One Day for a Valet

Chapter 1

“Sofi, have you heard a word of what I’ve been saying for the last five minutes?”

Sofia stopped walking, her lips pressing into a thin line, but the truth was, she hadn’t been listening. From the stiff English dress scratching like tree bark against her skin, to the stab of unforgiving pins in her too-tight chignon, everything chafed, her conscience worst of all. Listening to her brother repeat everything he had been droning on about for weeks didn’t seem likely to improve her state of mind.

Pausing, Oliver glanced over his shoulder and grimaced as if she was the disappointment. “I said, I will come back at noon and wait just there on the outskirts of the apple orchard. If you don’t arrive within an hour, I’ll assume they hired you on.” Pulling a flask from his coat pocket, he drew several deep swallows before sliding it out of sight. “I know you’re not happy about this, but you’ll just have to trust me, little flea.” His thick Italian slurred across the affectionate moniker, and Sofia tried without success to suppress a shudder. He was, as ever, oblivious to her distress.

Oliver sighed, his hand still hovering over his pocket. “This is what’s best for us. Surely you know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

But that was the crux of the problem. She didn’t trust him. Not like she once had. And how that hurt. Faith in Oliver’s eventual return had sustained her through his two-year-long absence and the gradual unravelling of her life, but the joy that had blazed through her veins upon seeing him again had long since flickered away.

“Yes, I hear you. Noon,” Sofia parroted, turning away. But before she could take a step, his warm hand wrapped around her wrist and urged her back. The care in his touch, so achingly familiar, silenced her discordant thoughts just as it had when she was a child and she met his eyes. “I’ll try.”

His hand slid down to clasp hers, his thumb tracing the jutting bone of her first knuckle. “That’s not what I was going to say.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “I was going to tell you to be careful. Be careful, and… I love you.”

She nodded, easing her hand from his grasp, and walked away.

It had taken Oliver the bulk of their journey to convince Sofia to take part in his plan. And it had been a long journey. Painfully so. Jostling along the endless dusty roads leading away from the Peninsula, she’d lost and found her nerve to argue with him some twenty times, and she’d made countless discoveries about the brother who had returned to her. Chief amongst them was the discovery that he had spent the better part of the past two years living in the bottom of a wine bottle. Certainly metaphorically and perhaps even geographically based on his aroma.

Alcohol had eroded all the beautiful parts of her big brother. She had missed him acutely, but the person he had become was almost worse than the empty space he had left behind. Faint outlines of her brother emerged during his brief moments of sobriety, but those fragile lines washed away like fingerprints on a windowpane with just the tip of a bottle. Sofia glanced back and found the place Oliver had been standing empty. She hated that his absence made it easier to breathe. Easier to think. Closing her eyes, she shoved aside all her messy conflicting emotions and focused on herself.

Despite her restrictive wardrobe and prickling guilt, the advent of several long-absent creature comforts had done much to restore Sofia’s soul. Her hair was clean and free of tangles thanks to the purchase of a single bath and a great deal of arduous combing. And her clothes, though ill-fitting and inflexibly English, were new and clean. She would never again take for granted the sensation of clean cotton against her skin. Best of all, her sturdy new half boots moulded comfortably around her feet.

She was like a flower bulb that had endured the endless winter but now basked in the first rays of morning light—without a bloom, still shaking off the dirt, but nevertheless green and alive. For now, that was enough.

Although she had lost some of her starving gauntness, it was still perfectly obvious that she had not received regular meals for many months. It gnawed at Sofia’s pride as she crept closer to Northam Hall. Closer to what she hoped would be a fruitless endeavour. There was nothing she wanted more at this moment than to be denied employment so that she could return to her brother and inform him of her failure. Then they’d be forced to obtain their coin through honest labour rather than deception.

Her determination to flee redoubled as she caught her first glimpse of the vast, intimidating estate. It towered over smartly clipped hedge groves and winding paths edged with flowers of all heights and colours. The blooms complemented one another, as if each was made to live as neighbour to its companions. Vibrant gardens of phlox, lavender, and bee balm clustered in cheerful families around ornamental trees, softening the estate’s rigid perfection. Off to the side, she could see the corner of what was doubtless an expansive rose garden.

