Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
E wart tried to keep his composure, but Carson and Esther were making it difficult. The two were quite the pair, and he almost felt sorry for their older sister, Hattie. He wondered what her story was, but this was not the time to ask.
Miss Eastwick volunteered her tale, and parts he sensed she could tell, became the topic of conversation for most of the meal, interspersed with comments from Carson and Esther that had nothing to do with anything. Instead, the little fiends were interrogating him about how he would take out an army of books.
Ewart recalled Abigail mentioning little Esther’s new soldiers and what she did with them. When he brought them up, Esther, of course, launched into a speech about firing shoes out of cannons and how unfair it was. Carson countered with his own treatise on the advancement of weaponry and the fact that it was only one shoe.
All through the conversation, Mrs. Pettigrew ate, a slight smile on her face. She enjoyed these women and the children. Anyone could see it. Would she be lonely after the weddings, once the women and children moved on with their lives?
Ewart’s home in England was much larger than the Pettigrew mansion, and he couldn’t imagine running it with such a small staff. His family employed at least a dozen servants, and even that was considered scarce given the size of the estate. Of course, it wasn’t as if his father was an earl or viscount. The neighbor up the road, Sir Aldrich, kept fewer staff than they did, but his estate was just as large. Hmmm. Were they overstaffed with twelve? He didn’t think so.
Abigail returned and checked the tureen of soup. “Will ye be needing more, Mrs. Pettigrew?”
“Would anyone like more?” she asked.
Hattie smiled. “I wouldn’t mind a bit more.”
Ewart didn’t want to be impolite, but the soup was some of the best he’d ever had. “I could use a bit more as well, if it’s not too much trouble.” He reached for his glass of water.
“Of course not,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “Mrs. Fraser makes enough to feed an army.” She turned to the maid. “Abigail, did you already eat?”
“Yes, Mrs. Pettigrew.”
“Oh, too bad. I was going to have you join us.”
Ewart nearly spewed his sip of water. He swallowed with a cough and turned his shocked face to Mrs. Pettigrew.
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Bailey. After all, Abigail has to eat.”
“With you?!” He couldn’t help it. What woman of Mrs. Pettigrew’s station ate with the servants?
She smiled at him. “Is it so shocking, Mr. Bailey? After all, you’re eating with me.”
He set down his glass. “Fair point. Am I to take my meals in the kitchen with the rest of the staff, then?”
“Not at all. But if Abigail, Tugs, Mrs. Fraser, or even Mr. Prosser wish to dine with me, they can.”
He knew he was staring but couldn’t help it. Was the woman mad?
“What’s the matter, Mr. Bailey?” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “You look out of sorts.”
He rested his hands on the table. “You’ve taken me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Hmm,” she mused, sitting back in her chair. “You’ll find this is an unconventional household. In fact, I was thinking of allowing my staff to attend my next ball, seeing as I’ll have the extra help.”
A tiny gasp caught everyone’s attention. It had come from Abigail.
Ewart turned to her. “You would let your maid attend?”
“Why not?” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “It’s my ball. I can invite whomever I wish.”
He smiled at Abigail, who looked—oh, what was the term he’d heard recently? About to bust a gut? Yes, that was it.
“I’d best be getting back to the kitchen, ma’am.” Abigail bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.
He watched her go, enjoying the sway of her hips as she retreated.
“A servant’s ball?” Ewart asked for clarification.
“No,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “A ball that I’ve invited my servants to attend with me. Though I have held a servant’s ball before. But it’s been some time.”
He noticed the far-off look in her eyes and wondered if she was thinking of a time when her husband was still alive. Mr. Tugs had told him that Mrs. Pettigrew had taken Xavier Pettigrew’s death hard, and that it wasn’t until recently that she began stepping back into society. She’d thrown a small Christmas ball and hosted an ice-skating party for New Year’s, but she hadn’t done much since.
“I think we’ll make it an engagement party of sorts,” Mrs. Pettigrew said to no one in particular.
“But, Adelia,” Miss Eastwick said. “Dalton and I were engaged at Christmas. Holly not long after, and Hattie around Valentine’s Day. Shouldn’t we have had such a party last month?”
“Not necessarily,” Mrs. Pettigrew said. “I think we’ll make this a spring ball. We could hold it just before Easter. Not a large affair, but something to let everyone know that we have three weddings coming up this summer.”
Ewart noticed the pleased look on her face and smiled. He hadn’t been in Denver long, and this was his first interaction with the city’s upper class. It wasn’t hard to tell that Mrs. Pettigrew was a little eccentric. Mr. Tugs had mentioned that she did whatever she wanted—partially because she was the richest woman this side of the Mississippi.
