by Esther Hatch
The light from the window had started to fade. He stood and brought a candle over to the fire to light it. Only after lighting the candles on his desk and the ones on the side tables near Patience did he stop to consider that perhaps lighting the candles should have been her job.
He plopped back into his chair. His desk had just as many candles as her small tables did, yet the light seemed to pool around her. His eyes were constantly pulled in her direction, but she never looked up at him. Instead she seemed absorbed in her book, a slight half-smile on one corner of her misbehaving lips.
Whatever was happening, he needed to stop it right away. He knew it was his fault. He was the one who had invited her to pretend to be something she wasn’t—a role she played remarkably well. If she were to somehow marry a gentleman, she would fit the role of gentlewoman perfectly. Patience was a complete mystery to him. She could be a social climber. She had asked him for that list. But if that were the case, wouldn’t she be more serious about what had just transpired? It was as though his mouth had been but an experiment; she had tested it, and now she was satisfied.
Or at least he hoped she was.
If she wasn’t a social climber, why had she kissed him? He cleared his throat. All told, she had been here at least half an hour. Surely that was long enough. “I’ve finished my work and will retire now.”
She took the time to finish at least a paragraph before looking up at him. Her eyes were completely serene, as if nothing had happened.
“Alone,” he added for some unclear reason. Even to himself.
Her eyes widened at the word, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “Surely you don’t think I would follow you into your bedchamber.”
“I . . . no, of course not. I only meant . . . will you be all right on your own now?”
“Yes, thank you. I don’t feel lonely anymore. You are at least as comforting as Ollie. I’ll read a few more pages and then tidy up your study before I leave.” She sighed and sank back into the chair.
Ollie. Who the devil was Ollie? And how had he been comforting her? Anthony rose from his chair and walked to the middle of the room. He didn’t need to ask. She wanted him to ask her, and it would be more infuriating to her if he just didn’t. He rubbed his face in his hands. It was no use. “Who, may I ask, is Ollie?”
“Ollie?” Her broad mouth formed the word like a caress.
“Yes, Ollie, the fellow who has comforted you in the past.” He paced in front of her. “Did you kiss him as well?”
She laughed and made a face that exuded repulsion. “No, I have definitely never kissed Ollie.”
All right. That was good. She wasn’t in the habit of kissing men. She had told him that already.
“Ollie kisses me, though, all the time. I try to get him to stop, but he doesn’t know any better.”
“He doesn’t know any better.” Anthony sputtered. “What kind of man—”
“Oh, he’s not a man.”
“Not a gentleman at any rate. Does he still contact you?”
“He’s not a man. He has no way to contact me. He is a Great Dane.”
“Oh.” The air left his lungs in a rush. Sometimes he hated his maid.
“I haven’t had the easiest last few years, and Ollie was always my solace. He loves me for who I am and not for who I am supposed to be. How can I not find comfort in that?” She spoke softly, her words tumbling out of her mouth like the stream in his Kent estate.
For the first time in his life, he considered the prospect of owning a dog. He was several feet away from her, but she still seemed close. “In the absence of your Great Dane, I’m glad to have been able to help.” He smiled, leaning toward her, then straightened and schooled his features. That wasn’t the right thing to say. Blast it, if this woman saw that as an invitation to receive any more comfort from him, he was in high danger of becoming a scoundrel.
She rose from her chair, tucked her book under the crook of her arm, and strode toward the bookshelf. Or toward him? He didn’t breathe—didn’t move, other than to follow her with his eyes. The rustle of her skirts on the ground as she passed him left a light scent of cherry blossoms. He needed to leave the room. The last thirty minutes had been excruciating. He marched toward the door and, with his hand on the knob, turned to her. He needed to establish that he was still her employer.
“I trust you won’t be making a habit of what occurred this evening.”
“Reading in your study?” She innocently ran her fingers over the binding of his book.
“No, you are welcome to read anything we own. You know what I mean.” For some reason, he couldn’t say aloud what she had done. Saying it made it more real, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be real.
“Oh, the kiss.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, that.”
“I won’t make a habit of it, I suppose.”
She didn’t sound very certain. He dropped the doorknob and turned to fully look at her. Her auburn curls were barely contained in the typical low knot at the back of her head. Her full lips that only moments ago had been pressed against his own were curled into a half-smile.
She shrugged. “If it happens every once in a while, when I feel that you need it, that doesn’t make it a habit, does it?”
He threw his hands to his face and ran his fingers slowly over his eyes, cheeks, and mouth. In spite of what she’d done, she seemed so innocent. How could he explain to her the precarious position she had put them in?
“Why did you do it? I wasn’t going to kiss you. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I never would have, except that I had a terrible evening.”
“I suppose it is because we were talking so much about infatuation, and I realized something.” She placed Byron back on the bookshelf. “I must be infatuated with you. I know it isn’t self-sacrifice, because you have given me too much, and it isn’t love, because I know you don’t feel the same. But I know what I feel for you, and I know that, given the circumstances, I have no guarantees about how much longer I will remain in your employ. So I thought it would be . . . fulfilling to kiss you.”
