by Esther Hatch
Patience’s lip curled to a half-smile. Lord Bryant was an unlikely ally, but she hadn’t expected to have one at all. She couldn’t believe he had agreed to allowing her to remain. “You won’t change your mind and dash off a letter to my brother as soon as you arrive home?”
“You have my word.” He released her hand.
That gave her pause. “How much is your word worth nowadays?”
“Not much.” He smiled. “Not much at all.”
He placed his arm out, and they began to walk toward the picnicking party. Lord Bryant was almost skipping. Subterfuge excited him apparently. Either that or he was plotting the most entertaining way possible to let London know of her charade.
Not the best of allies, indeed.
Chapter 13
Patience knocked softly on the door to Mr. Woodsworth’s study.
“Come in.”
She took a deep breath to calm herself. It had been two days since their walk together in Green Park, and she didn’t want to come off as too friendly to her employer. But she also couldn’t help but see him as a friend. They had danced together, walked together, and spoken together so often that she forgot at times to remain subservient when he was around. But she would remember it now. She was here only as a maid, or in this case, a governess. The children had prepared something for him.
She pushed the door open and immediately curtsied the way she had been practicing. Perfectly, just as a maid should curtsy.
Mr. Woodsworth sat at his desk. Several stacks of papers were neatly placed around him. He set down his pen. “Ah, Patience, you are just the woman I was hoping to see.”
She was? “Me, sir?”
“Yes, I have been working on that list of yours, and it is finally complete with six men. All quite serious, and all ranking baronet or higher. Not a mister in sight. Come, let me show you.”
She hesitated. Having Mr. Woodsworth take notes on the men she might marry one day suddenly felt inappropriate. He didn’t know that was what he was doing, but she did, and she wondered at her audacity to ask such a thing. “Actually, the children are waiting for you. It seems they have a surprise planned for you and your sister.”
He waved his hand. “This will only take a moment. I don’t like feeling beholden to anyone, and it still irks me that I haven’t even gotten you the first three gentlemen after all you have done.”
Patience sighed. There was nothing to be done but get it over with. She trusted Mr. Woodsworth’s judgement. If he said these men were good men, he would be correct. What better way to start her first Season than armed with a list of possible candidates?
“Come,” he said again. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of the drawer next to him and unfolded it. Just as before, it was filled with neat rows and columns. Only this time, there were more of them. He stood and motioned for her to take his place in his chair. Not knowing a way out of this situation she had created, she complied.
Mr. Woodsworth went down on one knee to the side of her. His eyes shone as he leaned forward, pointing to each category and describing how he had decided on which attributes to include. The top row was filled with them. Benevolence, propensity to drink, propensity to gamble, the average time a position was held by their employees. Where on earth was he getting this information?
“I can add any other gentlemen if you feel they should be listed. I don’t have to limit it to three.”
“No.” Patience felt empty looking at these men, reduced down to the most basic of character traits. Some of the names she recognized, and others she did not, but there was a chance one of them would end up being her future husband. “You have found some good ones. The list is perfect.”
He threw his shoulders back. “I enjoy making lists.”
She smiled down at the paper. She could see that in the careful strokes in each letter and the well-measured lines. “Thank you.”
“It did take some doing finding peers that are young, unmarried, serious, and also goodhearted.”
She ran her finger over one of the names she didn’t know. “Lord Godfrey, is he young?”
“Fairly young, not more than forty.”
Forty. Patience did not consider that young, but she didn’t have the heart to tell Mr. Woodsworth that.
“And he doesn’t drink. That is good.”
“Yes, he had to stop drinking after he fell and hit his head one evening at White’s. Ever since then, he struggles to remember dates and sometimes drools from one side of his mouth, but he is kind.”
“Oh.” Patience didn’t know what else to say. “Kindness is important.”
“Of course, if you are looking for an especially kind employer, Lord Bybee is another good one. He is possibly too kind for his own good, which means his staff is paid very well.”
She found his name on the list. Thirty-one. That was a more likely age. “But it says here he is in a large amount of debt.”
“Yes, that type of kindness comes with a price. He has lent money to half of London and will never make anyone pay him back. But it probably won’t catch up to him for at least five or six years. Really, it will most likely be his children who have to pay the price of his generosity.”
“And these were the best men you could find?” Surely there had to be a man in all of London that would come out more favorably than the men on this list. She hadn’t even realized how important it was for her future husband to not be “slovenly at home” until she saw that column on his list. Apparently it was a rather common form of misconduct. Lord Dartmouth apparently suffered from that ailment quite severely. She nearly made a snide remark on it, but she refrained. Part of the reason she was here was so she could learn to be more serious like Nicholas. Serious maids didn’t disparage men of rank, no matter their lack of cleanliness.
“If none of these men are to your liking”—Mr. Woodsworth leaned forward and placed his hand over hers—“I hope you would consider me.”
“What?” Patience’s voice was barely over a whisper. His hand dwarfed hers. She was suddenly aware of every crack on her lye-burned knuckles.
