Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
As a chambermaid attached to the Archduke’s apartments, Pippa’s duties differed greatly from those of a kitchen or scullery maid.
She was required to rise at half past four, snatch a crust of bread for breakfast, and make her way to the Archduke’s chambers, where she waited for the water carrier to deliver the heavy buckets filled to the brim with water from the well.
She was grateful that she did not have to carry those herself along the endless corridors and staircases.
Her task was to pour fresh water from a smaller jug into the Archduke’s washstand.
Normally, one poured the water from the pitcher right at the moment the person was washing himself.
But he preferred the water to be in the bowl already.
It was one of his eccentric preferences, she was told, and it was only one among many.
Pippa scowled, for back at home, Klemens had never exhibited any such strange preferences.
This duty was not physically exhausting, but it was tricky.
She had to enter his bedroom while he was still asleep, refill the basin, and silently lay out linens, towels, soap, and combs on the stand, together with a pitcher of warm water.
She was expected to move like a shadow, leaving everything in order without waking him.
After he rose and was dressed by his valet, she had to wait for his signal so she could enter the bedroom again to make the bed, air the mattress, change the linens, collect the soiled linen, sweep the floors, dust the furniture, and polish mirrors.
The tiled stoves were maintained by the oven heater, but she had to make sure the hearth looked tidy and that firewood or coal was at hand.
She also had to remove the chamber pot discreetly from the privy room and place it in the antechamber, where Henni emptied and scrubbed it with water and lye before returning it.
In the evening she turned down the bed, warmed it with a bedwarmer, and set out fresh water for the Archduke’s washing.
Once more she tidied the chambers, cleared away supper trays, and carried out chamber pots.
She might be sent on various other errands at any time.
She answered to the Archduke’s valet, Severin Drimmel, as well as to the steward’s office.
Only when every task was done late at night was she permitted to turn in.
“You must remain invisible, do you understand?” Frau Benedikt insisted.
“A chambermaid working in the Archduke’s apartments must remain unseen.
You must anticipate His Imperial Highness’s needs before he is himself aware of them.
And perform your duties without him noticing you.
Never disturb his slumber. Do not talk to him.
Ensure he doesn’t notice you. When he is awake, you are never to be in the same room as His Imperial Highness. Is that understood?”
A chilly feeling of panic assailed Pippa. For one wild moment, she thought of falling on her knees and begging Frau Benedikt to please let her sweep the general palace corridors again. It was far less terrifying than setting foot into his bedchamber.
But looking into Frau Benedikt’s stern, implacable face, she swallowed and said meekly, “Yes, Frau Benedikt.”
It was before dawn, and Pippa now stood in the servants’ antechamber, where a small tapestry door led directly into the bedchamber.
She had never crossed that threshold before.
Her heart was beating so loudly, she feared it might rouse him.
Her fingers tugged at her apron and her bonnet.
Really, there was no reason for her to be so absurdly nervous.
She curled her hands into tight fists. How often had she entered Klemens’ bedroom to bring him dinner trays, books, and water pitchers? More times than she could count.
She had even nursed him once when he was ill, and spent the entire night by his bedside, putting her hand on his fevered brow. When she had wanted to remove her hand, he had groaned, “Leave it.”
And so she had stayed the entire night by his bedside, falling asleep next to him, with her hand over his brow. It wasn’t as though she had never seen him in bed, either.
She had read him books and poems while he listened with closed eyes, a contented smile playing about his lips.
It was after that Klemens suddenly regarded her differently.
No longer as his professor’s daughter, but as a girl worth courting.
And how ardently he had courted her! With flowers and poems and stolen kisses, and that invincible, irresistible charm that was Klemens.
So why was she so foolishly nervous now?
“Calm yourself,” she muttered, and drew a deep breath. Once. Twice. Then exhaled. “You can do this, Pippa.” She gently pushed the door open and tiptoed inside.
The room was dark. The furniture was mere shadows. Somewhere on the left loomed the shape of a tremendous canopied bed, the windows were across from it, and the washstand was on the right. That meant she had to cross through the entire room to reach it.
She squinted into the darkness. There was no doubt a lump of a figure lying somewhere in there, and when she held her breath and listened, ignoring the sound of her own wildly thundering heart, she could hear the even breathing of a sleeping person.
Clutching the pitcher, which grew heavier and hotter by the minute, she tiptoed across the room. In the middle she paused, held her breath, listened again.
He was still sleeping.
She crept on.
Merciful heavens, the pitcher was scalding!
Severin had said that the water temperature was carefully heated so that by the time the Archduke rose at seven, it would have the ideal temperature for his ablutions.
At present it was nearly boiling, burning the porcelain and blistering her palms. But where was the washstand?
She ought to be right in front of it. Instead, she was standing before a side table with a decorative vase.
Repressing a curse, she looked around wildly.
She had strayed too far left. The washstand was closer to the bed.
She shifted the pitcher against her body, which relieved the pain in her palms, but now her arms were burning.
One step, another, and then her foot struck something on the floor—a stool, no doubt—and merciful heavens, the clatter was loud!
Surely it would rouse the entire palace—but if she dropped the confounded pitcher, it would be the end.
Pippa curled herself over the pitcher and clung to it as if her life depended on it—and thankfully she was able to regain her balance, and she did not drop the wretched thing.
She froze, listening. Did he awaken?
The clock ticked.
Silence.
The man must be sleeping like a log. She whispered a prayer of thanks.
After what seemed like an eternity, she dared breathe again, reached out with one hand and hallelujah, there was the washstand!
She nearly sobbed with relief as she set down the pitcher, easing her cramped, burning fingers.
Now she would have to pour it into the basin without making a sound.
Carefully, carefully, slowly, praying under her breath that she didn’t pour half of the liquid outside of the basin rather than inside, she poured it without rousing the sleeping archduke.
She placed the piece of lavender soap and the ivory comb beside it. She prayed it was neat and orderly, for in the dark she really had no inkling of where she placed it.
She released a shaky breath. What now? Oh yes.
The towels. She had them draped over her arm.
These she was to lay out over the back of the chair.
But where was the chair? She extended a hand to feel for it—touching nothingness.
It must be further in the corner, on the other side of the washstand, she surmised.
It was like playing Blind Man’s Buff. She couldn’t see a thing as she groped for the chair.
She took another step, then another, extending her arms, until her fingers brushed something soft, something silken.
Something warm. Something muscular. It felt like an arm?
A grip as hard as steel clamped over her hand, pulling her forward.
“What have we here?” A low voice, filled with lazy amusement, cut through the darkness. She squawked.
She would have jumped back, except she was pulled forward until she crashed into a stony hard chest and found herself gathered up unceremoniously onto his lap.
He had been in the chair the entire time, watching her, waiting for her. Curse him!
“Caught you, my little dove,” he murmured into her ear, his warm breath stirring the little hairs above her temple, making her shiver.
Pippa spluttered. He wrapped his arms about her and, for all that, it felt like an embrace.
“At last.” Her entire body broke out in goosebumps.
“I thought I had lost you forever. To know that all this time you were right here, under my nose... We must talk.” He tugged at her curl, and his knuckles brushed her cheek.
“There is nothing to talk about,” she babbled wildly, resisting the wild urge to melt against him, to hug him back, to hold him tightly, and never let him go. For he wasn’t Klemens. He never had been. “Your Imperial H-H-Highness,” she added with a whisper.
His grip tightened. “You may drop the honorifics when we are alone, my love.”
She closed her eyes and swallowed painfully. Then, mustering up determination from the deepest recesses of her being, she said woodenly, “You are mistaken. My name is Anna.”