Her papa would have loved it here. Sofia paused in the shade of an apple tree—one of many in a grove at the entrance to the long drive—and allowed herself to be swept away by the exquisite view.

Her reverence, however, was interrupted by a little girl hanging by her knees in a low-slung branch. She was upside down with her skirts overhead, and her spindly legs protruded from stark white lace-trimmed bloomers. Laughing, the cheeky monkey grabbed hold of the branch and released her legs to flip from the tree. Dusting off her hands, she stood and approached. “Good morning. Are you looking for someone?”

“Si, the housekeeper. The estate is so lovely I couldn’t help but admire the view. My papa was a botanist. Do you know what that is?”

The youngster scrunched her nose, then grinned. “Of course I do! I love learning about nature even though it’s not meant for girls. According to the last governess I lost, I am incorrigible.”

“Is that why you were up in the tree? Searching for your lost governess? With opinions like that, perhaps she should be left in the trees!” Sofi grabbed hold of a low-hanging branch and gave a quick experimental swing.

“No, I don’t have a governess at the moment. I just like to climb!”

“Ah. So you are una scimmia!”

“A monkey!” Her face lit with what looked like pride.

“Si. Monkey. Your Italian is good, no?”

The child’s delight faltered, leaving a rueful expression in its place. “Not so good as it should be.”

“Nonsense. Mi chiamo Sofia Lioni, é sono molto lieto di fare la vostra conoscenza.”

The youngster chewed on her lower lip as she thought, and then her eyes snapped back to Sofia’s with a delighted twinkle. “My name is Lady Nora, and it’s a pleasure to meet you too, Miss Lioni!”

“Now in Italiano,” Sofi demanded playfully.

Lady Nora gave a little huff and resumed her concentrated scowl. “Mi chiamo Signora Nora, ed e anche un pancetta conoscertia.”

Sofi covered her smile with her fingers. “Close enough. Well done, Lady Nora. Molto bene!”

“No. What did I say? Tell me. I can see I didn’t get it quite right.”

“Not exactly right, but very close.” Sofia grinned. You said, “My name is Lady Nora, and it’s bacon to meet you.”

“Close? How is that close?” Nora exclaimed with a giggle.

“Because bacon makes me very pleased!” Sofi released the branch she was holding and looked back toward the house, pushing away the guilt that threatened to steal her words. “Now, little Italian monkey, would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of the servant’s entrance so I may seek out your housekeeper?”

“Come, I’ll take you to her. Zach was supposed to meet me here, but clearly he has picked up his paintbrush and forgotten all about me.” Lady Nora shrugged, suggesting this was a daily occurrence. “He’s my brother. Stepbrother, really. Papa married Violet two months ago. Neither Violet nor Zach can reliably read a clock. Zach is constantly distracted by his art and Violet by literally everything else. Papa and I are forever in search of one or the other of them.” She shook her head with an indulgent smile, breaking into the occasional skip as they made their way through the gardens to the kitchen entrance of the estate.

“Were you born on the Peninsula?” Lady Nora asked.

“Si, in Tuscany. This is my first visit to England, but had I known English children were so delightful, I would have visited sooner.”

“Your English is excellent,” Nora said with a wistful sigh. “My French isn’t so bad, but Italian always gets jumbled on my tongue.”

“My English is a credit to my tutors, who were mostly professors at the university. My papa bartered for much of my education.”

Nora pushed the door open into a lively, bustling kitchen. Once, Sofi had worked as a scullery maid in a household where every servant walked on tiptoes for fear of losing their position. That household had not a single thing in common with this cheerful group of servants, except, perhaps, an abundance of expensive pots.

Three young maids scrubbed breakfast pans, laughing their way through a wildly out-of-tune song, footmen chatted over forkfuls of their meals, and a baby goat slept on a blanket in the corner. Sofia’s mouth watered as the rich aroma of food assaulted her empty stomach.