“I don’t see why you have to leave here. Am I not a decent employer? I know I am not ranked, but if it is about pay, I’m certain we can pay as much as a lord.”
Patience slid her hand out from underneath his, stood, and stepped to the other side of the chair to put more distance between herself and Mr. Woodsworth. He was speaking of employment. Of course he was speaking of employment.
“Would you like me to add my name to the list? I would come out strong in the categories listed. I never drink or gamble, and our servants have been employed here for most of their careers. I think we both know I am serious. Why, I have been told I almost never smile. So on that front, I should rank well above most of those men.”
He was right. Patience stumbled as she made her way to the door. Mr. Woodsworth would rank high on any list. Of that she was certain. But this was no list of employers; it was a list of prospective spouses. Mr. Woodsworth didn’t understand what he was suggesting. And while it would do no harm for his name to be added, his would be the only name she ever saw once it was.
Patience’s hand was on the doorknob as she turned. He was standing with the light of the window behind him. It pierced through his hair and surrounded his thick frame in a heavenly glow. He wasn’t frowning, and he wasn’t smiling. He was just there. Solid. Practical and precise in all he did. Just like his list.
His beautiful, blasted list.
Patience cleared her throat and tightened her grip on the doorknob. “Are you still planning on marrying Miss Morgan?”
“Of course.” He spread both his hands out wide. “Why else would we be going through this charade?”
“Then no.” It hurt to say it, like someone had tightened her laces three times too tight. “You may not add your name to that list.” No matter that she wanted it t
here, wanted it on the top and possibly circled. Could there be a better man than him?
“Ah, I see. You are quite right.” He frowned. “It would be odd to have the woman I introduced as Mary Smith be a maid in my home.” He rapped his knuckles against the desk, and the staccato beats made her jump. “I could tell her. Once we are married, I could tell her.”
She dropped the door handle and fell back against the door to help hold herself up. Miss Morgan living in this house as mistress. The thought churned her stomach. “And you think she would allow me to stay?”
Patience could tell he wanted to say yes. He leaned forward and put his hand on the desk in front of him. But they both knew there was no way a woman would be comfortable having a maid who had danced with her husband in the home.
She didn’t wait for the answer she knew was coming. It didn’t matter anyway. She would be gone before he was married. Thank heavens. Miss Morgan may have appeared perfect on one of his lists, but in reality, it would break Patience’s heart to see them as husband and wife. “I will be gone before she needs to know.”
He sighed, strode over to her, and put both of her hands in his own. “I will write you an excellent letter of recommendation. I can guarantee I will get you a place in whatever household you choose. Most of London is scared of my father, which has its advantages. We will choose the best man from this list and have you established there in no time.”
Patience closed her eyes and for a moment enjoyed the feel of his hands engulfing hers. It would be easy, so easy to become accustomed to that feeling. “I don’t think you should hold my hands like this so soon after telling me you are planning on marrying Miss Morgan.”
She didn’t open her eyes, but she felt the room still. He dropped her hands, and she sensed him move away from her.
“Patience?” His voice was soft and confused. She had confused him.
Heavens, she had confused herself. Even if she wasn’t a maid, her mother and Nicholas wouldn’t consider anyone less than a baron for her, and a baron would be seen as a disappointment.
She couldn’t be in this room any longer. She turned and yanked the door open. “The children are waiting.” She marched out of his study, thankful that, at a minimum, her legs still worked.
“Wait.”
She stopped. With a slow, deep breath, she turned to him.
When they had started her fire, the one in the music room, at first the flames were orange and then gold. But as the heat grew in intensity, the flames closest to the coal were a burning, intense blue. Mr. Woodsworth’s eyes looked like that now.
She waited for him to say something, anything, but he just stood there. Slowly the bright flamed dulled until there was only a reminder of the sharp brilliance it had been only a moment ago. He went to his desk and lifted his list.
“You are right. I shouldn’t have held your hands. I know we are playing many roles together, but I shall try to remember while in this house you are a maid and not a friend.”
“Of course.” Patience hated the way the words sounded on her lips. Why couldn’t she be a friend and a maid? But would a friend’s hands still feel warm from his touch? That wasn’t because of friendship. If Mr. Woodsworth wanted to maintain a professional relationship while in the home, that would be best for all concerned. As improper and unlikely as a match between a maid and employer was, a match between her true self and Mr. Woodsworth wouldn’t be much better. Especially if anyone found out she had lived in his household. She nodded and turned once again to the nursery.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
Her heart stopped. What torment would he have for her now?
“Would you like to take this with you?” He held up the list of gentlemen.
She nearly laughed. That is what he had called her back for? “No,” she said. “You keep it. Perhaps you could add more men to it after all.”
“True.” He placed it back down on his desk and then took a deep breath before turning around. He practically marched through the doorway past her and then motioned for her to follow him to the nursery. It was a subtle reminder: she was the maid here. She followed, watching his every move, while he looked only forward, perhaps not even remembering she was there.