Fulfilling? She thought it would be fulfilling? His breath became short for a moment as he contemplated exactly what Patience might feel for him. No, this must be a common thing, for young maids to have foolish visions of their well-placed, unmarried employers. It was infatuation, just like she said. Thank goodness she recognized it for what it was and nothing more. But she would have to stop acting on her impulses. “Haven’t you ever been taught self-control? In general, most feelings do not deserve to be acted upon.”
“Believe it or not, self-control has been pounded into me since birth.” Her face grew hard, and she rubbed the edge of the bookshelf with her thumb. She must be reliving some of her childhood. It must have been hard growing up with the knowledge that she could never be more than a servant. Her lips softened then, curling up on one side, just as they had done while she was reading. Finally her face broke into a full smile. “Thank you for letting me lose my self-control for once. I must admit it was exhilarating.”
He placed his hand back upon the door knob. It had been. Upon his soul, it had been.
“Good night, Miss Patience.” He gave her a short nod and walked through the door as quickly as he could without looking like he was running away.
“Good night, Anthony.”
His step faltered. But he didn’t turn around. She had kissed him earlier, so calling him by his Christian name shouldn’t be any worse, but in some strange way, it felt even more intimate than their lips touching. He pushed his nails hard into the palms of his hands. This was his fault. He was the one who had started this whole charade. He was the one who had asked her to join his world. He was even the one who had mentioned kissing her. Every wild idea that had popped into his head—things every rational person would have refused to do—she had done. What was he to do with her?
Chapter 16
Patience finished scooping out the hot ashes underneath the grate and added a few more coals to the drawing room fireplace. She never did this without thinking of Mr. Woodsworth. It had been two days since she had kissed him. Nicholas would be so very displeased with her, not only for what she had done, but for how happy it still made her every time she thought of it.
The door to the drawing room opened, and the butler, Mr. Gilbert, ushered a gentleman into the room. Patience nearly dropped her bucket of ashes.
Lord Bryant.
“If you would kindly wait here, I will give your card to Mr. Woodsworth.” Mr. Gilbert caught her eye and squinted toward the door. An invitation to leave. Lord Bryant hadn’t looked at her yet—one of the advantages of being a servant. His eyes had barely glazed over her. She hefted the bucket to one side and kept her face toward the wall.
Mr. Gilbert waited with the door open for her to come through it.
“Oh,” said Lord Bryant. “And would you be certain to tell Mr. Woodsworth to invite Miss Smith to join us?”
“Pardon me?” Mr. Gilbert squinted at Lord Bryant. “Did you say Miss Smith?”
Patience ducked down lower. Just a few more feet and she would be out of the room. She could put on her wig. She looked down at her dress and apron. Soot sullied more than one corner of the apron, but the dress was mostly clean. Ill-fitting and plain, but clean.
“Yes, Miss Smith. She has been a guest of the home recently, hasn’t she?” Lord Bryant’s voice was less assured than normal.
“The only guest we have had is Mrs. Jorgensen and her children.”
There was a sharp intake of air from Lord Bryant’s direction, but she didn’t dare look to see if he had recognized her. Patience had made it past Mr. Gilbert and was through the doorway. She practically ran down the hallway to the kitchen, where she deposited her bucket of ashes. It was a good fifteen minutes before common visiting hours. And he hadn’t sent a card, so no one knew he was coming. Did Lord Bryant always do exactly as he wanted?
What to do next? Find Mr. Woodsworth and warn him of the situation? Put on her wig and casually walk into the room, claiming Mr. Gilbert was addlebrained? But he wasn’t addlebrained; he had been very kind to her. She couldn’t tell such an untruth.
She paced back and forth in the kitchen, shaking her hands while she thought. She had to warn Mr. Woodsworth, at the very least. She turned to head back to the main house but stopped when she saw Mr. Gilbert come into the kitchen.
“Has Mr. Woodsworth seen Lord Bryant yet?” she asked without waiting for him to speak.
Mr. Gilbert gave her a quizzical look. “How did you know that was Lord Bryant?”
“You didn’t say his name?”
“I’m quite certain I did not.”
“He is rather well known.”
“Is he?”
“Ask any of the women of the household. They would agree with me.”
Mr. Gilbert narrowed his eyes. “However you know it, Lord Bryant has a strange request.”
“What is that?”
“He is hoping that you would bring in the trays for tea.”
“He asked for me?”
“Yes.”
“By name?”
“I would hardly expect Lord Bryant to know your name.”
“Then maybe he meant Molly.”
“No, he specifically asked for the maid who had been emptying ashes.” Mr. Gilbert cleared his throat. “Do you have a problem with serving tea to the baron?”
“Of course I have a problem with bringing him tea. That isn’t my duty. It isn’t even a maid’s duty. Mrs. Jorgensen should be the one to serve tea.”
“Mrs. Jorgensen is usually not here. Mrs. Bates would normally serve tea, and when she is unavailable, a maid would serve tea.”
“But not this maid.”
“I have never known you to shirk from any of the tasks you have been asked to do. Even the ones you have been deplorably bad at.” He stepped forward. “When a guest asks for something this reasonable, especially a titled guest, we find a way to accommodate.”