An older couple sat at the end of a long oak table, apparently nonplussed by the cacophony. Although they worked in tandem, their heads bent in conversation over a tidy stack of papers, their appearance was a startling display of opposites. The man towered over his diminutive counterpart, and his angular, uncompromising features served to accentuate her softness and tranquillity. If you tied a pretentious neck cloth to an ageing stick bug, the bug would look a great deal like this man. Sofia liked him immediately.

The servants displayed little in the way of curiosity regarding their young mistress’s presence in the scullery or the stranger that accompanied her. As Nora and Sofi drew closer to the matronly woman sitting with the stick bug, she abandoned her task and turned to Lady Nora with a smile.

“Good morning, Lady Nora. And who do you have with you?” she began.

But then, with the speed and precision of a military commander, the smile for Nora barely faded from her face, the woman’s head snapped to the side, away from Nora and Sofi. She pinned one of the footmen with a maternal glare. “Jeremy, if you do not cease throwing sausage at Michael, I’m going to shove the remainder of what’s on your plate straight up your nostrils.”

The young man batted his eyelashes at her then innocently returned to his meal.

“Now then …” Her attention shifted back to Lady Nora and her eyebrows pitched up expectantly.

“Mrs Janewood, Bennett, may I introduce Miss Sofia Lioni? I found her in the apple orchard. Miss Lioni, this is Mrs Janewood, our housekeeper, and Bennett, our butler.”

Sofia dipped into a slight curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. My apologies for the unexpected call, but I was hoping you might have some position available on the estate. In the scullery perhaps, or as a housemaid.”

“Governess!” Nora interjected enthusiastically. “She would make a brilliant governess! She likes bacon and thinks that anyone who believes girls cannot learn the natural sciences should be banished to live in trees!”

Sofi startled slightly at the unexpected endorsement, then softened at Nora’s guileless advocacy for her employment.

Catching Sofia’s eye, Mrs Janewood chuckled. Her expression was still open and friendly, but it had grown more serious than before. “Those are fine qualifications for a governess, to be sure, but perhaps we might get to know Miss Lioni a bit more before suggesting she meet with Her Grace. Lady Nora, why don’t you run along now and find Zachariah? Take a few biscuits with you when you go.”

Nora’s gaze slid towards a plate of still-warm biscuits, then back to Sofia. “It was very nice meeting you, Miss Lioni.” She dipped into a curtsy while simultaneously reaching for a biscuit, then skipped off in the direction they had come.

Sofia watched Lady Nora pull the door closed behind her, waiting for the inevitable dismissal, but the housekeeper’s countenance did not change.

“Lady Nora likes you. That’s a fine start.” Mrs Janewood picked up her pencil and tapped the end against a sheet of parchment. “Do you have experience with children?”

“None whatsoever.”

Inexplicably, Sofia’s frank response didn’t provoke so much as a momentary pause from the housekeeper. Bennett, however, flashed a patently unimpressed look before schooling his expression.

“Have a seat, Miss Lioni. What can you tell me about your education?” Mrs Janewood continued.

“My papa was the head of the sciences faculty at the University of Pisa. He taught botany. My schooling was eclectic, even by Italian standards. I studied the ordinary subjects—mathematics, literature, and history—but also theology, economics, and ancient languages. Professors came and went throughout the years, befriending my papa. Most could be convinced to share their knowledge and experiences with a captive audience, even a female one. For years, I did the mending for a widower who taught me both renaissance history”—she paused and cleared her throat—“and fencing.”

The goat in the corner had awoken and was chewing lazily at the corner of her blanket. It was a thick, sturdy quilt, colourful and of fine quality. A chill ran down Sofia’s spine, goosebumps rising in memory of the cold nights she lay shivering under a blanket much thinner than the one the goat now enjoyed. Blasted goat probably ate better than she did as well. It’s a shame I can’t stay.

