by Laura Locke
“Well? Mother?”
“Would you be open to the idea?”
“I am more distraught by the concept that you are assuming that I am destined to be an old maid and by pairing me off with your cousin, you would solve two problems. You would have an appropriate chaperone for me and for your cousin, a younger woman who could look after her as age takes its course.”
“Oh, no, Melody. Please do not look at it that way.”
“Mother, are you and father ashamed to have an unmarried daughter living still at home?”
“Melody, why must you take this approach? I should think you would be interested in moving on with your life. There is nothing to say that you might not find a hundred possible beaus who will throw themselves over your dainty feet. As you know, there is little to choose from here in Tymington.”
Melody grew silent. She understood her mother’s logic and while it was not particularly flattering to be bundled up with an elderly old maid, she did see some possibilities in her mother’s proposal. “Let me think on it, would you?”
Sylvia nodded and smiled, her face lighting up. “You should know that I have already written to Sylvia and she has expressed delight at having you join her.”
Melody frowned. “Mother, would it have not been a better idea to talk to me about it first?”
“Perhaps.” Melody could see that Sylvia was trying to sell the only scenario she and Ira could possibly contrive. Melody was a sensitive girl and her feelings were easily hurt. She put down her work.
“I believe I shall take a small stroll and take in some fresh air,” she said without further elaboration and left the house.
Chapter 2
Robins poked their beaks in the damp sod, seeking their breakfast. It had rained lightly, but steadily, throughout the misty night, giving the budding plants of spring the sustenance they needed to pop open their buds and begin their glorious colors. Melody set off down the lane, her shawl over her shoulders, more from modesty than the need for warmth. The shawl matched her gown perfectly. Created from her original design, the fabric was a soft blue with a high waist that gathered beneath her bosom. There were inset panels of pale lavender and carefully embroidered lilacs joined the contrasting fabrics. Her shawl matched the lilac stitching and the overall effect, combined with her coppery hair was one of luxury and an attention to detail.
Melody walked towards the village, deep in thought. Her mother’s suggestion of moving in with cousin Lily held no appeal, however Melody was sensitive to the fact that she was soon leaving the age of marriageability by even the most generous social standards. She rationalized to herself that she needed no man to complete herself, but at the same time longed for the happiness her sister and brother had both found. She did, indeed, wish to have a family of her own someday. The Wellchesters were a closely knit, loyal family known for their integrity. Melody wanted her own branch of that solid tree from which to raise her own children.
As she approached the Smythe house at the edge of the village, she noticed there was an unusual activity. Several carriages, as well as a wagon filled with what appeared to be furnishings, was parked out front. That’s odd, Melody thought to herself. I wonder if something has transpired? Mrs. Smythe, the last of her family’s large family had lived alone in the house. Melody often heard gossip as she fitted the ladies and the word was that Mrs. Smythe had been feeling poorly lately. The activity at the large, yellow house suggested that perhaps she had not fared well and a new family may be taking up residence. This saddened her because while Mrs. Smythe could not afford to have gowns sewn, she always looked neat and clean in her simple, cotton shifts. She was a woman who demanded little from life and in return got exactly that.
Melody slowed her step, that she might witness human activity. It was not long before sure enough, she heard a loud woman’s voice evening from within. While she was unable to make out the words, it was apparent the woman was giving orders as it was a one-way conversation. Her curiosity somewhat satisfied, Melody returned to a normal pace, unwilling to be considered as eavesdropping. She continued on into the village, entering Dillard’s Apothecary. Mr. Dillard, a short, balding man with a very nervous disposition, huddled over his medicinal paraphernalia in the back corner of the room. His wife, buxom and nosy, tended the front counter. Most of the news of events transpiring in the village was discussed here. Indeed, Mrs. Dillard considered herself the mistress of discussion. Melody considered her a frightful gossip, but there was something to be said when it involved catching up on the local news, for there was no newspaper in town. Mrs. Dillard was holding court once again. There were three other ladies, each one intent upon her oratory.
“Poor thing,” she was saying, “all those children and not one of them came to care for their mother.”
Melody was silent, busying herself with examining tiny bottles of ointments on one shelf while straining to overhear Mrs. Dillard’s updates. The other women nodded solemnly and clasped their hands together and it was from their reaction that Melody gathered that perhaps Mrs. Smythe no longer graced the world as they knew it.
“Who is moving in, do you know?” asked one of the ladies.
Mrs. Dillard puffed up like a courting robin and leaned forward from her counter pulpit. “They say she’s quite wealthy. A Mrs. Rutherford, Abigail Rutherford.”
The ladies nodded. “Is there a Mr. Rutherford?” one asked.
“Not a husband. He has passed. There is, however, a young Mr. Rutherford. Conner is his name, and a handsome lad he is, indeed.”
“Marriageable?” popped out of Melody’s mouth before she could stop herself. The ladies tittered, and Mrs. Dillard’s face turned crimson at Melody’s lack of decorum.
“I would not know,” she replied quite haughtily.