“But—”
“Are you afraid for your person?” Mr. Gilbert’s face softened. He had protected her many times from Mrs. Bates, either by showing how things were done or at times distracting Mrs. Bates from how long it took Patience to do certain tasks. She hated to disappoint him now. “Mr. Woodsworth will be in the room. You will never be alone with him.”
Mr. Woodsworth being there made it even worse. However, whatever else she was afraid of, it wasn’t that she would come to bodily harm. “No.”
“Then I’m afraid you will have to do it.”
Patience gritted her teeth and finally nodded. There was no fooling Lord Bryant at this point anyway. If he had asked for her, that meant he had already recognized her.
She tucked a few strands of unruly hair back into her cap. Her fingers were glazed with a fine layer of dust and ash and her apron a mess. Mr. Gilbert must have noticed her distress. “You may have five minutes to clean up while I inform cook that an early morning visitor has arrived. She will have the tea ready when you are.”
After washing her hands as best she could, Patience rushed off to her room to change out of her apron and cap. She had no mirror in her small room, but she did have a few more hair pins. She hastily shoved them into her hair, hoping they would contain at least a few more of her curls. Blast Lord Bryant. Would the man never leave her alone? If it weren’t for him, she would be quietly finishing off the last few days of her service here. Mr. Woodsworth hadn’t asked her to attend any more functions with him, and she was finally able to concentrate only on her tasks at his home, her whole purpose in coming.
She hurried down the hallway, took a short detour, and stood in front of the mirror in the foyer. Her dress was mostly clean but ill fitting. Her hair didn’t look as bad as she had feared. Her face was free from soot. Hopefully it was enough to convince Lord Bryant that she was healthy and doing well in the Woodsworth household. To be so close, only to have Lord Bryant tell Mr. Woodsworth who she was?
She couldn’t allow it to happen.
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she remembered her actions of two days ago. She hadn’t cared much what Mr. Woodsworth thought of a maid being so brazen. But if he knew . . . It didn’t bear thinking on.
Cook had wheeled the tea cart to the front of the drawing room door. Mr. Woodsworth must already have gone in. What excuse did Lord Bryant use for his visit?
Mrs. Bates was waiting beside the cart, sullen. She opened the door for Patience, and together they wheeled in the tea cart. Patience had taken the news of Lord Bryant’s request rather painfully, but as Mr. Gilbert had said, the servants accommodated the wishes of a titled guest. And above all, she was here to prove herself a proper servant.
Mr. Woodsworth’s back was to them, and he was so focused on Lord Bryant that he hadn’t acknowledged their arrival.
Lord Bryant spun a signet ring on his pinkie finger. “And you have no way to contact Miss Smith?”
“None,” said Mr. Woodsworth.
She dared a glance at him. He was sitting with his back to her, not knowing the predicament he was about to be in. Lord Bryant, on the other hand, caught her eye and tsked, shaking his head back and forth.
“She must not be far. Why, it wasn’t but a week ago we were picnicking at Green Park. I distinctly remember you saying she was a close friend of the family.”
“Do you know the whereabouts of all of your close friends?”
“That question operates under the assumption that I have close friends. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”
Mrs. Bates gave Patience a slight shove with her hip. It was time to pour tea.
“It seems to me you are busy enough with Miss Paynter and Miss Morgan. Where would you find the time to convers
e with Miss Smith as well?”
The tray rattled in Patience’s hands. Mr. Woodsworth turned his head toward the two of them, and his eyes widened. He quickly snapped his mouth shut but furrowed his eyebrows at her and jerked his head in the slightest manner toward the door.
“Ah, tea. Just what I was looking forward to,” Lord Bryant said, respectfully standing in a way no man should for a servant. “And your help is so lovely.”
Patience would strangle him, lord or no. Had he come here just to torment her?
“Mrs. Bates, it has been years since I have graced this doorway, but I declare you are just as lovely now as you were then.”
Mrs. Bates stifled a girlish giggle, but a blush made its way to her middle-aged cheeks. How was it that, just because Lord Bryant was handsome and titled, he managed to make all of the women around him act like school girls?
“Oh, milord. You flatter me.”
“I flatter everyone who deserves it, which is why I asked Mr. Gilbert to have this pretty young maid serve tea. She seemed to be in need of some flattery, and how much easier it would be to flatter her while pouring tea.”
***
Anthony was more than ninety-eight percent certain Lord Bryant knew exactly who his pretty servant was, or rather, who she wasn’t. “That will be all, Mrs. Bates. Patience can take it from here.”
“Patience?” For the first time since his meeting Lord Bryant, surprise etched the lord’s otherwise bored or flirtatious features. “Your maid’s told you her name is Patience?”
Anthony wasn’t certain Lord Bryant’s surprised outburst was a question or a statement, but he answered him anyway. “Yes. Because it is her name.” If Anthony was curt with Lord Bryant, perhaps he would leave sooner. He doubted it. More than likely it would provoke him to stay longer and toy with Anthony’s emotions more viciously, but he found curtness was all he could muster for the interfering lord. “I see no reason for that to cause surprise.”