‘Good evening, Miss Bailey.’
He frowned, causing her to run a nervous hand over her hair, wondering if she were untidy. There had been, of course, no looking glass in the attic. At her back, slight heat from the fire began to penetrate through her dress and thin shift. Strangely, and most inconveniently, she now began to shiver. But she was warming up. It made no sense.
He strode towards her, peering into her face. He was still frowning. ‘Miss Bailey,’ he announced. ‘Your lips are blue.’
She brought a hand up to touch her mouth. ‘Th-they are?’
He nodded grimly. ‘Give me your hand.’
She obeyed instinctively. He took her right hand, then the left, but she could barely feel his touch. With a muffled exclamation he wrapped both his hands around hers, rubbing gently.
‘You foolish girl! You are half-frozen!’
‘Oh, n-no!’ she lied. ‘I am j-just a little chilled.’
‘Your teeth are chattering, your hands are like ice, and your lips are as blue as—as your eyes,’ he muttered. ‘How on earth did you get so cold? Have you been outside?’
‘No! Of course not!’ His eyes bored into hers. ‘I have been in my chamber.’
His lips pressed into a single angry line. Releasing her hands, he walked to the table and drew forward a stout wooden chair. The stiffness in his spine and the set of his shoulders displayed his irritation. Arranging the chair directly in front of the fire, he bade her sit.
She did so, anxiously aware that she had displeased him. Schooled her entire life to be complaisant, obedient, and most of all unobtrusive, she was aware that right now she was being much too visible.
Without a word, he left the room, closing the door gently and carefully behind him. She shuddered at this evidence of his carefully banked anger.
Oh, no, he meant to speak to the landlord!
Unhelpfully, at that precise moment her mind decided to entertain her with the memory of a previous occasion on which she had caused trouble for those around her. It had been four years ago, when Lady Kingswood—then living under a false name—had been working as governess to Lady Cecily, Lord Kingswood’s ward. Jane had inadvertently revealed that the governess was not, as His Lordship had believed, Anne Bolton, but Miss Marianne. This had led to Miss Marianne leaving in great distress and no one seeing her for weeks afterwards.
Overcome by shame, Jane held her head in her hands. From what she knew of Mr Kendal he seemed generally mild-mannered and calm. Her instinct told her he was not the type of gentleman who customarily challenged innkeepers or expressed displeasure with their services. Yet, because of her, he was forced to leave his warm parlour to take issue with his host. She felt terrible to have caused this much inconvenience.
The door opened, admitting a different serving maid. ‘Good evening, miss. Dinner is almost ready, so I am here to prepare the table, if you will permit?’
‘Of course! Mr Kendal has asked me to dine with him. I am honoured, but I am used to dining with the other servants.’
‘Ah! So you are the maid who will sleep in our attic tonight?’ The maid began setting out crockery, cutlery and carving knives on the clean table cloth.
‘I am.’ Jane paused. ‘I was upstairs earlier. It was very cold.’
‘That’ll be the gap in the eaves. When the stuffing falls out it gets powerful cold up there.’
‘The stuffing?’
‘Aye, me and the other girls have stuffed an old mattress into the hole. It works a treat, but now and again it falls out, and the wind whistles through like the very devil!’
‘That explains it! I did wonder how you managed to survive, sleeping in such a cold room.’
The maid laughed. ‘It’s not perfect, but we are glad to have a roof over our heads and an honest day’s work. Though I shan’t get the chance to nip upstairs and stuff the mattress back in place until after dinner, and even then we might be busy in the taproom.’
She moved around the table competently, arranging everything in neat formation. Watching her, Jane was struck by the similarities in their station—and the differences. They were both servants, but Jane was used to rather more luxury than a cold attic bedroom with holes in its walls.
‘Is that your master in the taproom?’
Jane raised an eyebrow at the maid’s question.
‘The good-looking gentleman as is giving my uncle an earful about something?’
Jane closed her eyes briefly. ‘Er...yes.’
The maid departed, satisfied with her work, giving way to Mr Kendal in the doorway. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Not at all.’
He is considerate towards servants, Jane noted.
He moved towards her and she searched his face for hints as to his mood. The earlier irritation had gone. What she saw now was—Was that an air of satisfaction?
‘How do you now, Miss Bailey?’
‘I am perfectly well, thank you, sir.’
He threw her a sceptical look. ‘You are still shivering. And yet—’ he leaned forward to inspect her more closely ‘—your lips are returning to their normal rosy hue.’
He paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on her mouth, then he seemed to shake himself out of it.
He took a step back, stating in quite a different tone, ‘I wonder what delights our landlord will offer us for dinner?’
Food was not uppermost in Jane’s thoughts. She was freezing, exhausted, and still stiff from a full day stuck in the carriage. Yet, strangely, her heart was fluttering foolishly and her insides were melting with a curious warmth. It was, she recognised, to do with Mr Kendal’s proximity and the way he had looked at her mouth just now.
What is happening to me?
Since Henry Grant’s assault upon her person she had never felt this way. Of course she had encountered attractive men on occasion, but her appreciation of them had been impersonal, almost scholarly. Never visceral.
