Chapter Seventeen
The rain came minutes after Neil left the terrace, as if it had been waiting for him to go. Maggie stood there for a moment, face turned up to the dark sky, until the rain got too heavy and she was obliged to retreat inside.
Once inside, she took the servants’ staircase down to the kitchen.
There was always a lull after dinner—once the diners had gone to the drawing room and the worst of the washing-up had begun.
The air below stairs was easier then, unhurried for a brief hour.
Supper would be laid out for the servants, and Maggie realised, suddenly, that she was hungry.
She had begun to feel at ease below stairs now.
The servants no longer looked at her with suspicion or fell silent when she passed.
She wasn’t quite one of them, but she was tolerated, and that was enough.
Tonight, the talk would be of the storm and whether it would ruin the village fair set for tomorrow.
Warmth rose up to meet her as she descended the final flight of steps. The kitchen smelled as it always did—a jumble of comforting scents: bread and roast meat, eggs—even though the duke hated them—pastries and herbs and more smells that Maggie had ever been able to identify.
A few servants lingered at the table, talking or reading. One footman was playing cards. Maggie sat down, meaning to enjoy an hour of quiet before relieving Jenny in the nursery. Emma had slept fitfully since the shock of the afternoon.
“Miss Winter, might I have a word?”
Maggie flinched. Mrs Thornton stood in the doorway, her face calm and unreadable.
It was not a question, of course, so Maggie only nodded silently and followed Mrs Thornton through the kitchen to a small alcove in the hallway outside. The servants’ hallways were narrow and bare, and there was only just room for Maggie and Mrs Thornton to stand elbow to elbow.
“Crawford informed me that he found you and the duke speaking on the terrace,” Mrs Thornton said at once, without preamble. “Alone.”
Maggie felt colour creep into her face. Had Crawford seen the duke’s hand on her shoulder? Had he seen the look on her face, the way she had flushed?
More importantly, had he told Mrs Thornton?
“We were discussing Emma,” Maggie said quickly.
Mrs Thornton’s brow arched faintly.
“Let me be clear,” the housekeeper said carefully.
“I am not accusing you of anything, Miss Winter. You are the finest governess we have had so far—Miss Emma adores you, and you clearly love her in return. You’ve earned a fine reputation in this house, and your friendship with Jenny will do you good. ”
“And yet I’m in trouble,” Maggie murmured.
Mrs Thornton sighed. “Not in trouble. But you’re clever enough to know that any involvement with your master will only bring it.”
“I have no involvement with—” she was cut off by Mrs Thornton, lifting a hand palm out.
“I make no accusations,” the housekeeper stated firmly. “But I know how these things begin. Your predecessors came here expecting to find the Gambling Devil—a hard, careless man who thought of nothing but cards and coin. You, however, have seen something different.”
She paused, studying Maggie’s face.
“You’ve seen the man beneath the name,” she went on softly. “That isn’t an easy thing to do. And once one sees his Grace as he truly is, it’s very hard to look away. You see, Miss Winter—and you are drawn to what you see.”
The words hit Maggie like a physical blow. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“I understand,” Mrs Thornton continued, her voice even gentler. “It’s natural. But you must know there can be no connection between you and the duke. Lady Westbrook would never allow it.”
Maggie found her words at last. “I didn’t think his Grace was so entirely ruled by his aunt.”
Mrs Thornton flinched, face twitching in surprise. For an instant, Maggie thought she’d gone too far and was about to be thrown out of the kitchen by her ear. Then the housekeeper chuckled, shaking her head.
“You’re entirely too sharp for your own good,” she chuckled. “No, he’s not ruled by her, though she likes to think so. Still, be sensible. I see the way you look at him, and—though I cannot speak for his heart—I sometimes think he looks at you the same way.”
Maggie felt as though something heavy were resting on her chest, slowly but surely crushing the breath out of her body. She forced herself to breathe in and out, if only to reassure herself that her lungs really were working as they were intended.
“But it cannot be,” Mrs Thornton said, firmer now.
“It must not be. I don’t say this to wound you.
Goodness knows, I hope he never marries Lady Constance.
But you must turn your thoughts elsewhere, or you’ll find yourself more hurt than you can bear.
You are a good girl, and I don’t want that for you. ”
“I am in control of my own heart,” Maggie said quietly.
Mrs Thornton gave her a pitying smile. “We all believe that, right up until the moment our hearts are whisked out of our control. I have seen many young women ruined by powerful men. I have seen women with broken hearts limping away from a place they called home, because they simply cannot stand the pain anymore. It’s a terrible thing to witness, and I will not see it happen to you, my dear.
