Chapter Fourteen
Emma was very excited about joining the adults for breakfast.
Maggie was rather less so.
Her meeting with the woman she now knew to be Lady Constance Fairfax the previous day had been enough to tell her that the lady was neither her friend nor particularly fond of Emma.
“Can I wear my green dress, with the pink pinafore?” Emma asked, bouncing on her toes.
Jenny chuckled. “Perhaps the blue pinafore would look nicer. What do you think, Maggie?”
“Undoubtedly,” Maggie responded with a grin.
While Emma was chattering on and on to herself, Jenny leaned forward, dropping her voice.
“I don’t envy you this breakfast,” she murmured.
Maggie sighed. “Nor do I. But it can’t last forever.”
It can only feel as though it will, she thought grimly.
Maggie had chosen her good pale-green gown—plain but neat. It was hardly a match for the frilled confections Lady Constance seemed to favour, judging by what glimpses Maggie had caught of her. But that was of no consequence; she was not trying to compete. She was a governess, not a lady.
“Simon says Lady Westbrook wants his Grace to marry Lady Constance,” Jenny remarked, brushing Emma’s hair. “She’s the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen—though not the most pleasant.”
A chill went down Maggie’s spine. She had no right to feel unsettled. The duke could marry whomever he pleased—and Lady Constance would make a perfectly suitable duchess.
“Oh?” she said lightly, striving for indifference. “And is he likely to marry her, then?”
“I couldn’t say. His Grace has never shown much interest in marriage, but he’s a duke, so I suppose he must, and he’s always held his aunt in such respect.”
“I don’t like Lady Constance,” Emma declared. “She pushed me over.”
Maggie hid a smile. “I’m sure it was an accident, Miss Emma.”
“It wasn’t,” Emma muttered darkly. “I don’t like her.”
***
Half an hour later, Maggie led Emma by the hand into the dining room, where the table had been set for breakfast.
The space was huge, with a high ceiling and massive windows which bathed the room in light. The table was piled high with dishes, full of far too much food even for twenty people to eat. The sulphurous smell of eggs hung in the air, and Maggie fought the urge to wrinkle her nose.
All eyes turned toward them—Lady Constance herself, a hawk-eyed older woman Maggie took to be Lady Westbrook, a cadaverous gentleman and his silent, blank-faced wife—presumably Lord and Lady Farendale—and, of course, the duke at the head of the table.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, rising to his feet. “Good morning, Emma! Good morning, Miss Winter.”
Emma went rushing into the duke’s arms, and he whisked her up and over his head, throwing her up into the air. Maggie stood where she was, hands folded in front of her waist and tried not to feel awkward.
Am I allowed to eat? Am I even allowed to sit down?
As if sensing her thoughts, the duke glanced at her, over the top of Emma’s head.
“Here, Miss Winter—two places beside me, for you and Emma. Do sit down.”
Maggie managed a faint smile and obeyed. Emma was seated beside her uncle, Maggie beside Emma, and Lady Westbrook on her other side. Lady Constance sat opposite, openly scowling.
“Is the governess going to eat with us?” Lady Constance asked tartly. “That never happened when I was little, did it, Mama?”
“Of course she’s to eat,” Lady Westbrook said wryly. “She’s missed her usual breakfast in the nursery to be here. It would be cruel to deny her a meal now. Help yourself, Miss Winter. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
That, at least, was a relief. Maggie offered a quick smile of thanks. As she filled her plate, her thoughts spun.
Why am I so out of my depth? Why am I letting them make me feel small?
She forced herself to breathe evenly. Composure—always composure. When she looked up again, Lady Constance was watching her with narrowed eyes.
Maggie had crossed paths with the guests once or twice since their arrival and had been ignored every time. Lady Constance and her mother had swept past her without acknowledgement, though Lady Farendale had offered a quick, curious, and almost apologetic glance.
