by Esther Hatch
She couldn’t tell him yes, no matter how much she wanted to. Her life was not in her own hands. If she had truly been a maid, she could have had him. She would lean forward and not bother to answer him in words. Only his lips had responded to her during their first kiss, but what would it be like to kiss him now? When he would actually welcome it? As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t.
It would be a lie.
“Your plan is very sound.”
He kissed the inside of her wrist. “Thank you.”
“And very detailed.”
He repeated the motion, this time with her other wrist. “I know.”
“But it will not work.” His hands went limp in her own. “I wish it could. I can’t even tell you how much I wish it could. But I’m not free. I don’t get to choose my own future. If I could, this is the one I would pick. It is beautiful. Thank you, Mr. Woodsworth, for allowing me to think it possible for a moment. I am afraid it might be the most beautiful moment I will ever have.”
“What do you mean, you aren’t free? Have you betrothed yourself to some other man I don’t know about?”
“No, it isn’t a betrothal.”
His eyebrows furrowed, and he slowly dropped her hands. “What do you mean?”
There was a commotion in the hallway outside the door. The front door slammed.
“Where is Mr. Woodsworth?” Nicholas had never been soft-spoken when he was angry. At least he was in control enough not to run through the house screaming her name.
“He is in his study.” Mr. Gilbert’s voice was softer, but still, she could hear him. “Would you like me to announce you or send your card in?”
“No need” was Nicholas’s curt reply.
Patience jumped out of Mr. Woodsworth’s chair, knocking it over in her rush. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Woodsworth.” What she wouldn’t give to have the right to call him Anthony. “But will you please stand up?”
“Who is coming through that door?”
The door flew open as if a windstorm had crashed into the house. But it was no windstorm. It was her brother. As soon as he was through the door, he closed it.
“Mr. Woods—” Nicholas began, but he stopped when he saw her. “Patience, what are you wearing?”
She looked down at her dress. That was the first thing he would say to her?
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You are coming home with me now. Where is that scoundrel Woodsworth?”
He had flopped down from his kneeling position and now sat leaning against his desk, unmoving. She wasn’t certain he was even breathing. She reached down for one of his hands, but at her touch, he pulled away.
“He is here by the desk. But he has done nothing wrong, Nicholas. He didn’t know who I was, and he has been nothing but a noble employer.”
“That is not what I heard. He had you out in society. In society! Patience, what kind of absolute ridiculousness is this?”
At that, Mr. Woodsworth stood. “She was perfectly capable of conducting herself in society. She managed beautifully. I don’t know what kind of relationship or agreement she has with you, but I assure you, if she stays with me, she will have a better one.”
“A better one than what I can provide her?” Nicholas strode over to the desk. He pushed out his chest and rose to his full height, but Mr. Woodsworth was still taller by a few inches. “Do you even know who I am?”
“I assume you are the Duke of Harrington.”
“I am much more than that to her.”
Mr. Woodsworth’s face went white. Patience cast a furious glance at Nicholas. She was the one in the wrong here. He shouldn’t be taking it out on Mr. Woodsworth. She reached out to place a hand on Mr. Woodsworth’s arm, but he shook it off. She dropped her hand to her side and willed his eyes to look at her. But his gaze never came. This was not how she had imagined telling him. She had thought perhaps she would never tell him. But that was before he had come up with that ridiculous three-year plan for them to marry. As if she would have waited three years to marry him. If it had been in her power at all, months would have been too long. “He is my brother.” The words felt strange on her tongue, as if someone else had whispered them. Mr. Woodsworth stilled. “I am Lady Patience Kendrick.”
“Kendrick.” He whispered the name, his lips only just moving. “I knew it sounded familiar.” He leaned forward with both hands on his desk. “You lied to me. The whole time we have been together has been a lie.”
“Woodsworth.” Nicholas’s voice was a deep growl, but Mr. Woodsworth ignored it.
“You wouldn’t even lie to Stewart about where you were from, but with me, you’ve lied about everything.” A dry laugh escaped his throat.
“I didn’t lie. My name is Patience. And I am your maid. I was hired to be. I’ve never lied to you, not about a single thing.”
“My plan must have seemed so foolish—”
“No, not foolish. And if I had been a maid, there was no chance I could have resisted you.”
“But you aren’t a maid, are you? You just said so yourself.”
Mr. Woodsworth had never sounded so harsh and bitter. Oh, what had she done to him? He was right; her logic didn’t make sense. If she were a maid, she could have married him. But she was not and never would be truly a maid. She may not have lied to him exactly, but she had deceived him and his household, and now she was facing the consequences of her actions.
“And now that it is clear my sister belongs nowhere near you, I am taking her home. Now. If I find you have done her any harm, you will be visited by a constable immediately. If serious harm, then you will be visited by my sword unless you would prefer pistols. I am proficient at both, thanks to your father.” Nicholas held his arm out expectantly for Patience. It was time to leave. He shook his head back and forth. “I have no idea how we are going to explain that dress to Mother.”
