by Jaimey Grant
“First, I’ll show ye where yer ta sleep.” Bridgette pushed open the door to the attics and ushered her fellow servant into a low-ceilinged room. “Ye’ll be sharin’ with me, Doll. You take that cot, there.” She pointed at a cot placed in one corner of the tiny room, a thin woolen blanket stretched neatly over it.
Verena dutifully walked over and placed her valise on the bed. “And this here’s yers,” Bridgette continued, pulling open the lid of a small trunk at the foot of the cot. “You can unpack later.”
Removing her cloak, Verena laid it carefully on the bed. “Yer to be a ladies’ maid in that dress?” the other girl clucked reprovingly.
Verena looked down at her plain gown of brown serge. As it boasted a rather unfashionable cut to match the serviceable fabric, its suitability for work could not be argued.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked in surprise, forgetting to mask her voice.
“That’s what I thought,” Bridgette mused, her own accent slipping. “I could tell you were highborn. You have such an innocent look about you and although you try hard to sound like a servant, you still sound educated.”
“As do you,” Verena pointed out with a rare flash of spirit.
“So I do. If you don’t pry into my past, I won’t pry into yours. Agreed?”
Verena hesitated for barely a second. “Agreed.”
And there began a friendship that helped carry Verena through a very trying time. Bridgette, or Bri as she insisted on being called, helped Verena to acquire a uniform of unfashionable black bombazine but fashionable cut with two white muslin aprons and two lacy white mobcaps. Both had thought the black would make Verena look a trifle sallow but it merely magnified her shining hair and large dark eyes. While her friend enthused over Verena’s beauty, Verena shrugged it off as inconsequential. She favored her mother, a woman Verena never knew and inwardly resented.
Despite the demanding ladies with their spiteful natures, Verena was content in her new life, moving through her days well occupied and falling into her bed each night pleasantly exhausted.
Women, spiteful or not, did not present a constant threat. The gentlemen, on the other hand, caused a nervous fear in Verena that refused to lessen. She went about her days, anxiously aware of any and all men who gazed at her with more interest than was proper.
In defending her virtue, Bridgette had proven an apt teacher. The other girl taught Verena how to deflect most gentleman’s advances, using physical means if necessary.
Only one gentleman refused to be repulsed. Viscount Steyne was a thorn in her side, a constant annoyance that made her wish it was in her to permanently maim a fellow human being. He offered her carte blanche on a regular basis, his constant refusal to accept her negative response galling in the extreme. She had little actual dread of him, however. Lord Feldspar may have been an easy master to work for, but he was known to have no tolerance for dalliance with the servants.
Despite all she endured, Verena felt safer as a maid among strangers than in her father’s house as a lady, the only daughter of the Earl of Carstairs.
Two
“Did you see the new arrivals, Doll?”
Verena looked at Bridgette with feigned interest. She really didn’t care who else arrived so long as they left her alone. Lord Steyne had been particularly annoying that day, cornering her and demanding that she accept his insulting offer. She had taken to carrying a small knife secreted on her person just in case the aggravating gentleman decided one day not to take no for an answer.
“The tall one with the black hair is very handsome,” Bridgette said in the same low tone she’d employed before. When together, they dropped part of their servant façade, allowing their voices to slip into the accents most comfortable for them, always careful to keep them low enough so others didn’t hear.
“Hmm,” was all Verena said, much to her friend’s annoyance.
“His friend is handsome too but I don’t find blond hair quite as pleasing.”
Verena stopped polishing the table and stared at the other girl. Her heart skipped a beat then picked up speed when she happened to glance past Bridgette. The very objects of their discussion were that moment crossing the landing in their trek to their assigned chambers.
It was him. The man from the posting house. She had wondered where they were, knowing as she did that they were due. She had somehow managed to put it in the back of her mind.
Now he was looking at her. And smiling.
With a little gasp, Verena grabbed Bridgette and fled down the corridor.
Verena managed to avoid the new arrivals for an entire week. She stood in the corridor, diligently polishing the legs of a chair. It was not normally a duty of a ladies’ maid but with so many guests, Verena’s duties changed to match the demand. With Bri’s help, she’d managed to learn all the little things she’d never learned to do at home.
It was mindless work. She went through the motions, free to ponder her situation and wonder what she could do after the house party ended. She could not expect to be kept on.
Which was just as well. She realized the previous afternoon that she would not be able to stay anywhere for long. It was only a matter of time before she met somebody who knew her father or her mother and realized who she was. She knew how much she favored her mother.
A step from behind made her tense and turn. Heart sinking, Verena dropped a curtsy and lowered her eyes to Viscount Steyne, praying he would just pass her by. For once.
He stopped. “If it isn’t the lovely housemaid. When will you cease this silliness and accept my offer?”
Verena glanced up through her lashes. He sidled closer, his pleasantly handsome features wreathed in a charming smile that did not reach his pale brown eyes.
A shudder of distaste and horror made its way from her stomach to her throat where she firmly suppressed it. “It would not be right.”
His smile widened as if genuinely amused by her statement. “Of course it would not. You are only a maid.”