She had met Lord Farendale once, too; he had looked her over with undisguised interest but had not spoken. She would be perfectly content never to meet him again.
“I thought we might enjoy a picnic this afternoon,” Lady Westbrook announced at length, breaking the uneasy silence. “If you aren’t too tired, that is, Neil.”
The duke flinched. “Tired? I’m not tired.”
His aunt gave him a knowing look. “You and Simon were out rather late last night.”
Only then did Maggie notice the dark circles under his eyes.
“A picnic!” Emma exclaimed, beaming. “I want to go on a picnic!”
Lady Westbrook reached over, stretching past Maggie, to ruffle Emma’s hair.
“Of course you do, dearest. So, it’s settled, then?
We’ll go out at two o’clock and go to the big oak tree on top of Burn Hill.
It’s a beautiful view, and there’s plenty of shade.
There is even a lake at the bottom, where Emma might paddle if she wishes.
The rain has held off, and I think the ground is quite dry enough. ”
“An excellent idea, Lady Westbrook,” Lady Constance gushed. “I do declare, you have the loveliest ideas.”
Maggie bit back a smile at this gushing flattery. Lady Westbrook’s smile held steady, though something in her eyes flickered—an almost imperceptible change, gone before it could quite be named. Maggie caught it.
Emma hesitated, glancing around the table. “Maggie can come too, can’t she?”
“Who in the blazes is Maggie?” Lord Farendale snorted.
“I believe Emma means Miss Winter here,” Lady Westbrook spoke up.
Lady Constance wrinkled her perfect nose. “Oh, no! It will quite spoil the day if servants come along. Let’s have it just us.”
“No servants?” the duke said sharply. “Do you intend to carry the blankets, chairs, and hampers up the hill yourself, Lady Constance?”
A heavy silence followed. Lord Farendale’s mouth fell open mid-chew; Lady Constance went pale.
Lady Westbrook broke the tension with brittle composure.
“His Grace is joking, of course,” she said lightly. “Naturally, the servants will help, and of course, Miss Winter will come. What do you say, Miss Winter—would you like a picnic?”
“I shouldn’t bother asking her,” Lord Farendale said with a coarse laugh. “She’ll do as she’s told, won’t she?”
Maggie fixed the man with a firm, steely stare. He met her gaze and seemed rather surprised to find her looking at him. He held her eyes only for an instant, then glanced away, flushing.
When Maggie looked around the table again, she found the duke watching her, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“It seems the decision has already been made,” he murmured. “A picnic it is.”
***
The picnic had thrown everything into disarray. Below stairs, Cook and her staff scurried to prepare a mountain of food while still managing an elaborate dinner for the evening. Jenny had been press-ganged into service in the kitchen, leaving Maggie to occupy Emma.
She had found a higher pianoforte stool, one that would let Emma reach the keys. They sat side by side in the bright room at the pianoforte, while Emma laboriously learned her scales.
“I want to play proper music,” Emma sighed. “Not all this running up and down.”
“Yes, but running up and down is how you learn to play the proper music,” Maggie said, smiling. “Scales are ever so important.”
Emma sighed again but obediently followed her example, climbing the keyboard one note at a time.
“Now back again. Not that finger—this one.”
“Why can’t I use that finger?”
“Because it helps your playing flow more smoothly,” said a man’s voice from the doorway.
Maggie jumped, her heart tightening.
“Your Grace,” she managed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
In the harsh glare of daylight, the duke seemed even more tired than before.
He strode forward, smiling faintly, and passed a hand over Emma’s head.
She beamed up at him, all adoration, and Maggie felt a tug in her chest, as though a string were all tied around her heart.
Glancing up, she found the duke’s eyes on her.
“I hope you weren’t made too uncomfortable at breakfast,” he murmured. “That was not my intention.”
“I can manage myself, your Grace,” she said softly.
He smiled faintly. “So I observed. You glared at Lord Farendale most effectively. Well done—I can’t abide the man myself.”
