by Lisa Kleypas
“Horrifyingly decadent,” Tasia assured her. “We'll read about them tomorrow, if you like.”
“All right.” Emma flashed her a smile. “Let's go to the kitchen. I want you to meet Mrs. Plunkett, the cook. She's my favorite person in the house, after Papa.”
They went through a narrow pantry with shelves of dry goods, and a pastry room outfitted with a marble table and every conceivable size of rolling pin. Emma took Tasia's arm and pulled her past several kitchen maids who regarded them curiously. “This is my new governess, and her name is Miss Billings,” Emma announced without stopping.
The kitchen was very large and filled with servants busily preparing supper. There was a long wooden table at the center of the room, overshadowed by low-hanging pots, pans, and copper molds. A stout woman stood there wielding a large knife, showing one of the cook maids how to chop carrots properly. “Mind you don't cut them too thick—” She stopped and smiled broadly as she caught sight of Emma. “Ah, here's my Emma, and she's brought one of her little friends to visit.”
“Mrs. Plunkett, this is Miss Billings,” Emma said, propping a leg on the seat of a wooden chair. “She's my new governess.”
“Bless my eyes,” the cook exclaimed. “It's time we had a new face around here, and such a pretty one at that. But look at you—no wider than a broomstick.” She reached for a platter heaped with pastries and pulled back the cloth that covered them. “Try one of these apple tarts, lamb, and tell me if the crust is too thick.”
As she looked at her, Tasia understood Emma's affection for the cook. Mrs. Plunkett had applecolored cheeks, merry brown eyes, and a warm, motherly presence. “Try it,” the cook encouraged, and Tasia reached for a tart.
Emma followed suit, choosing the largest one on the platter. She bit deeply into the pastry. “Splendid,” she said with her mouth full. She grinned at Tasia's reproving glance. “Oh, I know. It's not polite to talk while I'm eating. But I can do it so none of the food shows.” She shoved it to the side of her cheek. “See?”
Tasia was about to explain why it still wasn't proper when she saw Emma wink at Mrs. Plunkett. She couldn't help laughing, in spite of her efforts to maintain an air of dignity. “Emma, I fear there may come a day when you accidentally spray crumbs over some important guest.”
Emma's grin broadened. “That's it! I'll spit food all over Lady Harcourt the next time she comes to visit. Then we'll finally be rid of her. Can you imagine Papa's face?” Seeing Tasia's confusion, she explained. “Lady Harcourt is one of the women who want to marry Papa.”
“One of them?” Tasia asked. “How many are there?”
“Oh, practically everyone wants him. During our weekend parties, I eavesdrop on some of the ladies. You would scarcely believe the things they say! Usually I don't understand half of it, but—”
“Thank the Lord for that,” Mrs. Plunkett said heartily. “You know you shouldn't eavesdrop, Emma.”
“Well, he's my father. I have a right to know who's scheming to catch him. And Lady Harcourt is trying very hard. Before you know it they'll be married and I'll be on my way to boarding school.”
Mrs. Plunkett chuckled. “If your father were going to marry anyone, he'd have done it by now. There was no one for him but your mother, and I don't believe there ever will be.”
Emma frowned thoughtfully. “I wish I remembered more about her. Miss Billings, would you like to see my mother's portrait? It's in one of the upstairs parlors. She used to take her tea there.”
“Yes, I would like that,” Tasia said, taking a bite of apple tart. She wasn't hungry, but she forced herself to eat.
“You'll be very happy here,” the cook told her. “Lord Stokehurst provides a large housekeeping allowance, so nothing is rationed. We have all the butter we want, and ham every Sunday. And we've plenty of soap, eggs, and good tallow candles for our own use. When visitors come, we hear such stories from their servants. Some never have an egg in their lives! You're a lucky girl to be hired by Lord Stokehurst. But I expect you know that.”
Tasia nodded automatically. She couldn't help wondering how her own servants in Russia had been treated. A wave of guilt came over her as she realized that she had never given a thought to the quality of their food or asked if they had enough to eat. Surely her mother was generous with them—but there was a possibility that Marie might be too self-absorbed to see to their needs. None of them would ever dare ask for anything.
All at once she realized that Emma and Mrs. Plunkett were looking at her strangely.