Verena did not find this as funny as Lord Steyne apparently did. She frowned, a surprising surge of anger rising to the fore.
“And you are not a gentleman!”
That wiped the smile from his face. “You dare much, little maid.” He reached out and took her arm in a painful clasp.
Verena twisted her body in a fruitless attempt to free herself. “Leave me be, you big oaf!”
A strong arm snaked around her waist but Verena was ready. Her little knife appeared in her hand without thought. He saw it and leapt back, the surprise on his face almost comical.
“Northwicke, a little assistance, if you please.”
Verena hadn’t noticed the silent approach of another man. He stood only a few feet away, a still being, calmly observing them both. It was with some concern that Verena realized his main focus seemed to be on her.
She knew who he was. He was the one she had seen at the posting house and the one who had only recently arrived with his dark friend. Lord Connor Northwicke, younger son of the Duke of Denbigh, an unmarried young lord who was not in the market for a bride.
Oh, the things one could learn when in the presence of gossipy ladies who saw servants as inanimate objects rather than fellow humans!
Verena ignored him. Her mouth opened to release a string of rough cant that Bri had taught her, words she barely understood that felt strange to her tongue.
Lord Connor chuckled. “As much as I would love to see that, my dear, I would advise against it. He is a lord and would take great pleasure in seeing you hanged for attacking him.” Hard blue eyes bored into Steyne. “Although, he does deserve it, from all that I hear about him. Mayhap if I were to simply challenge him to a duel and run him through myself, would that satisfy your thirst for blood?”
Lord Steyne paled dramatically. Verena watched the man as he backed away, his bearing as straight as any duke. His fear seemed oddly out of proportion to the threat of a simple duel. She wondered at it.
“Not necessa
ry,” he bit out.
Verena continued to stare at Steyne, very tense and unwilling to sheathe her blade until she was absolutely sure she faced no threat…from either man.
Lord Connor reached out to her. “My dear girl, he will not hurt you.” He waited, his hand outstretched.
Verena finally met his gaze, startled by the kindness in his cerulean eyes. There was something so familiar about him but she knew the first time she’d ever seen him was at the posting house.
Blinking, Verena dropped her hand, hiding her knife among the folds of her gown. Her other hand moved forward to clasp his, an action Verena was shocked to witness. What was it about this man that made her feel safe?
A warm, pleasant sensation worked its way up her arm. A little panicked, Verena attempted to retract her hand. Lord Connor held fast with a firmness that was startling. It should have frightened her. And yet…it didn’t.
“You will cease to annoy this maid, Steyne, or you will answer to me.”
Verena shivered at the threat in his voice, uneasy that he seemed to so easily intimidate others. Surely, this was a man she should fear?
“Very well,” the viscount said as he brushed off his jacket. “If I had known you had the prior claim to her…affections, I would never had favored her with my suit.” He stalked off down the hall, visibly annoyed.
“Now I shall have to acquire a new position,” Verena heard herself murmur. She tugged on her hand, relieved when he released her. The vague sense of loss she felt confused her.
Lord Connor looked at her, his sharp gaze missing little. She silently cursed her loose tongue. She knew how important it was for her to remain hidden, yet this man seemed to get past her guard—and she barely knew him.
“Do not worry about that. I’ll speak to Feldspar as well. He likes me a good deal better than the bloody viscount.” He said it without the faintest trace of boasting, merely stating a truth. Then, the faintest tinge of pink mounted his high cheekbones, his eyes widening just the slightest bit at his vulgar language. “Beg pardon.”
She smiled in response to his apology. Gentlemen were not so careful with their tongues when servants were about and if they did notice, they did not bother to apologize. “Thank you, milord,” she added so softly she wasn’t sure if she spoke or merely allowed the thought to enter into her mind. “That man has been bothering me since I came on here.”
“I have no doubt,” murmured his lordship. “You are very beautiful.”
As much as Verena seemed to instinctively trust this man, she could not prevent a tensing in her chest at his simple compliment.
“Do not distress yourself over the viscount, my dear,” he said soothingly. “I won’t let him frighten you again. Meanwhile, you look as though you could use a friend.”
She looked at him in shock. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This man was offering to be her friend? Only her friend? Or would he exact payment from her later in a way she dreaded to even think about? A slight shudder racked her frame.
Looking up into his kind blue eyes, she felt that odd pulsing of trust that made little sense. She of all people knew just how misleading appearance could be. Wasn’t her father a prime example of that?
She found herself saying yes to Lord Connor before she had really thought it through.
“Splendid! Let us start this friendship off on the right foot. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Connor Northwicke. My friends, of which you are now one, call me Con.” He swept her a highly exaggerated bow and she felt a smile threaten.
Instead, she curtsied in quite the same exaggerated fashion and said, “I am Doll Rendel, milord.”
“Well, Miss Doll, where are you bound this glorious afternoon? And I must insist that you address me as Con or Connor if you prefer.”
Verena paused. “It would be most improper to be on such familiar terms with you, milord. Indeed, your own wife wouldn’t dare to address you so. I would lose my position for certain were someone to hear.”
