by Esther Hatch
“Quite certain.”
He gave her one short nod and held out his arm to her. She wrapped her hand around his steady forearm. Mr. Woodsworth had promised to keep her identity a secret. She was in a wig, and more to the point, she hadn’t seen Lord Bryant for so long. He had most likely forgotten all about her. She just needed to act naturally and stay on this side of the room.
“Thank you again for taking part in the scheme.” Mr. Woodsworth leaned in toward her as they strode past other couples forming. “I don’t know exactly what possessed me to agree to it. But I’m grateful not to have to spend time with a young woman who might get her heart broken or have her family suspect an engagement.”
Patience’s heart was safe, but his assumption irked her for some reason. As if she wasn’t worthy of even entertaining the idea of an attachment to him just because she was a maid. “You know, maids have hearts as well.”
“But you know this is all a charade.” He extended his arm so she was no longer as close to him as she had been.
“Well, I know it is a charade, but with matters of the heart, you never know what might happen.”
“I know what will happen. Nothing will happen. That is why I chose you. Nothing ever could happen between us.” He turned to face her but didn’t stop walking. “Was I wrong to assume you realized that?”
“No, you weren’t wrong, but still, a lady doesn’t like to hear such things, no matter her station in life.”
“But a man must be clear in his intentions, or he could cause harm.”
“Oh, you have been very clear. No need to worry about that. I am just as aware as you are that our stations in life don’t exactly align.” She was the daughter of a duke, after all. Even if that wasn’t what Mr. Woodsworth meant, it was true, nonetheless.
“Being a maid doesn’t make you less of a person.”
Patience chuckled softly. “I’m truly hoping it makes me more of a person.”
Mr. Woodsworth’s step faltered. He turned his head and gave her a quizzical look. She answered him only with a shrug. Her reasons for becoming a maid were one thing she could never discuss with Mr. Woodsworth. He regained his composure and turned toward her. The polka was about to start. She loved the polka. It was so lively and much more entertaining than the waltz. But with Lord Bryant across the room, she would have to keep her steps controlled and short. She would save her enthusiastic dancing for another time.
She bowed to Mr. Woodsworth. Not the elegant bow she had given his friend. She hadn’t been able to help that one, not with Mr. Woodsworth and his sister watching her so intently, wondering if she would make a mistake. She gave Mr. Woodsworth a cursory bow, one that wouldn’t attract any attention.
Mr. Woodsworth’s frown reappeared at her bow, but when the music started, he took both her hands without hesitation. For a man who thought a maid beneath him, his hands were firm and controlled, nothing to suggest he had any disdain for her. Mr. Fairchild had been an excellent dancer, but his touch had been softer. Most likely because he had trusted her to know the dance. Mr. Woodsworth apparently still did not.
She nearly missed her first step, and Mr. Woodsworth’s firm direction proved necessary after all. She joined him, immediately leaping to one side. She ignored his hands after that, concentrating instead on the music and the steps. At times she found herself relaxing into the flow and rhythm of the dance, but she always reigned herself in.
“You don’t appear to enjoy dancing,” Patience said. “Is it not your passion?”
“I wouldn’t call it a passion, but I do actually enjoy it. I enjoy it more with a partner who doesn’t hold back her skill.”
“What do you mean?” She was doing exactly that, but she didn’t want to mention why. Nor could she lie.
“I saw you dancing the waltz. You have much more natural talent than you are using with me.”
“Perhaps I enjoy the waltz more than the polka.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t believe that is the reason.”
“Would you believe that I am trying to behave myself, and the polka often brings out an unruly side I am trying to hide?”
A half-smile crept up one side of his mouth. “I quite possibly would believe that.” He dropped her hand, and they opened their formation for a quick few steps. They came back together, the fast pace of the dance making her breath come in shorter and shorter increments. His hand slid to the back of her waist for the next turn. Even through her corseted ball gown she could feel the heat of his touch at the small of her back. “So you have decided to behave yourself tonight?”
“I have. I truthfully don’t want to draw attention to myself while at any social events with you. As long as I am wearing this wig, I will try to be tame and unnoticeable.”
“And when it is off?”
She stepped under his raised arm as he pushed her through the bridge he had made for her. When her face came back in front of his own, she smiled. “I shall be as unruly as my hair.”
His lips spread into the wide grin that smoothed out all of his edges and lines. Mr. Woodsworth pulled her closer to him and bent low over her ear. His breathing was as quick as her own. “I shall enjoy that. Unruliness is the one thing our household needs.”
Patience swallowed. She could still feel his warm breath on her cheek. Unruliness was what Mr. Woodsworth wanted—what his household needed. That was an unexpected compliment.
She decided to ignore Lord Bryant on the other side of the ballroom. She had been a young girl when they had last seen each other, and her hair and face were different. He had no chance of speaking with her now, and that was the only way he was likely to recognize her. She stopped checking for him and instead threw herself into the polka. Her legs kicked higher each time they skipped. This was nothing like dancing with her stuffy old dance instructor. Mr. Woodsworth never missed a step and always kept a firm hold on her, guiding her in every direction she should go. Before long, she found herself laughing with the joy of the moment. When she had left her home just days ago, she never would have imagined she would be dancing at a ball tonight. What a strange world she lived in. A strange, wonderful world.