“Ewart, may I call you Ewart?” Mrs. Pettigrew asked.
“If it pleases you, Mrs. Pettigrew.”
“Of course it does, and you must call me Adelia.”
She smiled at him, then sat back in her chair, thinking.
Ewart was barely aware of the fact that no one had served him another helping of soup.
“Miss Winslow, may I have your bowl?” He reached for the tureen.
“Ah, how thoughtful,” Mrs. Pettigrew said, then looked around. “Where on earth did Abigail disappear to?”
“She stated she needed to return to the kitchen,” he said.
“Ah, yes.” Mrs. Pettigrew leaned in his direction. “You will call me Adelia, won’t you?”
He spooned soup into Miss Winslow’s bowl. “Of course, Adelia. I dare say, doing so would drive my mother mad if she were here.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink, then gently slid the bowl across the table to her. “Anyone else?”
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” Hattie said.
“Nor I,” added Miss Eastwick. She eyed him, and he swore she frowned for a moment. Had he done or said something wrong? Perhaps he’d overstepped his bounds a moment ago?
“Chastity, do you have something to say?” Mrs. Pettigrew asked.
“No, Adelia.”
Ewart caught the slight emphasis she’d put on the name. His eyes flicked to each of them, taking in their expressions. “I must say, I’m not at all accustomed to addressing a new employer by their Christian name.”
Miss Eastwick’s eyes filled with triumph. “You’re the first to be given the privilege so early.”
He made sure he looked shocked. So, it irked her that he’d been given such a privilege. “I see.”
Ewart wanted to ask how long it had been before Miss Eastwick was allowed to call Mrs. Pettigrew by her Christian name but thought better of it.
“You must be a saint,” Miss Turtledove teased. “Poor Joseph had to wait some time before he was able to use Adelia’s name.”
“Do Mr. Tugs and Abigail get to use your Christian name?” he asked Mrs. Pettigrew.
“No, they address me as a servant should. Though if they slipped, it would not anger me.” She looked at his empty bowl. “I thought you were still hungry?”
“And so I am.” He reached for the tureen again and refilled his bowl. “It’s delicious.”
“Thank you,” Adelia said. “Mrs. Fraser will be glad to hear it.”
She watched him eat for a moment, and Ewart tried not to slurp. Since coming to America, he’d slackened his manners to fit in better. But here, he should be himself—impeccable manners and all. Especially since Mrs. Pettigrew was at the top of the social ladder. But he was beginning to suspect that it was purely the size of her bank account that had put her there.
Once he finished his lunch, the little group returned to the main drawing room. He’d been able to see his room earlier. It was on the third floor and consisted of a bedroom with an adjacent sitting room. Down the hall and through a door were the other servants’ quarters. He wasn’t sure if they were as spacious as his or if they consisted of just a bedroom. He’d ask Mr. Tugs later. Right now, he had work to do.
Mrs. Pettigrew dictated more correspondence to him as the children and her three charges went upstairs. After two hours of work, Mrs. Pettigrew rang for tea. It wasn’t long before Abigail arrived with a tea tray set for two.
Ewart watched her pour their tea, then offer a cup to Mrs. Pettigrew. She left her chair with a smile. “Sit, ma petite .” She motioned to the chair’s twin.
Abigail stared at her for a moment, then sat, the cup and saucer still in hand. “Your tea, Mrs. Pettigrew.”
“I must speak with Mrs. Fraser about something. You drink it, Abigail. I’ll bring another cup and saucer from the kitchen.” She smiled at them, turned on her heel, and left the drawing room.
Ewart started after her. “Is she, um, always this unpredictable?”
Abigail heaved a sigh, sat back in the chair, then raised the cup to her lips. “Yes.” She was about to take a sip, then eyed the sugar bowl.
Ewart reached for it. “Sugar?”
“Please.”
“How much?”
Her eyes widened. “I can add my own sugar.”
“So you can.” He set the bowl down and watched as she spooned in some sugar and stirred. She set the spoon on a napkin on the tray before sitting back and sinking a little into the chair.
Ewart continued to watch her as he put some sugar into his own cup and gave it a stir. She was more relaxed than he had expected. Obviously, this wasn’t the first time Mrs. Pettigrew had done something like this. “So, Abigail,” he said, assuming the same relaxed position. “How long have you worked here?” He took a slow sip, savoring the hint of orange and spice.
The maid stared at him before fixing her gaze on the floor. “A couple of years.”
Ewart smiled. “Really? Tell me more.”
She gulped—much to his surprise—then sighed in resignation and began to do just that.