “But, yes, we enjoy it. And the next day—after the family’s Christmas dinner which is served before the usual time, at five o’clock—we’re allowed to retire early.”

  Georgy smiled at this with the rest of the servants, but privately compared the treat unfavourably to her usual sort of Christmas with Harry and her friends.

  “And you have been at Dunsmore Manor for eighteen years, ma’am?” someone asked.

  “I have,” Mrs. Watt replied, nodding. “First as cook and then as housekeeper.”

  “Did the present earl hold the title when you first came?” Georgy asked, her voice casual. “He would have been a boy then, I suppose.” She tried to make it sound like polite conversation, nothing that she was very much interested in at all, even though her heart thumped heavily in her chest.

  “Oh no. When I first came here, the present earl’s grandfather—the fifth earl—still held the title. Since then there have been no less than four Earls of Dunsmore.”

  “The title has been through many hands then, in the last two decades,” someone commented further down the table. Georgy didn’t notice who. She was too busy trying to eat her dinner and act as though this civil chit-chat meant nothing to her.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Watt said, “but before that, the fifth earl held the title for almost sixty years. It was he who knocked down Dunsmore Abbey—which by all accounts was crumbling around his ears—and built this house in its place.”

  That was my grandfather, thought Georgy. From what she’d heard, the old man hadn’t wanted to know her or Harry, not even to meet them. He’d been appalled at the thought of the brats his son had got on a vulgar actress.

  “In fact,” Mrs. Watt went on. “I understand it was the old countess who started the tradition of the servants’ ball.”

  Ah well, Georgy thought, the old countess’s granddaughter will dance at the servants’ ball this year. And in men’s clothes too.

  And what would her grandparents have made of that, she wondered.

  Chapter 11

  Christmas Eve, 1810

  After several days at Dunsmore Manor, Nathan realised why this house party had been arranged: Lady Dunsmore was looking for a daughter-in-law. Unfortunately for her, her son was unenthusiastic about the prospect. Dunsmore’s evident distaste for the scheme surprised Nathan at first. He was a desperately conventional man, yet he seemed reluctant to marry and set up a nursery.

  Unless it was something other than reluctance? Shyness, perhaps. He certainly acted awkwardly around the ladies his mother shoved at him. Dunsmore had always hated attention and had tended towards the quieter margins of their group. He’d be mortified, of course, being displayed like a prime cut of beef in a butcher’s shop.

  The guests at this party fell into two camps. The first camp was comprised of six suitable young ladies and their families, all of whom had received their invitations some months ago. The second camp was the old Cambridge circle. Some of the gentlemen in this camp were accompanied by the spouses they’d acquired over the years; a handful—Nathan, Ross, Osborne and Dunsmore—were unmarried still. Nathan suspected
Dunsmore had engineered these invitations precisely to remove some of the attention from himself.

  The first camp was universally delighted by the addition of the second camp. The suitable young ladies now had several unattached gentlemen at whom to set their caps, and their fathers and brothers had a number of fellows with whom to ride, drink port after dinner and play billiards.

  Lady Dunsmore was not as happy as her guests. She put on a good face most of the time, but there were moments when her annoyance with her son showed. She continually attempted to place him in situations where he would have to spend time with one or other of the young ladies on his own—offering his services as a page turner while one of them played the pianoforte, or suggesting he take this or that young lady to see some far flung corner of the gardens. But as neat as her manoeuvres were, Dunsmore was just as tidy at avoiding them. He had a knack of finding gentlemen to take his place without giving offence, and of dragging others into joining activities that had been planned by his mother as tête-à-têtes. It was turning out to be quite amusing to watch that particular game.

  And God knew Nathan needed diversion. Nathan had had high hopes for this party. Although Dunsmore was a bit of a dull dog, he’d been looking forward to seeing the old Cambridge set again. But Lady Dunsmore was a tyrannical hostess. Every day was taken up from morning till night with a round of damnably tame entertainments. He’d barely seen his valet since their arrival—less than usual, in fact. There was no breakfast in bed at Dunsmore Manor, nor, with so many guests in the house, daily baths. Most days he only saw her at his morning toilette and when he changed for dinner.

  Mrs. Marsh was about the most exciting of the female guests and Nathan had no interest in dallying with her, despite her obvious interest. As for Ross, even if there had been the remotest opportunity of any hell-raising, he would have not taken it. He spent all his time dogging the heels of Miss Howard. If he wasn’t offering her his arm for a stroll or fetching her cups of tea, he was turning her music at the pianoforte or urging her to sing for the other guests.

  At first, Nathan had been nothing less than staggered by Ross’s transformation into devoted suitor. Miss Howard was a pleasant looking girl to be sure, but she wasn’t even what one would call beautiful. Dark hair and eyes and a trim figure—nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t till the second morning that he’d seen the appeal she held for Ross, when a group of them had gone riding, Miss Howard among them. It turned out she was a fine horsewoman. Even side-saddle, her command of her mount was superlative, the lean of her body quite instinctive, her hands light on the reins. Her bright-eyed sparkling enjoyment had lit her up, making her ordinary face beautiful.

  “Did you say,” Nathan had asked, leaning to mutter in Ross’s ear, “that you first saw Miss Howard riding in the Park?”

  “Yes,” Ross had said, not taking his eyes off her.

  All of this rather left Nathan twiddling his thumbs, while the person who most interested him in the world remained inaccessible, despite being maddeningly near at hand.

  He spent hours every day trying to think of excuses to visit his chamber, if only for quarter of an hour. The other guests must have wondered why he was always disappearing. It wouldn’t have been so bad if, once he got there, he had been able to indulge his desire to watch her, but eight times out of ten Fellowes was either not there or would find an excuse to withdraw.