Which was fine. She hadn’t come to the home so Mr. Woodsworth would think of her or remember her. She was here to have an experience that taught her about hard work and helped her experience a life different from her own. After spending three hours ironing the day before, at least she knew she was accomplishing that.
They reached the corridor that led to the nursery, and he slowed enough for her to almost overtake him. He lowered his head but didn’t turn it. “I hope you know that we shall be sorry to lose you.”
She swallowed a bitter laugh. That is what all employers told employees they parted company with. She had heard Papa say it several times. It wasn’t really true though. The only employees they had dismissed had been the ones who didn’t fit with the family. No one had truly been sorry to see them go.
***
What had just transpired in his study? Anthony was unsure, and he didn’t like to be unsure. He snuck a glance back at Patience. Her normally cheerful face was solemn. He had thought for a moment . . . But it was ridiculous. His maid knew this was a charade, a charade to secure him a wife, even. She was worried about losing her position. Even still, what had prompted him to hold her hands? The Woodsworth family weren’t exactly the type of people to show affection with touch.
Not that he had any affection for his maid. That was logically impossible.
Improbable, at the very least.
He wanted nothing more than to tell her she could keep her position and hopefully put a smile back on that broad mouth of hers, but she was correct. Once he and Miss Morgan were engaged, they would have to start looking for another situation for Patience.
“Do you know what play the children have planned for us?”
“No, they wouldn’t tell me. But it has kept them entertained for hours, so I haven’t complained.”
“It should be interesting, at any rate.”
“With Harry and Augusta?” Patience said. There was that smile of hers, not as broad as it usually was, but his conversation hadn’t killed all of her playfulness. “Of course it will be interesting.”
Over the past few days, Harry and Augusta had come alive under Patience’s care. They were still strictly obedient, but they had begun exploring outside more and were laughing more often. Sophia was a wonderful mother, but levity had always been her husband’s job. It was high time the man came home.
Sophia was already seated in one of three chairs set up opposite a pile of quilts on the floor.
“Have the children told you what they have planned?” he asked her.
Sophia shook her head. “No, I believe it is a surprise for all of us.”
Anthony took the seat next to his sister, leaving the chair next to him open for Patience. She had been quiet since leaving his study. She sat on the edge of her seat, as far from him as possible.
Harry and Augusta walked into the room. Augusta had some sort of triangular piece of paper tied around her mouth. She tiptoed over to the bundled-up quilts and plopped herself down in the middle of them, then covered her head with her hands.
“Thank you for coming,” Harry announced in a loud, clear voice. The boy was getting older, and his father was missing it. “We now would like to show you a play. The play is The Ugly Duck.”
Patience shifted in her chair. “Oh no.”
“Once there was an egg,” Harry continued, and Augusta squirmed. “It was in a nest.” Ah, so the quilts were meant to be a nest. “Until one day, the egg hatched.”
Augusta broke open her arms and jumped up. “I’m an ugly duck,” she said with an over-exaggerated frown.
Patience groaned. Anthony thought they were doing a fine job. Harry was enunciat
ing well, and Augusta’s facial expressions were spot-on. He wasn’t sure what there was to groan about.
Harry walked over to the nest and helped Augusta climb out. “No one liked the ugly duck. The other ducks pecked at her.” He used his hands to pretend to peck at Augusta.
“Ouch.”
“But one day something strange happened to the duck. He—”
“She!” Augusta said.
“She was not ugly anymore. She became beautiful.”
Augusta spun around and around while Harry rushed behind the pile of quilts to grab some gauzy white material. He wrapped it around her, and she stopped spinning. Instead she started flapping her hands as if they were wings covered in the material.
“Now I’m a beautiful duck!” She flapped right up to Anthony’s face and practically climbed onto his lap. Patience had a hand over her face, her typically exceptional posture hunched over and turned away from him and Augusta. Augusta placed a hand on either side of his face and pulled it back to look at her. “Aren’t I a beautiful duck?”
With her face practically in his own, he smiled. “Yes, you are a very beautiful duck.”
“He smiled!” Augusta waved her filmy fabric around in triumph. “Uncle smiled his duck smile.”
Patience started clapping wildly. “Hooray, children! Well done. You have made an excellent play.”
“Did you see his smile, Miss Patience?” Harry walked over to the adults. Why were Harry and Augusta so focused on making him smile? Was he really that much of a bore? The children had spent hours getting this ready just to get a smile out of him?
“Yes, yes I did.”
“You were right about it.”
“I was?” She gathered up the two children, one arm around each, and walked them back over to the nest. “Now it is time to take a bow. After a performance, one must always take a bow.”
Why did Patience seem so nervous? Sophia leaned over to him. “It seems that play was put on for you, not me. No one was happy to see my smile.”
“I suppose they wanted to see my duck smile. Patience has a lot of sway over your children.” His face felt tight. The children had worked so hard to evoke a smile from him. He felt he needed to keep it. It was forced though. All of his desire to smile had fled. And to think only a moment ago he had thought perhaps Patience had some misguided feelings for him. How had he forgotten one of her earliest comments? She thought his smile made him look like a duck. “Is my smile really that ridiculous?”