Melody’s fiery spirit emerged as she shot back, “Then perhaps you’ll let the town known when you’ve found out?” With that, she turned on her heel and headed for the door, noting that Mr. Dillard had looked up from his hunched posture and was slyly grinning, winking at her. Oh, I pity the man, Melody thought to herself and emerged into the spring morning, deeply inhaling the air that burgeoned with a thousand scents of the season.
Chapter 3
Melody continued to stroll through the village, determined not to hurry back past the Rutherford’s new home. She knew that Mrs. Dillard would see her and then have more fodder for her seemingly curious, but often malicious, gossip. She peeked into the mercantile and quickly perused the stacks of new fabric neatly kept on bolts. Her mind was already working on ideas and this kept her occupied for some time. Further down the street, she stopped before the baker’s and while the smell of fresh bread was certainly alluring, it carried the reminder of her mother’s suggestion to move in with Lily. Melody shuddered, feeling depressed by the thought as surely as if someone were about to clang a prison door behind her. Once perceived as a spinster, there was no way back—at least not with any man who cared about reputations. She would be considered the day-old bread often sold from the baker’s back door.
Wrapped in gloomy thoughts, she started for home and was nearly upon the Rutherford house before she realized it.
“Excuse me”
Melody looked up to see a tall man, well-dressed and with coal black eyes that matched his hair before her.
“Yes?” she responded, watching his mesmerizing eyes that invited analysis.
“How do you do? My name is Conner Rutherford. We have only just moved into the house down the street and my mother has sent me on an errand. I wonder, would you happen to know where I might enquire after a housekeeper? It seems Ludie, the woman who was with us before, chose to stay behind to be near her grandchildren. So, you see, I am not sure where to begin.”
There was something about Conner that drew her closer, perhaps even a bit too close. She stuck out her hand. “Hello, Mr. Rutherford. I am Melody Wellington. My father, Ira Wellington is a farrier and we live just outside town down that lane,” she pointed. “I’ve lived h
ere all my life.” She thought of referring him to Mrs. Dillard, who knew everything, but could not give up the luxury of her good fortune. “As a matter of fact, there is a widow south of the village, a Mrs. Pinkerton, who might be just who you are looking for. She’s quite capable, I am told, and when I have spoken with her, I have come away feeling cheered.” Melody turned and pointed back toward the village. “She lives there, on the east side on the lane. Her house is a light blue and she has quite the green thumb. You will see the family name on a small sign near the gate. You cannot miss her. Please feel free to give her my name as referral.”
Conner extended his hand toward her. “Why, thank you very kindly, Miss Wellington.” He had quickly looked at her left hand and found it barren of a wedding ring.
Melody held her fingertips out and let his manly hand enclose hers. She felt a rush of heat within.
“It is Misstress, is it not?” he asked, hoping to verify her status again, just to be sure.
“Indeed, it is. I live with my parents and work with my mother in her dressmaking business. I am a seamstress.”
He held her hand a bit longer than necessary and smiled. He had beautiful white, strong teeth—surely a sign of a healthy constitution, Melody reasoned.
“You make women feel beautiful?”
Melody blushed. “I suppose, sometimes that is the result.”
“Then most assuredly, you must make your own clothes.”
Melody’s mouth opened at his impudence but the womanly part of her could not have been more pleased.
Conner noted her blush and felt satisfied. “It has been a pleasure, Miss Wellington. I must be on my way. My mother is, shall we say, a most demanding individual.”
Melody nodded and began moving forward. Conner had not anticipated it and she walked directly into him. “Oh! I am so sorry!” she gasped. The steely chest was the most delightful thing she had bumped into in some time.
Conner laughed, put his hands on her shoulders and gently set her steady to his side. “Perhaps I should allow you to pass first?”
Melody giggled, nodded and walked on, pausing a few feet later to look over her shoulder at Conner. He gave her an affirmative nod and tipped his hat before continuing on into the village.
Melody hummed all the way home.
Chapter 4
Conner politely tapped on the door before he entered the house. His mother was very insistent on the proprieties and having someone enter her home without notice was one thing she would not tolerate. Conner, although far more casual than his mother, knew it was easier to comply with her wishes, no matter how controlling they seem.
“Wait here in the entry, if you would,” he said to the woman who followed him in. He’d brought Mrs. Pinkerton with him. She was, at the moment, a guest, but he hoped to convince his mother to make her an employee, at which point she would be expected to enter the house through the kitchen door.
The former Smythe house was an elegant structure and they had been the second generation to live there. On the ground floor was a formal parlor with a white-washed fireplace and a mosaic glass screen that made the flames dance through the prisms of color. A portrait of the now deceased head of the family, Conner’s father, hung above the fireplace. It was a reliable likeness and he glowered from his canvas vantage. He and his wife had formed a matching pair and people who knew Squire Rutherford often commented that although Conner was their only son, he was very much unlike either his parents. The remark would anger Abigail Rutherford to the point that she often chided Conner for being “too wishy-washy” as she liked to call him. She provoked him as a matter of habit in an effort to “toughen him up.”
The remainder of the first floor included a study, which Conner had claimed, formal dining room, kitchen and a few small closet rooms for linens and other household accessories. A polished oak staircase led to the next level where five bedrooms with sitting rooms presided. The staff quarters were on the third floor. They were clean and comfortable, if reliant on the heat from the floors below to hold off the winter’s chill.