I trust you to do the right thing, to make a firm separation between your head and your heart.
I will not let you put yourself in danger. ”
There was a silence after that. Maggie nodded, swallowing hard.
“I understand what you mean, Mrs Thornton,” she managed at last. “And now I really must go, I’ll relieve Jenny earlier. We’re going to sit up with Emma all night. Miss Emma, I mean,” she corrected herself.
Mrs Thornton nodded slowly, her sharp eyes boring into Maggie.
“Take care of yourself, Miss Winter. Take care of your heart and guard it well. The thing with hearts is that if you give them away, you cannot easily take them back again.”
She walked away after this, leaving Maggie alone in the drafty corridor.
***
The trick with warm milk, Simon had learned, was to watch it carefully. Turn your back for a moment, and it boiled over—ruining everything.
Perhaps it was childish, but when he couldn’t sleep, he swore by it. Now, at half past eleven, the house was still. Neil had gone to bed early, and Lady Constance had followed soon after, unwilling to endure the company of her parents and Lady Westbrook without her quarry beside her.
Simon had no fondness for the Farendales. They were cold, self-important people—the sort who thought a steward barely worth notice. He told himself it didn’t matter, yet their presence made his work harder, their idle talk clogging the air around Neil.
He stirred the milk with a wooden spoon, eyes on the firelight’s flicker.
A soft footstep broke the quiet.
“Oh,” said a familiar voice, startled.
He turned—and there was Jenny Miller, framed in the doorway, a shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, her hair plaited loosely over one. Her eyes looked heavy with sleep.
Simon’s chest tightened. “Oh. Jenny.”
She smiled faintly. “I didn’t know anyone would be down here.”
“I shan’t be long,” he said quickly. “I’ll be out of your way in a moment.” His words tangled awkwardly in his mouth.
“Your milk’s boiling,” she said, pointing.
He spun around with a curse, seeing that the milk was frothing over. He snatched it off the heat, poured half into a mug, then hesitated and looked over his shoulder.
“Would you like a little hot milk? It’s most refreshing if you can’t sleep—or so I find.”
Jenny met his eye and offered a faint smile. “I’d like that.”
For some reason, Simon’s heart jumped.
Who am I trying to fool? He thought sourly. I know the exact reason.
He poured another cup. When he turned back, she was seated at the table, expectant.
“I can’t be long,” she said. “Maggie’s waiting for me. Emma’s restless tonight.”
“Who could blame her?” Simon murmured. “I heard what happened. She could have drowned.”
Jenny shivered. “Don’t say that.”
They drank in silence for a while.
“Do you think the duke will marry Lady Constance?” Jenny asked at last, watching him over the rim of her cup. Her eyes always caught his—soft and serious, impossible to look away from.
He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen in love with her. It was an easy thing, like slipping on a pair of old, well-made boots—comfortable, familiar.
Simon immediately felt a rush of guilt at thinking of poor Jenny as a pair of boots. But the fact remained that he thought of her every single day.
He was fairly sure she did not think of him, except perhaps as the gangly estate steward whom she’d known since they were both children. When had the gulf opened up between them?
“No,” Simon answered firmly. “She’s not right for him.”
“They all seem to think differently. He’s a gentleman, and she’s a lady. It’s a perfect fit,” she added, her voice softening.
Simon studied her thoughtfully. The scrubbed wood of the table seemed to stretch out endlessly between them. The air seemed to have thickened and warmed. He shifted his hand forward, as if reaching for her, but of course, there was too much distance between them.
“That’s hardly a recipe for happiness,” he said at last. “A gentleman marrying a lady. Besides, who is to say who is a gentleman and who is a lady?”
Jenny smiled at him, almost pityingly, as if he’d missed some great joke.
“You know a lady when you see one. Nursemaids and governesses aren’t ladies. That’s just how the world is. Stepping out of our place never ends well, however unfair it may seem.”
He frowned. “But—”
“Life is what it is,” she said softly, cutting him off. “Not what we wish it could be. Perhaps we’d all be happier if we could accept that.”
Simon fell silent. Words crowded his throat, but none would come.
Jenny rose, leaving her empty cup behind.
“I should go,” she murmured. “Maggie will be waiting.”
“Jenny—”
“I should go,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “Thank you for the hot milk, Simon. That was kind.”
Then just like that, she was gone, leaving him alone with the dying fire and the bitter taste of what he hadn’t said.