  Still, at last it was Christmas Eve. Only two more days to go and then he would be off to Camberley, where he would get Fellowes to himself for a while.

  Three more dinners. Tonight’s was being served at half past five, an ungodly hour for dining. But the servants were having a ball later—a tradition, Dunsmore said. He was letting them have the ballroom and there were musicians for dancing as well as plenty of food and drink. Dunsmore and his mother were going to show face for an hour and any of the guests who wanted to go too were also welcome.

  Nathan certainly intended to go. When he’d asked Fellowes about the ball, she had confirmed she would be there—provided that met with his lordship’s approval. Well of course Fellowes must go, he had replied. It was Christmas, after all, and he was sure—he winked here—that there were some delightful ladies amongst the staff that Fellowes would enjoy dancing with. He raised his eyebrows to convey a double entendre over the word dancing and, to his amusement, her gaze had slid away from his, her cheeks flushing. Right then, he’d thought of her in Hyde Park with Lily Hawkins. Two women, mouth to mouth, laughing, kissing.

  What were they to one another, he wondered. He’d swear right now she was no Sappho, but was that merely his own wishful thinking?

  When he thought of her tonight, he imagined her dancing in her male clothes, flirting with the maids and drinking strong punch, maybe becoming rosy-cheeked and careless.

  He wanted to see that. He wanted to see her disguise working.

  But first, alas, there was another dinner to get through. He looked at his reflection in the mirror, checking his perfect evening clothes and smoothly brushed hair. Fellowes stood behind him, hands folded behind her back, expressionless.

  Nathan dug into the folds of his cravat and removed a diamond pin. “What do you think, Fellowes? This isn’t right somehow.” She cocked her head and examined him, her gaze professional and thorough. He enjoyed having her eyes on him; he couldn’t even say why.

  “The ruby pin, I think, my lord.”

  He considered, then nodded. She had good taste and he’d come to trust her opinions.

  “Yes. You’re right,” he said.

  She stepped away and a moment later she was back with the ruby pin, leaning forward to place it—just so—into the crisp linen, her fingers light to the touch, bright blond head bent.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Now, as to the ball, Fellowes. Please don’t think about tomorrow. Enjoy the dancing—and the ladies, of course. I will be delighted to sleep late and have an excuse for it.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but I don’t intend to carouse all night.”

  Well, he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t suppose that she had got this far with her hoax by being careless.

  “Don’t be daft, man,” he said as he headed for the door, unable to resist teasing her again. “Find yourself a nice girl and a dark corner—enjoy yourself. There’s a good chap. It is Christmas.”

  He chuckled at her blushing countenance as he left.

  They shuffled into the ballroom in twos and threes, dressed up in their un-uniformed best. Giggling groups of maids in cheap frocks made festive by bright ribbons, footmen looking both more ordinary and more singular out of their livery and hair powder, the ladies’ maids and valets striking in their cast-off finery. There was an air of suppressed excitement and rare freedom. The hierarchies of the servants’ hall had relaxed, for tonight at least.

  Georgy had been amongst the first to arrive. She leaned a shoulder against the wall, twirling her lucky coin in her hand as she watched the others enter the ballroom. They stood around, casting glances at the tables that groaned with food and drink and at the musicians who were tuning their instruments. They cast glimpses at one another too, sizing up their chances.

  Georgy was getting plenty of sidelong looks. And for the first time since she’d entered Harland’s household, she felt pleasure in it. It was impossible to be cast down by ordinary cares tonight. The world was bright. She had gazed in the mirror this evening and seen the sort of pretty boy that very young women liked. Well-favoured and unthreatening. A pantomime’s principal boy. She felt, in the very best way, as though she was about to perform. All the excitement and none of the crushing fear. No lines to remember, but a part to play—the carefree beautiful young man. Perhaps, she thought roguishly, a breaker of hearts.

  It was not only the women who noticed her. A tall footman called Jim kept stealing glances at her and Mr. Elder, one of the other valets, had clapped her on the shoulder too many times for mere friendliness. If they could see inside her breeches they’d not be much interested she
thought, hiding her smile.

  She felt well-disposed to everyone tonight. She might not be wearing a pretty frock but she meant to dance. It would be tricky to lead but she’d had some practice. Of course, her own excitement wasn’t merely about the party. She was planning something else for later—she was going to sneak into the earl’s study tonight.

  She’d tried the door of the study many times now but each time it had been locked. Max had obtained a set of professional lock picks for her and she’d spent time practising with them every day. Just yesterday she’d come close to opening the study door lock, until she’d heard someone coming. Thankfully it had just been a maid rather than Dunsmore himself. The girl had started cleaning out the melted wax from the wall sconces and Georgy had had to abandon her hunt.

  She was confident she could do it now, though. All she needed was the opportunity and tonight was the perfect night to employ those skills. Tonight the guests, including Harland, should be abed before their servants.

  She ignored the small, rational voice that pointed out how very unlikely it was there would be any evidence of the sort she was hoping for. She had to at least try, after everything she’d done to get here and with time swiftly running out. She had to try for Harry. This was his last hope.

  “Good evening, Mr. Fellowes.” Tilly Brown looked pretty in her green-and-yellow gown. Georgy quickly pocketed her coin and bowed, as elegant as any aristocrat.

  “Miss Brown. You look lovely this evening.”

  Tilly twinkled at her. “Thank you. You look very fine yourself.”

  “Might I beg a dance?” Georgy smiled.

  “Of course.”

  “Then perhaps I might claim the honour of leading you out for the first dance?”

  She preened at that. “I should be delighted.”

  Georgy almost laughed, enjoying her own lavish chivalry and the bright sparkle it brought to the girl’s eyes. If only real men were like this, she thought.