Mr. Woodsworth matched her enthusiasm, and his steps grew less forced and more natural. He was just as good a dancer as Mr. Fairchild when he relaxed and allowed the music and his dance partner to have some control. As the dance neared its ending, he placed both of her hands on his shoulders and lifted her by the waist into the air. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips once again. He raised her as if she weighed nothing, his arms flexing under his jacket. She surveyed the ballroom from her lofty position. This was a movement her dance instructor hadn’t thought to teach her.
The ballroom was awash in color and movement. Couples turned about as the music flowed around them. Mr. Woodsworth’s arms bent. He lowered her while still executing a turn. It was a perfect moment until she noticed Lord Bryant’s focused gaze from across the room.
Her feet touched the ground and so did her spirits. Mr. Woodsworth was still smiling. His heartbreakingly beautiful smile. “One more dance,” he said. “Will you dance one more dance with me?”
Her heart sank. She couldn’t. Lord Bryant may not know who she was, but he had most definitely taken an interest in her. If he asked her for a dance, there would be no more disguise. “I can’t.”
Mr. Woodsworth didn’t protest. He didn’t ask any questions. He only nodded as if being turned down by a lady wasn’t a surprise or unlikely. But his smile was gone.
He wrapped her hand once again around his arm. He was stiff again, carrying himself like the soldier he must have been raised to become. “I’ll call for the carriage.”
“Thank you.” If only she could explain. She wanted to keep that smile on his face. But the moment Mr. Woodsworth found out who she truly was, she would be in a carriage headed home.
He shook his head. “Thank you, Miss Smith, for
all you have done tonight. I’m sure it was enough to make the Morgans take note.”
The Morgans. That was why he’d smiled and raised her in the air. He was putting on a show for the Morgans. The ballroom no longer felt energetic and colorful; instead it was crowded and gaudy. By the time they reached Mrs. Jorgensen, her stomach had turned sour. Mr. Woodsworth left her by his sister and, true to his word, went to call for the carriage.
The evening had been a success.
Chapter 9
Patience eyed the fireplace in front of her. No heat emanated from this one. The room hadn’t been used in over a week. It was clean, as was everything in the house—Mrs. Bates was the most thorough housekeeper she had ever met—and empty. Patience had only started fires from banked coals before, and frankly, she had been quite proud of herself for doing that.
It had been three days since the ball, and she still hadn’t heard from Mr. Woodsworth about helping him again. She assumed he would still need her, since Mrs. Jorgensen had asked her to help in the nursery every day since then. Whenever she was alone with Harry and Augusta, the children seemed to come alive. She wished they would do the same when their mother was around. But just like this cold, dead fire, she had no idea how to ignite the children when Mrs. Jorgensen was around.
She carried the bucket of coal. First things first: the coal needed to go in the grate. She slipped on her work gloves and picked up some of the larger pieces of coal. She filled the grate completely, not sure what to do next. If there were live coals underneath, she could stir them about with the poker, and maybe the new coals would smoke and finally flame. She picked up the poker and stabbed at the coals, fully knowing it would do nothing, but wouldn’t that have been nice? Sure enough, the coals only settled more snugly in the grate. She would have to get a candle and see if the flame could ignite them.
The door behind her creaked, and she dropped the poker, feeling foolish. The last thing she needed was for Mrs. Bates to see that she was hoping to light a fire by poking it with a metal rod.
“Patience, I have been—”
Oh dear. It was Mr. Woodsworth. He eyed the dropped poker. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just starting the fire. Mrs. Bates wanted the music room heated so your sister could have a small concert with her children tonight.”
“But there aren’t any live coals in this fire.”
“Not yet.” She picked up the poker and placed it back on the rack next to the fireplace. “I just need to start it.”
“But you have laid the coals out bare. What is going to ignite them?”
“I thought perhaps a candle?”
He glanced back and forth between her and the fireplace. “You thought a candle?”
“No, I thought perhaps a candle.” Patience had no excuse. She had no idea what she was doing, and it was already abundantly clear that Mr. Woodsworth knew that as well as she did. “What would you use?”
“Well, I suppose a candle would work eventually, but not very well without some kindling and wood under the coal.”
“Kindling!” Of course! She knew about kindling. How had she forgotten? Usually wood and kindling were kept just to the left of the fireplace. She turned back to the fireplace. Sure enough, there was a basket with a few narrow blocks of wood, and underneath was a drawer that she assumed would hold some kind of kindling. She rubbed her hand down the side of her face. How could she have forgotten?
She rushed over to the basket and pulled out kindling and wood, then turned in triumph to Mr. Woodsworth. “Here is the kindling and the wood.” Oh, how she wished she could tell him she was just about to grab them, but it wasn’t true.
Mr. Woodsworth was looking at her oddly. His brows were furrowed, and he cocked his head from one side to the other. This was the kindling, wasn’t it? She hadn’t done anything else wrong, had she?
