The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 3

3

D unscaby hadn’t paid Julia a visit all day, though she’d heard him milling about in the library. In her short tenure at Newhailes, she’d grown accustomed to his mid-morning visits. And of course today, when she had something of import to discuss, he hadn’t called in.

She drummed her fingers on the wages ledger. No voices had sounded through the walls, so the duke most likely was alone, and this discrepancy shouldn’t wait. Gathering the volume into her arms, she lightly knocked before popping her head through the doorway. “Have you a moment, Your Grace?”

Martin’s eyes appeared over the top of his newspaper. “What tells me your query will take more than a wee moment?”

Ignoring his question, she walked across the floor and pointed to the list of wages for the female servants. “See here, Georgette was promoted to lady’s maid this past summer when Lady Charity was preparing for her debut.”

“Aye.”

“Not only is the maid tending to Lady Charity’s toilette, she is also attending to Lady Grace’s needs.”

Knitting his eyebrows, Dunscaby folded the Gazette. “Is she?”

“Indeed she is. Lady Grace has decided that her hair must be done both in the mornings and when she dresses for the evening meal.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Mama has started having her take her meals in the dining hall rather than the nursery. Honestly, Modesty ought to join us as well. It must be awfully lonely up there now everyone is grown aside from the youngest.”

Julia recalled Lady Modesty had mentioned that Lady Grace wouldn’t care if the child were sold to a band of traveling tinkers. “Possibly, though your youngest sister might enjoy the solace.”

The duke coughed out a laugh. “You are speaking of Modesty, are you not? She’s chattiest social butterfly in the family.”

He was right, of course, and Julia’s duty wasn’t to involve herself in the family’s dining arrangements, but it was to ensure equitable pay for the servants. Shifting the ledger under Dunscaby’s nose, she pointed to the lady’s maid’s wages. “That may well be, but before we stray too far from the matter at hand, have a look at this. Sara is an upper housemaid making fifteen guineas a year. Your mother’s lady’s maid is more senior, of course, and she’s paid twenty. But Georgette’s wages are only fourteen guineas—the same as the laundress and the lower housemaid.”

Martin frowned. “Well, that doesna seem fair.”

“Absolutely not, especially since I’ve also discovered that her wages weren’t adjusted a penny upon her promotion.”

“Well, then, ’tis up to you to make it right.” The duke tapped his finger atop the page. “That is why I hired you.”

Julia closed the volume and tucked it under her arm. “Do you not wish for me to discuss the wages with you before I make a change? If you ask me, Georgette ought to be paid at least eighteen guineas per year.”

“Then I leave it to you to inform her. And to your first question, for the time being, do discuss such changes with me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Julia bowed and started toward the door.

“One moment, Smallwood.” Dunscaby set the newspaper aside and moved to his writing table. “Are all the servants’ wages listed in that book?”

“Only those who are employed at Newhailes.”

“Bring it here, I’d like to have a look.”

Julia returned and placed the ledger on the table where together they leaned over to examine the volume. Except the duke’s arm brushed hers, making tingles course all the way up the back of her neck. She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. Holy macaroons, gasping in His Grace’s presence was utterly untoward!

Clearing her throat, she tilted away from the ever so masculine, yet entirely offending shoulder and started at the top of the page. Though the dukedom employed hundreds of servants there were only thirty-six at Newhailes. “There are sixteen male servants including the coachman’s son. And twenty female servants, the two scullery maids and the dairy maids being paid the least at seven guineas each per year.”

Dunscaby turned his face toward her, his breath skimming her cheek while a riot of gooseflesh spread down her arms. “That seems fair, is it not?” he asked. Goodness, today he smelled like freshly milled soap with a hint of pine in the mix.

Straightening, Julia patted her chest in an attempt to still her thundering heart. Bless it, she’d been at Newhailes for three weeks now. It was time she grew accustomed to the duke’s looks, his casual and overly familiar manner as well as his entirely intoxicating scent, no matter how disarming. “Yes, quite fair. I’d say on a par with wages paid by the English nobility.”