Sofia shook her head. “I can provide a well-rounded academic education, but it’s not the sort of curriculum that would serve Lady Nora. My childhood lessons encouraged me to question, explore, and debate … exactly the opposite curriculum required to raise a well-behaved English girl.” She allowed herself one final look around. “It was very nice meeting you and Lady Nora.”

“At last! A governess who won’t run screaming from Nora’s skeleton collection. Wherever did you find her, Mrs Janewood?” Both Bennett and Mrs Janewood leapt to stand at the sound of the cheerful voice, but before Sofia could follow suit, they settled back into their seats.

Turning, Sofia found herself eye to eye with the largest rooster she had ever seen.

The woman spoke again from behind its fluffed feathers. “I am sorry to interrupt. Brutus has been after Caesar again, and I’m afraid he’s wounded him quite badly this time.” Sofia craned her neck to glimpse a view of the woman producing the disembodied voice, but it was impossible to see anything beyond the “wounded” rooster. Caesar, apparently.

He didn’t look hurt. Sofia didn’t see a drop of blood on him. Mostly he just looked annoyed… and so fat he could feed half the people in her village a solid meal.

With a squawk, the rooster squirmed lower in the woman”s arms, allowing Sofia a glimpse of wide cornflower-blue eyes partially obstructed by a tangle of golden curls. While some small part of her locks remained in a complicated aristocratic style, even those seemed ready to topple at the slightest provocation. The strands which had already escaped appeared to have a life and ambitions of their own, actively leading a mutiny against any sort of restraint. Sofia guessed she and the woman were about the same age, but the woman appeared younger, devoid of the bored expression perpetually worn by adults.

“Nora found her in the apple orchard,” Mrs Janewood replied.

It took Sofia another moment to realise they were discussing where precisely she had been “found.”

“I suppose that’s as good a place as any. Would you be so kind as to offer Miss Lioni a tour of the estate and show her to her room?”

Sofia’s breaths grew shallow. No. There is no way this woman is the duchess. But there was absolute authority in the statement, however ludicrous.

“But first…” The woman extended her arms. Indignant squawks joined the lively kitchen clatter, and feathers sailed through the air as the rooster flapped frantically. Bennett, who had been resolutely ignoring the conversation, jolted back in alarm, the legs of his chair lifting, then falling again with a thud.

“No.” Mrs Janewood crossed her arms as if worried the woman might slip the rooster into her hands if she didn’t tuck them away quickly enough.

“Please, Mrs Janewood. It won’t be for long.”

If it was possible for a pleading expression to alter one’s eye colour, Sofia would have sworn it had occurred. No one with a heartbeat could say no to those wide blue eyes. Sofia almost laughed when the housekeeper’s dubious expression softened.

Chicken Lady cocked her head to the side and blinked. “I can’t just leave him out there. He needs somewhere quiet and safe to convalesce, and when I asked Mrs Simmons if he could stay in here for the night, she threatened to roast him with vegetables.”

Yes. Because that is what you are meant to do with a chicken.

Ridiculous as the request was, the young woman’s expression was so sincere that Sofia would have cared for the rowdy rooster herself.

Mrs Janewood was made of sterner stuff, apparently. “So you want me to go over Cook’s head? She hasn’t yet forgiven me for agreeing to the troublesome goat over there! Have you no care for my comfort in this house? If I do this, she’ll serve me the burned portions of every meal for a month! Don’t we have a stall in the barn he could stay in overnight?”

“You know Ceasar hasn’t recovered from his fear of horses since Omen nearly trampled him.” Dinner has a name and a horse phobia?

“The goat shed, then.”

“He is allergic to ruminants. They make him sniffle and then his crowing sounds hoarse for days.”

The young woman didn’t blink or budge. She simply stood there waiting with a beseeching expression on her face, as if the rise and fall of a kingdom depended on the overnight care of a rooster.

“Oh, very well, Your Grace. Give me the blasted chicken. But when I starve, it’ll be on your conscience!”

“Rooster,” she corrected succinctly, handing off her burden with a grateful smile.