“Your face . . .”
“What is wrong with my face?” Patience lifted a hand to wipe whatever was distressing Mr. Woodsworth but stopped when she saw the condition of her gloves. They were very black and covered in coal dust. “I’ve got coal all over it, haven’t I?”
He tucked his lips inside his mouth and nodded. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was about to laugh. Not knowing what else to do, she dropped her soiled gloves in the bucket of coal and removed the already-ruined, red-stained cap off the top of her head. Trying to keep herself from blushing, she quickly rubbed her face with the cap. Black streaks soon joined the red blotches, but she knew there was no way the dust on her face would be completely removed without a washbasin.
She expected to see Mr. Woodsworth still silently laughing at her, but when she pulled the cap away from her face his mouth was expressionless, his eyes glued to her hair.
“Oh no, have I done something to my hair as well? Is it covered in dust or grime?”
“What?” he said. “No, it is just so curly and, well, crimson, at least in the light. I don’t think I have ever seen hair like it. How do you manage to keep it that curly?”
“How do I manage? I don’t, obviously.”
“So you don’t curl your hair like that? I’ve seen my sister make curls in her hair, but they never looked like that, and it seemed like an arduous process.”
“No, I was born with these curls.” Much to Nicholas’s chagrin. Nothing showed a lack of decorum more than hair like hers.
Mr. Woodsworth’s eyes strayed to the top of her head and then focused on the fireplace or anywhere else in the room except her hair. “They suit you. God knew what he was doing when he gave you that head of hair. I shall have to remember to thank Him.”
Mr. Woodsworth was a strange character. Most of the time he was stiff and businesslike, but occasionally he would say something out of character like this. She willed her hand not to go to the small, tight curls she knew sat at the nape of her neck. “Why would you do that?”
“Your hair brings some color to the household, at any rate, and I can’t help but think they have something to do with the way you interact with Sophia’s children. They need someone like you desperately, at least until their father comes home.”
Patience didn’t have a response. She hadn’t felt like she had helped with the children at all. She hadn’t even managed to teach Augusta more than the answer of two and two. She figured she had been as unsuccessful at being a would-be governess as she had been at being a maid. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I visited with them last night, and Augusta actually tried to tickle me. Harry didn’t quite join in, but he did shout directions to her.”
Patience pulled her lips together to hide her smile.
“I can see from your reaction you had something to do with it.”
“Should I apologize?” Patience thought he was happy with her, but it was a strange thing to be happy about.
“No. I don’t have the luxury of knowing how to interact with children, but after last night, I feel as though I might be able to learn.”
“I can’t think anything could be hard for you to learn. I’ve dusted the books in your study. Any man who can stomach the annual invasions of Attica in Thucydides’s The History of the Peloponnesian War can handle interacting with a couple of children.”
Mr. Woodsworth gave her a strange look and then shook his head. “Here,” Mr. Woodsworth reached for the wood and kindling she held in her hand. “Let me help you with that.”
She pulled her hand away. She was the servant in this household, not Mr. Woodsworth. She could hardly go back to Nicholas and tell him that General Woodsworth’s son had done half of her duties for her. “I can do it. I just need a little time to think.”
Mr. Woodsworth didn’t argue. He just nodded.
Patience looked at the grate filled with coal. She knew the kindling should go under the wood to start the wood on fire. It made sense that if she wanted the wood to st
art the coal on fire, she would need to put the wood under the coal.
“I think I know how to do it, but just in case, I am going to call out my plans to you, and you can tell me if I am right or not.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan, and while you are building what I assume will become the world’s most perfect coal fire, I have some news for you. I have come to fulfill my part of my promise. I will tell you all that I know about three of London’s finest.”
Oh, Patience had nearly forgotten about that part of their deal. She put her dirty cap back on, followed by her dirty gloves. What would Mr. Woodsworth tell her about the men he knew? Surely there must be at least a few good ones in the pack of wolves roaming around the ton every Season.
Mr. Woodsworth pulled a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. She couldn’t read what was written on it, but she could see that he had divided everything into neat rows and columns. “First of all, there is Mr. Fenton. He is amiable—”
“Mr. Fenton. You may skip over him. I don’t need to know about any misters.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Woodsworth was doing an excellent job watching Patience remove the coal from the grate without criticizing the way she touched each piece with only her thumb and forefinger. “You asked me to discover the character of some of the best men I know.”
“Yes, but not just the best; I need to know about men of rank. Earls, dukes, marquesses. Perhaps you could expound on the virtues of a baronet or two, but only if you know one that is quite exceptional and probably rich.”
“Why in the world do you need that kind of information? Those families don’t pay that much more for labor. And why only the men? As a maid, you will deal mostly with the women of a household, and actually, the housekeeper more than anyone else.”
“That hasn’t been true in this household.”
That gave him pause. He paced back and forth in front of the fireplace once, then stopped. “You do realize that the position I have put you in in this household is unique and born out of necessity. I don’t imagine any other head of a household would ask you to do anything like this. In fact, if they did, it would be highly inappropriate.”