Mr. Woodsworth said nothing contrary to her leaving. Instead he bent over, lifted his chair—which Patience had toppled—from off the floor, and sat down. He was back to sitting in her presence, it seemed, even though now he knew better than to do so.
“I need to fetch my things.”
Nicholas scoffed. “Surely there isn’t anything here you need.”
What did she need from her room? Her apron? Her stained cap?
Her stained cap.
She needed that. She would have something to remember her time here. And one other thing. She wanted Mr. Woodsworth’s seven-page plan to marry her. But how would she ask it of him?
“I have one thing I would like from my room. And, Mr. Woodsworth?”
He looked up, his eyes glazed over. The pages were right in front of him, still spread out, the one with his proposal and their wedding date on top of all the others. She closed her eyes, wishing for something about this moment to change. For her to have a few more days with him. For her to be a maid and not a lady. For her to have the courage to ask him for those pages. But when she opened her eyes, everything was the same. She couldn’t ask for those papers, but he did have a list that was, in all rights, hers.
“Could I have the list of gentlemen we were working on?”
He put his hand over his eyes and then flexed every muscle in his fingers. With a slight nod, he reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a single sheet of paper. On it was the list they had gone over together. He turned to offer it to her, and then stopped, his eyes glancing back and forth between her and the names jotted down. “This list has nothing to do with employers. It is a list for you.”
“What list?” Nicholas strode over to the desk. He stopped short of taking the paper out of Mr. Woodsworth’s hands.
“It is a list of potential suitors, isn’t it? You have been asking me to help you pick out a husband.”
“What is going on?” Nicholas said. “I’m going to choose your husband. You need no help from him.”
>
“No one is choosing a husband for me. Especially if I don’t get that list.” She would have one thing to remember Mr. Woodsworth by, and the list was easier to ask for than the proposal. She held her hand out to Mr. Woodsworth, but he ignored it, looking over each and every note he had made on the men listed there. As long as she was being ignored, she threw caution into the wind. “If you won’t give it to me, then I will take those papers instead.” She pointed to Mr. Woodsworth’s plans.
“No,” said Mr. Woodsworth, placing his left arm over the papers. With his right hand, he set down her list of gentlemen and reached for his pen and ink. “I will give it to you, but first I need to make a few adjustments.” His eyes ran down the paper several times before he scratched a long, dramatic line across one entry’s information. “Lord Grunfeld is definitely out.”
She tried to reach for the paper. She didn’t need Mr. Woodsworth helping her pick a husband. She would deal with that dreary decision later. Much later—not five minutes after he had proposed to her. He turned his body so he could still keep one arm on the proposal papers but block her from reaching the list he was working on. She sighed. Apparently she would have to watch him pick apart a list of men she had never truly considered. “Of course he is. You will have some faith in my powers of reasoning, I hope.”
Nicholas came behind the desk and looked over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he read the names and categories. “This is a list of potential suitors for Patience? Half the men on here aren’t good enough to even be invited into our home, let alone be allowed to court my sister.”
“I didn’t know it was a list of suitors,” Anthony said between gritted teeth.
“You have Lord Bragton on there?” Nicholas shook his head. “He is in debt up to his ears. Cross him off.”
Mr. Woodsworth decisively blotted out that name.
This couldn’t be happening.
“Lord Shurton has a meddling mother.” Nicholas pointed to another name. “Patience shouldn’t be expected to live with that.”
A swipe of the pen.
“Why did I even include . . .”
Patience couldn’t watch anymore. She turned to leave. She needed her cap, and she wanted to say goodbye to Mrs. Bates, Mr. Gilbert, and Molly. Oh, and Augusta and Harry. What would she tell them?
She quietly opened the door and shut it softly behind her.
The foyer was silent and empty. Mr. Gilbert must have known to give Mr. Woodsworth a wide berth while being accosted by a duke. The cold metal of the door handle chilled her. She could still hear the rumblings of the two men behind her, casually discussing her future, as if it had nothing to do with her. She was back to where she had started, only worse. Much worse. She had seen written out in bold, careful strokes a plan of happiness spread out over the course of seven pages. And she could never have it.
She pressed her back against the door frame and slid to the floor. The more she tried to calm her breathing, the tighter her chest became. She leaned forward with her head in her hands. At any moment someone could walk past her, but she couldn’t force herself to stand. This was not how it was supposed to end.
The door opened, but she still couldn’t get up. Two strong arms reached beneath her legs and around her neck and lifted her off the floor.
“Come, Patience,” Nicholas said.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest. He smelled like Papa. How many times had Papa carried her like this when she was a little girl?
“I miss him.”
Nicholas pulled her tighter to his chest. “I do too.” Of course he would know she was speaking of Papa.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to be out of mourning yet.”
“It is time, my little dove.”
Papa’s nickname for her. Tears that had been threatening to fall ever since Mr. Woodsworth had pulled out his list spilled out of her eyes and onto Nicholas’s coat.
“Let’s get you home. Where is your room? I will help you fetch your things.”
“Did you get my list?”
“It is in my breast pocket.”
Patience moved one hand and felt it there. She had it. She would at least have one thing to remember Mr. Woodsworth by.