Oh good grief. She is the duchess. Sofia could find little beyond the use of a title to confirm that status. The woman’s accent was crisp, but a duchess wouldn’t have to beg and cajole a servant to do her bidding no matter how preposterous the request. Sofia had seen servants leap to obey all manner of ridiculous demands. Furthermore, if she was indeed the duchess, she must be the most jovial-looking aristocrat in existence. With deeply rutted dimples on rosy cheeks, she looked like she had just been racing across the countryside… or chasing farm animals.

The duchess turned that dimpled smile on Sofia. “I’m going to look even less like a duchess in a few hours. We’re starting construction on a loft for my goats.”

Sofia dropped her eyes to the floor. “Your Grace, I wasn’t?—”

“Of course you were. And you were quite right to think so.” She laughed a lilting, musical laugh that seemed to overflow like soap bubbles caught in a breeze. “I’m sorry I haven’t the time to speak with you now, but you should make yourself at home and I’ll search you out later this afternoon. It was lovely to meet you, Miss Lioni.” The duchess turned back to Mrs Janewood. “Oh, and introduce her to Cumulus and Nimbus, please. Lambs make everyone feel more at ease in a new home.”

This was happening far too quickly. Sofi liked Lady Nora. She also liked the slightly unhinged duchess. She was suddenly frantic to sabotage her hiring through whatever means necessary.

“That’s it then?” Sofi scoffed. “You’re just going to hire me without a character reference or a single scrap of proof regarding my credentials? Even after my admission that I am the very worst role model you could choose for a well-bred young lady?”

The few servants still milling about the scullery halted in place as if Sofia had just lit a piece of tinder and they were waiting to see if she would drop it onto the kitchen table. The duchess’s eyebrows rose to her hairline, then lowered. Her mouth curved into a slight frown. Good. A moment later, however, she gave a quick nod and the tightly drawn expression vanished. “Yes. That’s the right of it.”

A frustrated huff escaped Sofia’s lips. “I could be lying about everything. I could be a thief or an arsonist or believe the earth is flat. It’s madness to take me on my word!”

“Are you an arsonist?”

Sofia glared. “No.”

“Well, all right then. Honestly, I don’t care much for the estate’s antiquities, and we have more sets of silverware than we could ever use, so as long as you perform your duties well, I’m still getting the better end of the bargain. Besides, no sane person thinks the earth is flat, and you don’t strike me as mad.” The duchess shrugged. “Gabriel hired the last three governesses based on their outstanding recommendations. Considering the disasters they were, I doubt this approach could be any more catastrophic.”

This was ridiculous. Then again, how far did she expect logic to take her when she was arguing with a woman who thought her rooster was allergic to goats?

Bennett stood and retreated to a corner table, taking with him his papers and Sofia’s only hope of a level-headed presence in the conversation. She could feel her future closing in on her, and every logical argument fluttered from her thoughts like a startled sparrow.

Sofia’s gaze swept the room searching for anyone who might talk some sense into the duchess. Instead, her eyes caught on a smartly dressed man she hadn’t noticed before. He was neither remarkably tall nor especially brawny, but his trim musculature gave the impression of restrained energy, like that of a coiled spring. He ran one hand through hair the colour of sunlit sand, provoking an enthusiastic cowlick to stand in its wake. Everything else about the man’s appearance was so crisp and precise—his linen bullied into starched smoothness, his cravat meticulously tied—that she couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from the anomaly of his hair. He caught her staring and one corner of his mouth kicked up.

Drawing to his full height, perhaps four inches taller than her, he approached in unhurried steps. “If you will forgive the interruption, Your Grace, might I suggest an alternative to hiring the lady based solely upon the endorsement of an eleven-year-old? While the story of an inquisitive Tuscan girl with a thirst for obscure knowledge is entertaining, I suspect it is as factually accurate as your rooster’s livestock allergy.”

The duchess raised an eyebrow but seemed otherwise unfazed by his blatant insult to her character. His eyes flicked to Sofia’s, there and gone in a moment, and she had the sudden feeling of being baited for this man’s amusement.