She allowed herself a small laugh. “Nor can I.”
“Believe it or not,” he went on, “my aunt is most impressed with you. She and Mrs Thornton are old friends, and if Mrs Thornton approves, that carries weight.”
“That is kind to hear,” Maggie said, flushing. “I hope you don’t mind my taking Emma for a pianoforte lesson here before the picnic. She was quite eager.”
“Of course, I don’t mind. I am glad, actually. I think…” the duke hesitated, shaking his head. “I think I’ve kept this room shut up for too long. Someone told me that if my beloved sister could see me now, she’d be upset. I’d hate to upset her.”
He fell silent. Maggie said nothing. After a moment, he gave a small shake of his head and looked at her again.
“I know it’s rather improper, but I was wondering if we could play some music together,” he said, all in a rush. “It’s been so long.”
Maggie’s heart warmed, its beating echoing throughout her whole body.
“Of course,” she managed at once. “Shall I play, and you sing? If you’d like.”
He nodded. “I’d like that very much.”
***
Music drifted up along the hallways, and Jenny recognised the tune of Green Grow the Rushes. Mrs Thornton had remarked on it earlier and said that it felt like old times, having music in the house again.
Jenny’s arms ached beneath a mountain of linens.
Lady Farendale was no trouble, but her husband and daughter were enough to try the patience of a saint.
Lady Constance had already demanded her sheets be changed a second time, claiming they hadn’t been properly washed—a lie, as Jenny had seen them herself, white as snow.
Ordinarily, she’d have no part in the laundry, but with only one maid brought from the Farendale household and endless demands besides, every hand was needed. She missed the nursery and hoped that, with Maggie here, she wouldn’t be relegated back to the kitchens.
That was a fear which tickled the back of her mind every now and then. Work as a nursemaid was good, but what about when the children got too old to need you? Where would you go?
Swallowing, she pushed the worry aside—no time to worry, there was work to be done—and set off along the hall. She rounded a corner and almost immediately walked straight into something solid.
No—someone.
“Oof,” said a familiar voice.
“Mr Middleton,” Jenny gasped, clutching the linens, grateful they hid her burning face.
Simon leaned around the heap of fabric, grinning. “Miss Miller! What a pleasure. You’re looking well today.”
She felt heat climbing into her cheeks. “You’re the only one who calls me Miss Miller, you know. You ought to call me Jenny.”
Some people might call her impudent, speaking to a gentleman like that. Simon might not be titled, or even very wealthy, but he was a gentleman, through and through.
He smiled, eyes crinkling up at the corners. He had such a lovely smile, the sort of smile that made one want to grin along with him.
“Well, then you must call me Simon,” he said lightly.
She couldn’t help smiling back, despite the weight of the linens and the work awaiting her. “Perhaps I shall. I’m sorry I bumped into you.”
He shook his head. “The fault was mine. I was standing about like a fool, listening to the music from Catherine’s morning room. Is it Miss Winter playing?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Well, I saw Neil go in there, and I’m sure I can hear him singing.” Simon shook his head, smiling. “Everything’s changed since she came here.”
“Yes,” Jenny murmured wistfully. “It has.”
For a moment, Simon’s expression grew distant, thoughtful. Then he shook himself and grinned again. “Now, let me carry those linens for you.”
“Oh no, Mr—Simon,” she corrected herself quickly. “I can manage.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said lightly. “But I’d still like to help.”
Jenny smiled and found herself handing over her burden.
“Now,” Simon said from behind the pile, his voice muffled, “you’ll have to show me where to go.”
She placed a tentative hand on his arm to guide him, and a tremor ran through her.
Foolish girl, she told herself. A nursemaid and a steward? He’s a duke’s cousin, for goodness’ sake, and a gentleman. He’ll never think twice about you.
Perhaps that was true, but for the moment, it was only her and Simon—and a vast pile of linens.
“This way,” she said.