Never like this.
Before she could gather her thoughts the innkeeper appeared in the doorway, leading a procession of three maids and a manservant, all bearing dishes.
In the ensuing fuss, she found her equilibrium again, and not long afterwards her appetite.
Chapter Six
The innkeeper had provided a tasty and filling meal, with capons, turnips and potatoes, as well as some sort of stew flavoured with herbs, and there was even cake and cream.
Jane had found herself conversing lightly with Mr Kendal—the polite equilibrium of their discourse during today’s travel reasserting itself and making her question whether anything had actually happened in that moment before the fireplace, when her pulse had raced and her knees had felt peculiarly soft.
Soft in the head, more like, she admonished herself as she finished her meal.
‘That was an excellent dinner,’ she said.
Mr Kendal shrugged. ‘It was perfectly adequate.’
Of course. A splendid dinner such as this—which seemed both extravagant and grand to her, as a servant—was probably commonplace for a gentleman like Mr Kendal.
She eyed him through her lashes. He was contemplating the port wine in his glass. His handsome face was open and relaxed, and he was ignoring the servants who had now swooped in to clear the table.
The room had warmed up nicely, as had Jane herself. The warm food had helped too. But the thought of returning to that freezing attic was daunting.
‘What are you thinking about?’
His voice was soft, and sent a peculiar tingle dancing through her.
‘Your face is so expressive, yet it speaks a language I do not understand. Not yet, at least.’
She flushed. He is watching me!
‘In truth, sir, I was wondering what time it is. The other maids will retire at ten o’clock and I should do likewise.’
He consulted his pocket wa
tch. ‘It is not yet nine, so there is yet time to enjoy a pleasant after-dinner hour.’ He paused. ‘I have taken the liberty of amending the arrangements for tonight. The attic the landlord offered you to sleep in is clearly inadequate.’
She gaped. ‘You have been to the attic?’
‘I have. I was almost frozen in the brief time I was standing there. I told the innkeeper that no one should be expected to sleep in it—not least a female under my care.’
‘The maid has told me there is a gap in the eaves. I was going to stuff a mattress into it—’
He held up a hand. ‘Neither you nor the other maids shall sleep there tonight. The maids are to bring their pallets to the kitchen and you will have my chamber.’
‘Oh, no, sir! I cannot!’
‘You can, and you shall!’
‘But where will you sleep?’
He smiled slightly. ‘I shall sleep here. The landlord is arranging for a mattress to be installed.’ He smiled again at her gasp of shock. ‘I shall be perfectly comfortable, I assure you.’
Despite all her protestations he would not be persuaded. He moved the conversation on to an outline of their journey on the morrow, and she agreed to be ready to be on the road soon after sunrise, so as to make the most of the daylight.
Afterwards they moved their chairs to the fireplace and sat in comfortable silence, watching the dancing flames. She could see out of the corner of her eye his long legs, stretched out towards the hearth. Most of her life she had been surrounded by women—mainly servants, but also her beloved mistress. Men had always been there, of course, but as a lady’s maid she’d normally had only the briefest contact with them.
Wistfully, she recalled dim memories of her father. He had used to tell her tales of magic and far-off lands, and had sung to her and read her poetry.
Not since those long-gone days had she sat in congenial harmony with a man.
I like it, she decided. I must remember this night.
* * *
As expected, a strong frost greeted them the next morning as the carriage pulled away from the inn. Jane delighted in observing the delicate filigree of white on trees and hedgerows, and the dainty outlines of frosted silken webs on gates and fences. After a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast she felt alert and ready for the day’s journey.
She had insisted all three serving maids move their pallets into what had been Mr Kendal’s chamber. If she was to sleep in luxury, then so would they, she had declared.
Some judicious questioning had revealed that one of the older maids had a bad back, so Jane had offered her the large bed. Sleeping on a pallet in a warm, comfortable room had been a welcome relief after her hour in the cold attic earlier in the evening.
One of the chambermaids had snored during the night, but once she had worked out what the sound was she had gone back to sleep with little difficulty.
The landlord had assured Mr Kendal he would mend the hole in the eaves that very day. The maids had confidentially confirmed to Jane that their master did truly mean to do so, as he was concerned Mr Kendal had the power to harm his reputation among the aristocracy and gentry by spreading what the landlord labelled ‘false rumours’ regarding his treatment of the inn’s servants.
Feeling a warm sense of satisfaction at this outcome, and increased confidence that she was, despite her worries, managing quite well without Mama by her side, Jane settled back in her seat. The scratchy straw bonnet was firmly in place, and her feet were already cold, but these things were to be expected.
Mr Kendal looked across at her and Jane could not help smiling at him. He looked a little startled, then smiled back and all was well.
As the hours passed they amused themselves with light conversation, exploring each other’s opinions, likes and dislikes on a range of topics including the seasons—both loved spring—food—Jane had tasted most of the dishes he mentioned, though had rarely had more than a few bites of the delicacies returned to the kitchen once the family had finished—and pastimes.
Here Jane was at a clear disadvantage, for when one’s day was filled with attending to one’s mistress, her clothes and her possessions, it left almost no time for leisure. However, they were able to agree on the delights of walking through pleasant countryside.