“Hmm. I would assume no less.” Oblivious to her adoration, Dunscaby ran his pointer finger down the list of names and opposing wages. “What do you think?—”

“Martin!” Modesty hollered, bursting into the library in a whirlwind of skirts and petticoats. “You absolutely must come to the drawing room and be my dancing partner.”

He arched an eyebrow at Julia. “Chatty butterfly, aye?”

She gave him a knowing grin, then bowed to the lass. “My lady.”

“Isna there footman up to the task?” asked Dunscaby.

“Nay. Tearlach is out with the carriage, assisting Mama. Tommy is partnering with Grace and Fergus is with Charity.”

“Such a dilemma.” Martin again turned to Julia, though this time her heart didn’t palpitate. Instead, her stomach dropped to her toes. “I reckon Mr. Smallwood might make a better partner for you than I.”

Modesty beamed. “What an excellent idea. It will be like attending a real ball, except in miniature.”

Julia picked up the ledger and tucked it under her arm. “I assure you there is nothing miniature about me. And I hate to disappoint, but I must return to my?—”

“Nonsense,” said Dunscaby. “You could do to stretch your legs a wee bit. You’ve hardly been out of your chambers since you arrived.”

Drat, and double drat. Dancing was exactly the type of thing she’d wanted to avoid. She gave the child a pointed frown. “Surely you would prefer to partner with your brother. I am ashamedly out of practice and cannot promise I won’t step on your toes.”

The lass grasped her hands behind her back and swayed. “Och, you wouldna do that.”

“Come, Smallwood,” urged the duke, pulling the ledger away. “If you’re as clumsy as you claim, you ought to benefit from a lesson or two.”

“I—” From His Grace’s stringent mien, she’d best concede defeat. “Oh, very well. But I’ll not be held accountable for any missteps. It has been quite some time since I last graced a ballroom.”

Modesty latched onto Julia’s hand and practically dragged her through the house to the drawing room where the carpet had been rolled back and Giles, of all people, sat at the pianoforte. The butler regarded her over a pair of glasses and smirked.

“Ah, Mr. Smallwood, how nice to see you’re able to join us,” said Miss Hay.

Julia bowed to the MacGalloway sisters to whom she had been introduced shortly after her arrival. “I’m surprised a house this size doesn’t have a ballroom.”

“We usually host balls at Stack Castle,” said Lady Grace.

Lady Charity ran the ribbons cinching her gown’s empire waist through her fingers. “But we’ve hosted them here as well. We take up the carpets in the library. ’Tis such a large space and the chandeliers are so beautiful, they deserve to be seen.”

Julia had taken an instant liking to the eldest MacGalloway daughter. If she weren’t posing as Jules Smallwood, she would have enjoyed striking up a friendship with Her Ladyship. Instead, she just smiled pleasantly. “They are quite remarkable.”

“Enough idle chatter.” Miss Hay clapped her hands. “Shall we continue with the lesson?”

Modesty grabbed Julia’s wrist and forcefully pulled her to the center of the floor while the other two ladies faced their respective footmen.

“For Mr. Smallwood’s edification, I was explaining the waltzes that have recently taken over ballrooms across Europe. There are four main variations, the German, the slow French, the Sauteuese, and the Jeté.”

With a sharp intake of air, Julia stifled a groan while she fixated her eyes upon the ornate plaster on the ceiling, which sported a circle of filagree surrounding what appeared to be a depiction of Neptune commanding the seas with his trident. Please, not a waltz .

“Today we shall practice my favorite.” Miss Hay whacked Julia’s shoulder with her baton. “Are you familiar with the slow French waltz, sir?”

“Vaguely,” she fibbed. She was proficient at the lady’s part but had never attempted stepping in as a man.

“Not to worry, this is why we must practice.” The governess drummed the pianoforte with her baton, proving quite thorny with her little stick. “We shall start with a facing posture and move around the hall in a counter-clockwise line of direction. And mind you, everyone must keep their place in formation.”

Julia held out her right hand and put her left on Modesty’s waist.

“Silly,” the girl giggled, taking Julia’s right hand and moving it to her waist.

“I warned you, did I not?”