“That should be the least of your concerns. I cannot believe you deceived me so. And living here for weeks, unchaperoned no less.”
“Down the hall, that way.” Patience pointed him in the right direction to her room. She wasn’t ready to listen to another lecture from her brother. She should demand he put her down so she could go herself. If Mr. Gilbert or Mrs. Bates saw her being carried by such a well-dressed gentleman, what would they think of her?
Ah, it didn’t matter anymore.
Mary Smith was apparently dead by snake bite, and Patience the maid would simply disappear.
“Did he see me? When you walked out, did he see me?” Curled up in a ball just outside the door was not the last image she wanted Mr. Woodsworth to have of her.
“No, he stayed at his desk.”
“Good.”
“Did he hurt you?”
Did he hurt her? What kind of a question was that? How could she answer it truthfully? His proposal had been the most painful moment of her life. The most painful and most beautiful.
“Well?” Nicholas’s voice had gone deep with panic.
“Not in the way you are thinking.”
“In what way did he hurt you?”
“I just want to go home. I didn’t make it to my thirty days. I didn’t make it to Bath.” Her words tumbled out one after another, and Nicholas’s expression grew more confused with each addition. “I didn’t even manage to serve under General Woodsworth. He was away from home the entire time. Mr. Woodsworth promised me a letter of recommendation, and I forgot to ask it of him.”
Nicholas furrowed his brow and opened his mouth as if to ask a question. She wasn’t ready to answer any questions quite yet. He must have noticed her reticence, for he snapped his jaw closed and shook his head. “Which door?” he asked after a moment’s pause.
Patience pointed to hers. There were three other doors just like it that opened to three identically small rooms. She would never again have such anonymity. “That one.”
Nicholas set her feet down but kept his arm around her back. He pulled forward one of her hands. Her red, cracked, and ruined hands. “But it looks as if you did learn to work.”
She nodded, afraid that, if she spoke, she would once again start crying. She had learned to work. Not always in the most efficient manner. But she had earned her four shillings a week.
Although she hadn’t yet been paid.
She left Nicholas waiting at the door and gingerly made her first few steps into the room. She grabbed her cap off of the hook on the wall, then turned and left before giving herself any time to be sentimental about the tinderbox-sized room she had spent the last few weeks inhabiting.
She and Nicholas walked back down the hallway, and when they reached the kitchens, Patience turned to go in.
“Do you need something from there as well?”
“No, but the door is this way.”
“That is the servants’ entrance, Patience.”
Of course. The Duke of Harrington would never go through a servants’ entrance. And neither should his sister. She shook her head at her foolishness, then wrapped her arm around Nicholas’s. “Take me home.”
It was time to return to being Lady Patience Kendrick. Even if it meant leaving a piece of who she now was behind.
Chapter 18
“Come in,” Anthony called out. And then he held his breath. It had been a full month since Patience—Lady Patience—had left, and yet every time someone knocked on his study door, he still expected to see her open it.
Mr. Gilbert slid through the doorway.
In his hand was an
envelope and a card, but he simply stood there and didn’t move forward to his desk. It was as if he was hesitant, and Mr. Gilbert was never hesitant.
“Well, what is it?” She wouldn’t have written to him, would she have? To offer an explanation or to tell him she was settled back home and doing fine? He still had no clue as to why a titled lady had ended up at his home looking for a position as a maid. It was one of the many things that had tormented him the past month. “What do you have for me?”
Mr. Gilbert cleared his throat. “Today is payday.”
Oh, nothing to do with Lady Patience. Perhaps Mr. Gilbert was hesitant because he was here to ask for a raise. Anthony paid the servants quite well, but there would be no replacing Mr. Gilbert. If he did ask, he would get it. “Is there something amiss with your pay?”
“No, my pay is fair,” Mr. Gilbert said. “Only I have a letter from your sister for you and Patience’s wages, and we never received a forwarding address.”
Her wages. “Leave the wages on my desk.”
“You’ll get them to her? Do you know where she is?”
“I know where she is.” Whether or not he would deliver the wages seemed to be the question. What would Lady Patience Kendrick need with a few shillings? He could have it delivered, he supposed. She had earned her pay. More than earned it. When he thought of the things he had made her do . . .
“Do you know if she is doing well? She seemed to really want work when she came.”
Anthony didn’t know if he should laugh or hit his head against the desk. He opted to do neither. “I’m sure she is doing much better than anyone here.”
“Well, you are correct about that. The whole household has been under a cloud since she left. With both her and the children gone, it seems unnaturally quiet.”
“She was just a maid, Gilbert. It must be the effect of the children being gone. That would make much more sense.”
“With all due respect, sir, she was never just a maid.”
Anthony put his elbow on his desk and covered his head with his hand. Mr. Gilbert had no idea how right he was. Patience was never just a maid. If she had been, she would be in Kent right now, and he would be counting down the minutes until he could see her again. He would have thought it an agony. Only because he didn’t know the agony of never seeing her again. Of never having seen her properly in the first place. Patience the maid didn’t exist, and yet his heart yearned for her. How did a man rationally recover from a woman so illogical she wasn’t even a real person?