“Your hand is shaking,” Emma said frankly. “Aren't you feeling well, Miss Billings?”
“You're very pale,” the cook added, her plump face concerned.
Carefully Tasia set down her tart. “I am a little tired,” she admitted.
“I'm sure your room is ready by now,” Emma said. “If you'd like, I'll take you there. We can finish our tour tomorrow.”
The cook wrapped the tart in a napkin and pressed it in Tasia's hands. “Take this, poor lamb. Later we'll send up a supper tray for you.”
“How kind you are.” Tasia smiled into her soft brown eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Plunkett.”
The cook stared after the young woman as she left with Emma. There was silence in the kitchen until the doors closed. All the kitchen maids began to talk eagerly.
“Did you see her eyes? They're just like a cat's.”
“She's all bones. That dress was hanging off her.”
“And the way she talks…some of the words are all fuzzy-like.”
“I wish I talked like that,” one of them said wistfully. “It sounds pretty.”
Mrs. Plunkett chuckled and motioned for them to return to work. “Time for gossip later. Hannah, finish those carrots. And Polly, mind you keep stirring that sauce, or it will be nothing but lumps.”
Luke and Emma sat alone at the linen-covered dining table. The blaze in the marble fireplace cast a warm glow over the Flemish tapestries and the marble carvings on the walls. A servant came to fill Emma's glass with water and Luke's with French wine. The butler uncovered dishes at the sideboard and ladled a fragrant broth with truffles into shallow bowls.
Luke regarded his daughter with a smile. “It always worries me when you look so pleased, Emma. I hope you're not planning to torment the new governess as you did the last one.”
“Oh, not at all. She's much better than Miss Cawley.”
“Well,” he said casually, “I suppose anyone would be preferable to Miss Cawley.”
Emma giggled. “That's true. But I like Miss Billings.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You don't think she's too serious?”
“Oh, no. I can tell that underneath she wants to laugh.”
Luke thought of Miss Billings's implacable face. “Somehow I didn't have that impression of her,” he muttered.
“Miss Billings is going to teach me all about etiquette and propriety, and everything. She says we don't always have to study in the schoolroom upstairs. I can learn just as well if we take our books outside and read under a tree. We're going to read about the ancient Romans tomorrow, and after that we're to speak nothing but French until supper. I'm just warning you, Papa, because if you ask me something after four o'clock tomorrow, I shall be compelled to reply in a language you don't understand.”
He gave her a sardonic glance. “I speak French.”
“Used to,” Emma countered triumphantly. “Miss Billings says if a language isn't practiced frequently, one loses it in no time at all.”
Luke set down his spoon, wondering what kind of an act the governess was putting on for his daughter. Perhaps she was trying to befriend Emma so that when it came time to leave, she could use his daughter's feelings as a weapon against him. He didn't like it. Karen Billings had better watch her step carefully, or he would make her rue the day she was born. Only a month, he reminded himself, keeping his temper under tight rein. “Emma, don't become too attached to Miss Billings. She may not be with us for very long.”
�
��Why not?”
“Any number of things could happen. She may not do an adequate job of teaching you. Or she may decide to accept another position.” He took a sip of wine. “Just keep it in mind.”
“But if I want her to stay, she will,” Emma said stubbornly.
Luke didn't reply, only picked up his spoon and dipped it in his soup. After a minute, he changed the subject and began to tell her about a thoroughbred horse he was thinking of buying. Emma followed his lead, carefully avoiding any mention of the governess for the rest of the meal.
Tasia wandered about her room, a third-floor chamber with a charming round window. She was pleased by the thought that the sun would wake her each morning. The narrow bed was covered with fresh white linen and a simple quilted blanket. There was a mahogany washstand in the corner, with a chipped porcelain basin decorated in a flowered blackberry pattern. Near the window were a chair and table, and on the opposite wall a battered armoire with an oval mirror on the door. The room was small, but clean and private.
Her valise had been set by the bed. Carefully Tasia unpacked the hairbrush and the cakes of rose-scented soap that Alicia had given her. It was also because of Alicia that she owned two dresses: the gray one that she was wearing and a black muslin that she hung in the armoire. She wore her grandmother's gold cross under her clothes at all times. The ring from her father was knotted in a handkerchief and hidden at the back of the armoire beneath her personal linens.