“No talking,” clipped Miss Hay, swinging her stick at Giles who started playing.

Julia began on the correct foot but both of them stepped backward. She immediately corrected. “Sorry.”

The governess rapped a cadence to the beat of the bass notes. “One, two, three. Smallwood, keep moving to your left, sir!”

By the time they’d made a complete turn around the chamber, Julia had stumbled over the toes of her enormous shoes no fewer than three times.

“You do need a great deal of practice,” Modesty whispered after Miss Hay’s attention had shifted to Lady Grace.

Julia eyed the little redheaded imp. “That’s exactly why I’m a steward and not a dance master.”

“Oh? You canna always hide in your rooms.”

How the devil did an eleven-year-old come to be so perceptive? “I rather like the solace.”

Miss Hay clapped her hands and Giles abruptly stopped playing. “Lady Modesty, I shift my attention away for the briefest of moments and you turn into a chatterbox.”

Growing as red as her hair, the lass looked to her toes. “I’m just trying to help Mr. Smallwood.”

By her leery-eyed glare, Miss Hay did not appear to be impressed. “Again!”

Resigning herself to her fate, Julia concentrated, and the next time around the room resulted in only one misstep, definitely attributable to her miserable shoes. However, the experience cemented her decision. She’d had enough of clomping about like some pigeon-toed clod. On her next outing she would purchase a pair that fit.

Martin stood in the shadows of the corridor and watched through the half-opened drawing room door while smothering his nose and mouth in his hand to keep from laughing aloud.

Perhaps he should not have encouraged Smallwood. The poor man danced like an alehouse drunkard. And by the furrow in his brow, the chap was concentrating harder than he did when he had his nose in a pile of ledgers.

The man’s feet absolutely did nothing for his stature. Comically, what Jules lacked in height, he made up for with the length of his insoles. However, by the third time around the chamber, his clumsiness had waned.

Modesty might have hit the nail on the head. The steward needed more dancing lessons and, in Martin’s opinion, Smallwood could benefit from boxing lessons as well. But presently there were too many other things to contend with aside from his new steward’s masculinity.

The eldest MacGalloway sister waltzed past, reminding Martin that she was old enough to marry. Unfortunately, Charity didn’t seem eager to leave the nest. Had Da not passed away, the lass would have been overjoyed when they left London. Nonetheless, Martin didn’t understand her aversion to the ton and polite society. She certainly looked as polished as a swan, twirling about the floor in the drawing room.

Grace was coming along as well, dancing with flair and finesse. Of all his sisters, Grace was the most likely to marry a prince, or a king. She was a tad snobbish and took to being the daughter of a duke with utmost vigor. Mama loved the middle lassie’s fervor, of course, and if the Duchess had her druthers, all three MacGalloway daughters would behave exactly like Grace.

Unfortunately, his parents should have thought twice before they named the middle girl. If she were to marry a duke, she would not only be Grace, she would be Her Grace .

Martin snorted loudly.

“Duke!” exclaimed Miss Hay, beckoning him from the corridor. “How long have you been watching, Your Grace?”

His gaze slid to Smallwood who’d turned as red as the scarlet gown in Great-grandmama’s portrait just behind the fellow. “Long enough to ken our steward ought to practice dancing with you ladies a wee bit more often.”

“Oh, no.” Jules released Modesty’s hand and took a step back. “I have far too much work with which to occupy myself.”

Giles cleared his throat from his place at the pianoforte. “Aye, and the silver isna being polished any faster either.”

Martin ignored them both. “What say you, Miss Hay? Perhaps you and the lassies ought to take these working men away from their duties one afternoon per week?”

“No. Please,” Smallwood objected.

The governess smacked the little man’s arm with her twiggy baton. “This one certainly needs the practice, I’ll say.”

“Then ’tis settled.” Grinning like a sated cat, Martin turned to the steward. “I’ve returned your ledger to your writing table. Please do speak to the lass about the adjustment we discussed this afternoon.”

Martin started off but stopped and spoke over his shoulder, “Oh, and Smallwood?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Keep in mind dancing lessons will not be expected on hunting expeditions. We shall depart for the lodge on the morrow.”