Chapter 10
A quiet knock woke me the next morning.
I jerked upright, my blankets tangled about me. “Yes?” I called, my mouth dry as cotton.
A young maid slipped into the room, red-haired and freckled. She bobbed a curtsy. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” she said. “Mr. Rawlings sent me to wake you.”
“Wake me?” I rubbed my bleary eyes and peered at the clock. “It’s not eight o’clock.”
“Apologies, miss.” She strode to the windows and tugged back the curtains, flooding the room with sunlight. “He insisted.”
“I am certain he did,” I muttered under my breath as I threw my feet over the side of the bed. “I do not think he knows how to speak without insisting.”
I caught a flash of a grin on her face before she wiped it away in a look of politeness. “He asked me to give you this.”
She retrieved a note from her apron pocket and handed it to me, then went to stoke the banked fire. I opened it and read.
Miss Albright,
I apologize I cannot meet you for breakfast; I’m afraid I’ve much work to catch up on.
My mother is an early riser and would expect her companion to be the same. Perhaps you might get better acquainted today.
A. Rawlings
I grimaced at the note. Mr. Rawlings had to maintain our ruse in case anyone saw the note, but his meaning was clear all the same. I was to spend today with his mother in order to convince the household of our story. And now I would not even have Mr. Rawlings there.
“What should you like to wear?” the maid asked, moving to my wardrobe.
“Pardon?” I asked.
“Mr. Rawlings insis—that is, he asked—that I help you dress.” She paused with one hand on the wardrobe door. “If you like.”
My annoyance with him faded. This was a thoughtfulness I hadn’t expected, considering I was now practically a servant in his house. Why had he done it? Did he simply not wish to repeat my button mishap of the evening before? Or was this some attempt to help me feel more comfortable here?
“Yes, thank you.” I cleared my throat. “The green will do.”
After the maid—Agatha, as she introduced herself—helped me into my spring-green morning dress, she also quickly arranged my hair into a neat chignon, much better than my sad attempts during my journey here. I felt a little pang in my chest, missing Mariah. I hoped she wasn’t too terribly worried.
Gathering all my courage, I descended the main staircase a few minutes later and found the breakfast room quiet and empty.
Filling a plate with eggs and pastries from the many covered dishes on the sideboard, I ate as slowly as I could.
I continued putting off the inevitable with a second and then third cup of tea, but eventually, there was nothing for it.
I sighed deeply, stood, and went in search of Mrs. Rawlings.
Clasping my hands behind my back, I inspected Briarstone House in the light of day.
It was even more impressive than it had been at night, if that was possible.
Clearly, whoever had decorated the house had expensive taste.
Silk wall coverings, gold candlesticks, and delicate furniture with richly colored cushions adorned every room I peeked into.
It was something of a maze, and I hadn’t the slightest clue where Mrs. Rawlings might be.
I heard footsteps. I turned, catching the profile of a man crossing the corridor. For the wildest, panic-filled moment, my heart leaped into my throat. He had mahogany hair, thick brows, wide shoulders. It is him! my body screamed at me. He found me!
Then the man looked in my direction, and I saw him full-on. While there were certainly similarities, I knew at once this was not our attacker from Vauxhall. He was too tall, eyes light instead of dark, and much younger. Not to mention he wore the livery of a footman.
“Miss?” He’d stopped in the middle of the corridor, staring at me. “May I help you?”
I tried to catch my breath. My pulse still raced, convinced I was in danger.
“Yes,” I managed. “Can you direct me to Mrs. Rawlings?”
“Yes, miss.” He eyed me with no little curiosity. “She is in the morning room. Around the corner, at the back of the house.”
“Thank you.” I attempted to sound how I imagined a lady’s companion would: mature, cultured, responsible. None of my actual attributes, unfortunately.
I continued on, my chest tightening with every step. I had to get a hold of myself. I could not be flinching at every shadow or thinking that every man who appeared suddenly was a murderer. I had a role to play, and I needed to avoid suspicion.
I focused on the unpleasant task ahead. My impression of the severe Mrs. Rawlings last night had not been overly flattering.
To say I was dreading this meeting would be a massive understatement.
I fleetingly imagined crying off and exploring the estate instead, but I knew that would be a mistake.
Not only would the staff wonder why I’d neglected my duties as a companion to Mrs. Rawlings, but she would also find reason to dislike me even more.