Finally Tasia moved the wooden chair to the corner of the room. She stood her icon against the chair back, so that she could look at it when she was in bed. Lovingly her fingers traced the Madonna's tender face. This was her krasnyi ugolok, her “beautiful corner.” All those of Russian Orthodox faith had such a place in their homes, where they could find peace at the beginning and end of each day.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the door. Opening it, Tasia came face to face with a housemaid a few years older than she. The girl wore a starched apron and a cap that covered most of her flaxen hair. Her features were attractive, but there was a hard look about her eyes. Her lips were compressed into a thin line. “I'm Nan,” the girl said, handing her a cloth-covered tray. “Here's your supper. Set it outside the door when you're done. I'll come to collect it in a bit.”
“Thank you,” Tasia murmured, confused by the girl's attitude. She seemed angry about something, though Tasia had no idea why.
Enlightenment was soon in coming. “Mrs. Knaggs says I'm the one who must attend you when you want something. I didn't need the extra work. My knees already ache from going up and down the stairs all day. Now I'm to carry your kindling and cans of bathwater and your supper tray.”
“I'm sorry. I won't require very much.”
Nan sniffed contemptuously and turned on her heel, trudging back down the stairs.
Tasia brought the tray to her table, giving the icon a wry glance as she passed by it. “See what these English are like?” she murmured. The Madonna's face remained placid and long-suffering.
Gingerly Tasia lifted the cloth to see what was beneath. There were slices of duck, a dab of brown sauce, a white roll, and boiled vegetables. All of it was carefully arranged and garnished with violets. There was also a little glass cup filled with pasty white pudding. The same thing had been served at the Ashbournes' home. Blancmange, Alicia had called it. The English seemed fond of food with no flavor. Tasia picked up one of the violets and draped the cloth back over the dinner tray. She wasn't hungry. But if she were…
Oh, if only she could have a slice of dark Russian bread with butter, or salted mushrooms sopped in cream. Or some blinis, the delicate pancakes dripping with honey. Some familiar smell or taste, anything to remind her of the world from which she had come. The last few months of her life were a confusing whirl in her head. Everything had fallen through her fingers like sand. Now she had nothing to hold on to.
“I have myself,” she said aloud, but her voice sounded strained. Absently she wandered across the room and stopped in front of the mirrored armoire. It had been a long time since she had looked at herself, other than taking swift glances to make certain her hair was neat and all her buttons were fastened.
Her face was very thin. The bones of her cheeks looked sharp and delicate. The roundness had gone from her neck, leaving lavender hollows to emerge from beneath her high collar. There was no color in her skin. Unconsciously Tasia clenched her fingers around the violet until its rich perfume spilled into the air. She didn't like seeing the fragile woman in the mirror, a stranger with all the confidence of a lost child. She wouldn't let herself be fragile. She would do whatever was necessary to regain her strength. Discarding the bruised flower, she strode to the table.
Picking up the dinner roll, she bit into it and began to chew. It nearly choked her, but she swallowed and forced herself to eat more. She would finish her supper. She would sleep all night without waking or dreaming…and in the morning she would begin to make a new life for herself.
Two
The servants' hall was filled with conversation. Smells of coffee, toasting bread, and frying meat wafted through the air. Quickly Tasia straightened her skirts and smoothed her hair. Wiping her face clean of expression, she pushed open the door. The long table in the center of the hall was crowded with people. They fell silent and stared at her. Looking for a familiar face, Tasia found Nan's unfriendly gaze upon her. The butler, Seymour, was busy in the corner ironing a newspaper. He didn't spare her a glance. Just as Tasia considered backing out of the room and fleeing, Mrs. Plunkett's cheerful face appeared before her.
“Good morning, Miss Billings! You're up and about early today. ‘Tis a surprise to see you in the servants’ hall.”
“I gathered that,” Tasia said with a faint smile.
“I'm almost done preparing your breakfast tray. Nan will bring it upstairs very soon. Do you take tea in the morning? Chocolate, maybe?”
“Might I eat down here with everyone else?”
The cook was perplexed. “Miss Billings, these are ordinary servants. You're the governess. You don't take your meals with us.”
It must be a peculiarly English attitude. Her own governess hadn't lived in such isolation. “I'm supposed to eat alone?” Tasia asked in dismay.