Mr Kendal described the lands around Beechmount Hall, which sounded both extensive and pretty.
‘The Hall itself,’ he admitted, ‘seems rather dour on first glance, but its situation is delightful. I learned to ride in the fields and hills surrounding it. Do you ride, Miss Bailey?’
Jane laughed. ‘I think,’ she said with a twinkle, ‘that you are in danger of forgetting I am a servant, sir. Of course I do not ride!’
His eyes widened. ‘Do you know you are right? We are having such a comfortable conversation that it had, in truth, slipped my mind.’ His eyes gleamed with humour. ‘In future I shall cultivate the acquaintance of all the servants I meet. If they are even half as diverting and witty as you are I shall be well pleased.’
She flushed. ‘Oh, well, I dare say you would be surprised at the conversations we share in the servants’ hall.’
‘Indeed? Now I am intrigued!’ He leaned forward. ‘Do tell me more.’
‘Oh...’ She waved her hands airily. ‘We discuss the Royals, and the French—and the war, of course.’
‘Tell me more. Now Napoleon is defeated, what is your opinion on peace in Europe?’
She shuddered. ‘That Napoleon! Why, we were all terrified he would cross the sea and kill us all! It was such a relief when he was defeated and sent to Elba. I do hope he remains there.’
‘As do I.’
From there, they discussed the burning of Washington by General Ross—which Jane could not agree with, although she knew she was in a minority.
Surprisingly, Mr Kendal felt the same. ‘There was no need for it,’ he declared.
Jane beamed at him, delighted to find an ally. ‘Oh, how I wish you had been there when we discussed it at Ledbury House, for I was the only one who said so! Both Mama and the steward believed it was justified in the circumstances. But I could not agree.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Now it is you who forgets the difference in our station. Had I walked into the servants’ hall it would have instantly ended all conversation.’
‘Oh, but most of the servants would not have been discussing such matters. Only those of us who—’
‘Who what?’
She flushed. ‘As lady’s maid I have had some education—such that I am more informed than most of the staff. I often sit with Mama and the steward in Mama’s sitting room.’
‘I see.’
And on their discussion went.
They were so occupied that it was a surprise to both of them when the carriage pulled into an inn yard for a change of horses. Mr Kendal, who had agreed the plan earlier, with today’s postilion, declared the time had passed so quickly he could scarce believe it was already noon.
His words gave Jane a warm glow inside.
Half an hour later, following refreshments and the use of the retiring rooms, they climbed back into the carriage. The new horses were fresh and they sped along through the countryside. Jane and Mr Kendal alternated conversation with periods of companionable silence as on their left the sun began to sink towards the horizon and the day began to get colder.
‘We must be almost at Grantham,’ murmured Mr Kendal. ‘A pity there is no blanket in the carriage for you. It is growing colder by the minute.’
Jane was about to protest that she was fine, and needed no blanket, when suddenly the carriage slowed, then stopped altogether.
‘What’s amiss?’
Mr Kendal’s brow was creased. He opened the door and jumped down lightly. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Jane leaned out to discover what was happening.
She could make out a cart ahead,
its rear wheel stuck in a ditch. The cart was angled in such a way that it was blocking the road. Biting her lip, and ignoring the voice in her head that told her to stay put, she jumped down and made her way to the accident. The cart was tethered to a single horse, which was currently nibbling on some short winter grass at the side of the road.
Mr Kendal and the postilion were walking towards a person lying in the road. Someone was hurt.
Instinct drove her forward. She had always been fearless when tending the wounded. It went right back to her admiration of the doctor and his assistant who had tried so hard to save Papa. She had made it her business to learn to tend such minor ailments and injuries as were commonplace at home. There was a bone-setter in the village, as well as a midwife, and she had pestered them until they had agreed to pass on to her what wisdom they had.
The injured man must have been thrown from the cart when it went into the ditch. Jane could tell at a glance that his leg was broken. He was moaning in pain, and Jane immediately bent to speak to him.
‘Sir,’ she said in a firm, clear voice, ‘you have broken your leg. Do you have any other hurts?’ She was running her eyes over him as she spoke and could see no other injuries.
‘No,’ he grunted. ‘My horse...?’
‘Your horse is sound,’ confirmed Mr Kendal. ‘The cart also looks undamaged. It appears the only casualty is you.’
‘Thank God!’ the man said, then moaned more loudly as Jane touched his damaged leg.
‘I am sorry.’ She grimaced. Turning to Mr Kendal, she muttered, ‘I shall need something to splint it with.’
‘Of course!’ He nodded to the postilion and they disappeared together towards a nearby stand of trees.
Jane stayed with the injured man, keeping him occupied with conversation until they returned. The men had found some thin dead wood of a decent length, and the postilion had produced some twine from the carriage.
As gently as they could, Jane and Mr Kendal lined up the splints either side of the man’s leg, then fixed them with twine. They worked well together, and Jane was grateful for Mr Kendal’s acceptance of her skill. He obeyed her instructions without question, and before long they were done.
Rags-to-Riches Wife Page 6