It was in the parlor that Conner now found his mother, busily working a list at her French, gilded writing desk. “I wondered where you had gotten off to,” she shrilled without looking up.
Conner overlooked her tone, preferring to treat his mother with a certain, slightly mocking patience, as though she was a child. She was accustomed to it and never noticed and to his credit, Conner dealt with her bitter blows with grace and a patient politeness that only comes with strength of character and self-assurance.
“Mother, I have made inquiries and Mrs. Pinkerton, who is just now waiting in the front hall, comes highly recommended as a housekeeper and cook. I thought perhaps you might, under the circumstances, waive the customary investigative process in favor of expediency.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Mother, I have Mrs. Pinkerton here, to interview for the housekeeper’s job.”
Mrs. Rutherford looked up, her spectacles having stopped their slide at the upturned tip of her nose.
“Well, this is most improper, Conner.”
He had already anticipated her objections. “I know, of course, Mother, but I do not want you to be overly burdened. You are a lady in high standing and should not be doing all that it takes to put this house together.”
She thought a few moments, basking in his adoring words and then sniffed. “Very well, if you insist. Bring her in, but be sure she removes her shoes. I will not have my Aubusson soiled with street mud.”
Conner turned, smiling to himself and shortly thereafter was escorting Mrs. Pinkerton into the parlor. He could see her quivering with intimidation; just the way his mother liked them.
“So? What’s your name, woman?”
“Adele Pinkerton, ma’am,” she responded, curtseying slightly as if she was unsure whether it was required.
“Do you have references?” shrilled Abigail.
“References, ma’am?” she answered hesitantly, looking to Conner for support.
“Mother, Mrs. Pinkerton is recently widowed and has not been in the working world until now. Her family is raised and she keeps a fine house. I took the liberty of verifying that when I went to call on her. Her home was immaculate.”
Mrs. Pinkerton started a bit at the idea that Conner had been inspecting her, but she appreciated now that he had spoken up on her behalf. She liked the young man immensely.
“And your children… where are they now? I will not have any unkempt, noisy urchins in this house.”
Mrs. Pinkerton’s mouth dropped, but she quickly snapped it close. She needed income or she would lose her house. There would be few suitable positions in the small village and she recognized the fates had smiled upon her. She could tell Mrs. Rutherford would be a trial, but she had already seen the manner with which Conner treated her and she seemed to be more satisfied when coddled. Lord knows, with my eight children, I know how to treat another one, she thought to herself.
It was this introspection that forced her to square up her shoulders and answer. “Mrs. Rutherford, my children are all grown, married with children of their own and my sons are doing quite well for themselves. I can assure you they have their own lives and I doubt you would ever meet them. After all, they would have no reason to come here since I would be living in my own house.”
Abigail started at that statement. “Your house? Why, you would be expected to live here, upstairs in the servant’s quarters, of course.”
Adele looked to Conner once more for help, but he shrugged so very slightly she thought she may have imagined it. She drew a deep breath. There were times to draw a line. “Mrs. Rutherford, I own a modest home on the other side of the village, barely a five-minute walk. I would be happy to come early enough that I would be here when you awaken, and I will not leave until you are prepared for bed. I would expect to have my own time on Sunday mornings so that I might attend church. That is my availability, ma’am.” Having said her piece, Adele held her
breath. Had she lost her fateful chance?
Abigail’s nose rose upward and there was what almost sounded like a feline growl of warning coming from her tense throat. She let it pass as she, too, however, was at a disadvantage. She knew no one in town, nor did they understand her position in elegant society. They were very fortunate to have her move to their village. That said, she was in need of a housekeeper to put the house to rights, prepare meals, do her laundry and in general, look after her when Conner was otherwise occupied. She respected his opinion and that spoke well on Mrs. Pinkerton’s behalf. She calmed herself and let the moment pass.
“Are you capable of producing a fine meal, with the best wines, soup, sweetbreads and roasts for as many as twenty guests?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Adele was feeling the buoyancy of victory now. She had stood her ground and it had been respected.
“You will be expected to keep the house clean, and I will inspect it every other day,” Abigail informed her in a warning voice.
“Of course. I would expect that.”
“You have not stolen from anyone, have you?”
“Ma’am, I am offended that you should ask. I believe Mr. Rutherford here came in search of me on the referral of Ms. Melody Wellchester and everyone knows there is no more respectable family in the county than the Wellchesters.”
“Who? Melody who? I do not know this name. Conner, have you been mingling with the locals before I have had the chance to determine who is suitable?”
“Oh, Mother, I assure you. Melody is quite suitable. She vouched for Mrs. Pinkerton and that was enough for me.”
Abigail sniffed noisily. Having her mark of approval usurped was a serious business to her. “Well, we shall see. Mrs. Pinkerton, I will offer you the position on a trial basis of one week.” She named a wage and while Mrs. Pinkerton had hoped for more, she knew better than to press the issue this early on. She nodded in acceptance. “If you do the job you’re hired to do, we may see fit to raise that a bit, but as my husband always said, rewards are first to be earned.”