“Aye, except the times when you're invited to eat with His Lordship and Miss Emma. That's how it's usually done.” She chuckled at Tasia's expression. “Why, it's an honor, lamb, not a punishment!”
“I would consider it a greater honor to take my meals here with you.”
“You would?” Every face in the hall was turned toward her now. Tasia steeled herself not to flinch as dozens of gazes raked over her. Flags of color burned high on her cheeks. Mrs. Plunkett regarded her for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose there's no reason why you couldn't. But I warn you, we're a common lot.” She winked as she added, “Some might even chew with their mouths open.”
Tasia walked to the empty space at one of the long benches. “May I?” she murmured, and a few housemaids shifted to make room for her.
“What will you ‘ave, miss?” one of them asked.
Tasia looked at the row of bowls and platters before her. “Some toast, please. And perhaps some of that sausage…and an egg…and one of those flat things…”
“Oatcakes,” the maid said helpfully, passing the food to her.
One of the footmen down at the other end of the table grinned as he watched Tasia fill her plate. “She may look like a sparrow, but her appetite is horse-sized.” There was a scattering of friendly laughter, and everyone began to eat and talk as before.
Tasia enjoyed the bustling warmth of the servants' hall, especially after the loneliness of the past months. It was nice to sit in the midst of a crowd. Although the food tasted strange to her, it was hot and filling.
Unfortunately her contentment was soon destroyed by Nan's unfriendly stare. The housemaid seemed determined to make her feel unwelcome. “Look at the way she cuts her food in little bites, all ladyli
ke,” Nan sneered. “And how she touches the napkin to her lips, just so. Everything is ‘may I’ and ‘might I.’ Well, I know ‘zactly why she wants to sit with the lot of us. It does no good to put on airs when she's all by herself.”
“Nan,” one of the girls chided. “Don't be a cat.”
“Let ‘er alone, Nan,” someone else said.
Nan quieted, but she continued to glare at Tasia.
Tasia choked down the last few mouthfuls of her breakfast, though it was suddenly like swallowing paste. She'd been hated and feared and sneered at for months by peasants who didn't know her, by cowardly peers who had abandoned her…and now by a spiteful housemaid. Finally Tasia lifted her head to stare back at Nan, her eyes narrowing into slits. It was the same icy look she had given the prison guard in St. Petersburg, and it had the same withering effect on Nan. The housemaid flushed and looked away, her hands balled into fists. Only then did Tasia stand and leave the table, carrying her plate to the great wooden sink. “Good day,” she murmured to no one in particular, and was answered by a chorus of friendly replies.
Slipping out to the hallway, Tasia came face to face with Mrs. Knaggs. The housekeeper seemed less forbidding than she had the night before. “Miss Billings, Emma is changing from her riding clothes. After breakfast she will be ready to begin her lessons at precisely eight o'clock.”
“Does she ride every morning?” Tasia asked.
“Yes, with Lord Stokehurst.”
“They seem very fond of each other,” Tasia said.
Mrs. Knaggs glanced around the hall to make certain they were not being overheard. “Lord Stokehurst dotes on the child. He would give his life for her. He very nearly did, once.”
An image of the silver hook appeared in Tasia's mind. Unconsciously she touched her own left wrist. “Is that how—”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Knaggs had noticed the gesture. “A fire in London. Lord Stokehurst went right into the house before anyone could stop him. Every inch of the place was blazing. The people who saw him go in there believed he would never be seen alive again. But he came out with his wife over his shoulder and the child in his arms.” The housekeeper tilted her head to the side, seeming to watch the movements of ghosts. “Lady Stokehurst didn't live to see the next morning. For days Lord Stokehurst was out of his head with grief, and pain from his wounds. The worst damage was done to the left arm—they say he pulled a burning wall apart with his bare hands to save his wife. The hand festered and poisoned his blood, till they had to choose between taking it off or letting him die. It was ironic, how kindly life had treated him until then, and to lose so much all at once…There's not many it wouldn't have broken. But the master is a strong man. Not long after it all happened, I asked if he would give Emma into the safekeeping of his sister, Lady Catherine. She would have taken the child for as long as necessary. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the baby's all I have left of Mary. I could never give her away, not even for a day.’” Mrs. Knaggs paused and shook her head.