Then again, perhaps my hope from last night would prove true, that with a fresh day and some introspection, Mrs. Rawlings might also wish to start anew with me.
I arrived at the open door of the morning room.
Sunlight streamed across a thick, luxurious rug and several comfortable-looking armchairs.
The room was decorated in golds and taupes, light and bright and welcoming.
It was a direct and striking contrast to the woman dressed in deep blue sitting before the fire, needlework in hand, her posture so erect as to almost look painful.
Mrs. Rawlings looked up when I stepped inside. She sniffed in clear disapproval. “It is nearly nine o’clock.”
It appeared we would not be starting anew.
“Is it?” I moved into the room. “I am early.”
Her gaze narrowed. “I am dressed and breakfasted by eight o’clock every morning.”
I sat across from her, folding my hands neatly in my lap. “An accomplishment, to be sure.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line, made a sound of disapproval, and looked back down at her needlework.
We spent nearly ten minutes in silence, she determinedly stitching while I gazed about the room, the clock ticking loudly. I wasn’t precisely sure of her aim. Was she attempting to frighten me off with her iciness? It might have worked if I had anywhere else to go.
Finally, I squared my shoulders and faced the storm head-on. “How precisely shall we go about this?” I asked. “I must admit that I’ve never pretended to be a lady’s companion before.”
“I haven’t any idea,” she said with a steely expression, still looking down. “I do not think we need to bother with the pretense overmuch. You’ll not be here long.”
That was my desire as well, but her saying it made me want to dig in my heels. “Oh, one never knows in a case like this,” I said. “It could be weeks. Months even.”
Her hands paused in her work, the only indication that she felt the same horror at the prospect that I did.
“Let us hope Bow Street is more competent than that,” she said sourly. “Even without my son.”
“Bow Street employs a great many dedicated officers,” I replied, attempting to keep the edge from my voice but not entirely succeeding. “But cases can be unpredictable, as evidenced by my very presence here. I would not have chosen this, I assure you.”
“Oh?” Her eyes shot to mine, dark and sharp. “Would you not?”
I pulled back my chin. “Pardon?”
But Stroud interrupted us, entering with the day’s mail on a silver tray.
“Thank you, Stroud,” Mrs. Rawlings said, taking the small stack of letters.
The butler’s mouth tightened in distaste when he saw me, but he only bowed and left the room.
Without a word, Mrs. Rawlings stood and retreated to the writing desk in the corner. After reading her letters, she pulled out a blank paper, took up a pen, and began to write.
So ignoring me was her chosen tactic. That was perfectly fine with me. I had little desire to converse with someone so unpleasant.
We sat there, Mrs. Rawlings working industriously on her correspondence as I slumped back on the sofa and stared gloomily out the window. The gardens outside looked lovely in the sunlight, and I longed to explore them. How long did we have to play at this charade? An hour? Two? The entire day?
This was not what I had expected when I’d left London with Mr. Rawlings.
I’d assumed we would be shut up in a tiny house somewhere, left largely to our own devices.
Not this ornate prison with a cold and aloof warden.
I wished I had a book, a newspaper, letters of my own—anything to detract from this debilitating boredom.
I wondered what Ginny was doing in London.
I could only hope she was resting and not worrying overmuch, though I doubted she was keeping to the busy schedule she and I had drawn up for our visit to Town now that I was gone.
I pictured her and Mariah going about the business of pretending I was ill, a farce that could only fool people for so long.
My thoughts darted to Clarissa Haythorne. Did she know about my supposed illness? Would it keep her from renewing her vengeful rumors against me? Or was she even now whispering in every estimable ear she could find? What sort of reception was waiting for me when and if I returned to London?
Twice, a servant passed in the corridor, glancing inside as they did so. I could only imagine what they thought at seeing Mrs. Rawlings and me together. I doubted our playacting was fooling anyone.
When footsteps again approached, I glanced up, expecting to see another servant. But Mr. Rawlings stood in the doorway, brow furrowed as his gaze went between his mother and myself. I straightened, impossibly relieved to see him.
Heavens, what a thought.
“Good morning.” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
I stood. “Good morning,” I said with false brightness. I did not want Mrs. Rawlings to know how very much she’d affected my mood.
Mrs. Rawlings stood as well, not looking at me as she regarded her son. “Where have you been?”