Her companion’s eyes narrowed and he released an impatient sound. “Very well. If anyone is within hearing, call me whatever you feel is appropriate. But in private, I will brook no arguments.” He looked away, his stance casual but something in his manner most revealing. “I have no wife so one cannot say how she would address me.”
Verena had no response to that, nor an explanation for the sudden lightening she felt in her whole body.
“Now,” Lord Connor asked, “what are your duties for the day?”
Should she reveal her next task? He would probably follow her whether she told him or not. “I am to dust the upper guest chambers,” she said as she cast her glance back the way he had come. “Your room is one of them.”
As she met his eyes again, she attempted to feel as nonchalant as her tone suggested.
Lord Connor adopted a bantering tone and said, “I am ashamed to admit I have never dusted before. Mayhap you will teach me?”
His expression was sufficiently cajoling. She smiled very faintly and walked toward his room.
For the next hour, Lord Connor was tutored in the fine art of housewifery. Verena could tell he didn’t enjoy the work itself but he seemed to delight in making her smile or laugh. It was obvious to the veriest lackwit that he bungled his attempts at cleaning on purpose.
“Why do you never wear a hat?”
Lord Connor glanced up from his position on the floor before the empty fireplace. “Excuse me?”
Verena glanced down, her cheeks coloring at the forwardness of her query. “A hat. You never wear one.”
He chuckled. “I am in doors. Nobody wears a hat in doors.”
She glanced down as him as he polished the grate with a mixture of blacking, small beer, and soap. The muscles in his back and shoulders rippled beneath the thin shirt he wore, having discarded his jacket and waistcoat when she’d informed him of “his” duties. He smiled as he worked, then started chatting about something, she knew not what. She was too distracted by him to pay attention to what he was saying.
The sun streaming through the window played over his golden hair, giving him an unearthly halo like glow. She experienced a distinct sense of familiarity at the sight, almost as if she’d seen him thus once before. Shaking away the silly thought, she persisted in her previous line of questioning.
“I know gentlemen do not wear hats in doors. Why do you never wear one while out?”
Her voice rudely cut through whatever he’d been saying.
He stopped again, swiveling on his heels and giving her his full attention. Blue eyes twinkling merrily up at her, he replied, “The Corn Laws do not interest you?”
“Indeed they do,” she protested, turning away to hide her pink cheeks. She only partially lied. “They are unfair and unwise.” She picked up a small Dresden shepherdess and stared at it, wishing she’d never voiced such a personal question in the first place.
It was a pattern of sorts for their time together. He would settle in with whatever humiliating task she gave him—she’d even gone so far as to set him to scrubbing out the chamberpots—and she would proceed to try to embarrass him with impertinent questions, all in an unsubtle attempt to drive him away.
But even after daily mistreatment at her hands, he still sought her out, still chose to spend glorious days like the ones they were currently enjoying helping her with menial work. She was running out of humiliating tasks and he still stayed, working as though he received wages and showing no knowledge of her motives. He had to know how unconventional it was for him to do what he was doing!
“I hate them.”
Startled, she nearly dropped the priceless figure in her hands. “The Corn Laws?” she offered, carefully wiping the knick-knack and returning it to the relative safety of its mantel perch.
Tipping her head to gaze down at him, she couldn’t help but smile at the amusement filling his eyes.
“No,” he laughed. “Well, yes, of course I do but I was answering your impertinent question. I hate hats.�
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“That’s as good a reason as any,” she told him, her own chuckles sounding a little strange to her ears.
Laughter hadn’t been the norm in her father’s house. After joining Feldspar’s household, she’d laughed more with Bri, despite the ofttimes hard work, than she’d ever laughed in her life. Yet another indication that where she was now was where she should be.
Still chuckling, albeit a trifle edged with sorrow, Verena gave the mantelpiece one last swipe with her feather duster, returning only to brush a trembling finger over the frilly gown of the shepherdess. Such a frivolous little trinket, one of many scattered throughout the great manor house. Funny, how such unimportant baubles brought such joy to the easily pleased Lady Feldspar.
“My mother had a little glass horse. I believe she loved it as much as Lady Feldspar loves each and every one of her trinkets. My father let me keep it after she died.” Tears threatened at the bittersweet memory, one of the very few times her father had shown her any kindness.
“Your father?”
Every muscle froze at the casual inquiry. “My father?”
“Indeed, yes. This is the first time you’ve mentioned him.”
Verena glanced down at her companion and quickly away. She couldn’t quite meet Lord Connor’s penetrating gaze, too aware that he’d read the wariness in her own. He was too careful around her for her not to realize that he sensed her unease.
What a silly, stupid mistake! “My father was a poor farmer, of course. He died.” Did her words sound as stiff and defensive to him as they did to her?
She didn’t dare look at him. Instead, she concentrated all her effort on the already spotless mantelpiece.
She was all too aware, however, that Lord Connor still crouched at her feet, unmoving, his eyes boring into her. Why, oh why, did she feel his presence so strongly?
“I believe this is done,” commented the nobleman. He rose, stepping back to allow her a closer look.
Thankful for the subject change, Verena inspected his work, smiling to herself as he glared at his blackened hands. “Indeed, milord, you are a natural. Are you sure you’re really the son of a duke?”