Chapter Twenty-Four
“I am cross with you,” Lavinia said, before she had even stepped from her coach.
Like a dog bred to sniff out weakness, she had arrived the next day—interrupting our flurry of preparations—flushed a deeper shade of scarlet than usual.
“To find out from gossip and cackle and idle chatter”—she landed in the gravel and steadied herself—“that my dearest, closest, most cherished friend has a child to be wedded to the prince?” She pushed past me, into the entry hall, which was filled with candlesticks waiting to be polished.
Finnian emerged from the carriage mouth behind her, but I did not have time to greet him.
Lavinia was already inside, opening the door to a state room we did not use.
It was the wrong space to entertain in—we had kept the drawing room and hall to much higher standards—but it was better than if Lavinia had marched around to the back of the house.
Happy to allow her to settle far from the view of the roofline, I followed.
In the briefest of moments she had been alone in the room, my dearest friend had already established herself into one of the chaises.
“The position I was put in,” she continued, “where I could neither confirm nor deny to others, when all it would have taken was a letter.” She paused, finally, and looked around. “Did you redecorate?”
“We are in the middle of finding new things,” I explained at a brisk clip.
“Finnie! Finnian!” She craned her head toward the open door. “We are in here!”
Her son appeared at the doorway. His hair had been zealously combed and his ears had the pinkness of a recent washing. “Don’t dawdle!” his mother called. “In! In, in, in! We can’t keep Etheldreda all day, she is clearly preparing for company.” She swiveled her head and held me with a steady gaze.
I took hold of a brass bell on a dust-covered table, and rang it, hoping someone would hear and come to my assistance. I nodded. “We are indeed—”
“And my children asked me this morning if they would be included in these events, and I assured them, naturally, that there was no question of it! Not with a friendship such as ours.” She turned a shrewd eye back to the room. “My dear, where are your paintings?”
“They are being restored,” I lied.
She clicked her tongue. Finnian, taking a seat beside her, said nothing. I rang the brass bell again, more forcefully.
“It is difficult to find responsive help, isn’t it?” Lavinia sighed.
I stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go find someone to assist with some refreshments.”
She breathed out wearily. “Excused.”
The kitchen was busy with preparations for the prince’s visit.
Mathilde sat in a flour-covered apron, punching dough alongside Alice, who had returned late the night before.
Wenthelen was in her usual place, overseeing the bubbling dishes on the hearth and in the ovens.
And at the table, a woman sat, her legs stuck straight out on the floor in front of her.
She held a polishing cloth, but there was no silver or brass laid out.
“Who are you?” I asked, in surprise.
“This is Morwen,” Alice informed me.
“Morwen.” I nodded as she stood. Turning back to Alice, I asked, “Just one?”
“Just one,” she confirmed.
“Botheration.” I released a tired breath. “Did no one hear my bell?”
“Who has time to pay any mind to a bell?” Wenthelen wielded an iron poker to push a pot closer to the embers of the fire.
“The Enrights are here, and—”
“Morwen,” Alice interrupted, “this is the lady of the house.”
“We’re roasting our guts in here preparing for tomorrow’s luncheon.” Wenthelen wiped her brow on her upper arm.
Morwen, broad-shouldered and clean-haired, watched us, but avoided my eyes.
From her bewildered glances between Wenthelen and myself, I deduced she had yet to make sense of our unusual dynamic.
I looked her over. She was the same age as I, or close to it.
Had she been younger, I would have benefitted from the authority of age.
Older, and I would have the advantage of youth.
“I cannot wait on the guests,” I protested.
“I can help you and let all the food burn to black bits or you can figure it out,” Wenthelen told me, matter-of-fact.
I turned to Morwen, worried her mouth might fall open. “You are capable of serving.”
“No, my lady.” She crossed her arms defensively. “I am a lady’s maid.”
“She won’t even polish,” Alice interjected.
“I do not know how,” Morwen protested.
“You hold a cloth and polish,” Alice scoffed.
“I am a lady’s maid,” Morwen repeated, turning to me plaintively. There was no argument in her features, but rather a bovine kind of obstinance—a lack of understanding. I felt, suddenly, more gentle, the way one wants to hush and assure an animal through its discomfort.
I exhaled and turned to Mathilde. “Mathilde, go upstairs and entertain Lavinia, please.”
My daughter paused her kneading. The dough sat in front of her in a shaggy mound. She held up her dirty, sticky hands. “Must I?”
“You must.” I handed her a rag to wipe herself. “I will be up presently.”
She stood, gave the dough a final, decisive punch, and removed her flour-covered apron. I turned back to Morwen. She waited, fidgeting, hands picking nervously at her waist.
“Morwen,” I started. “We do not run a traditional household here at Bramley. We are ladies, but we don’t require lady’s maids. However, I do require help.”
“I do not know how to be a scullery maid.” Morwen gestured toward the polishing cloth. She spoke with a hint of learned, appropriate deference. She did not have to add: And it is beneath my station.
“You agreed to come for no pay.” I looked her over, wondering what had brought her here, to our hearth.
She was clean, but her shoes were worn, and she wore a smock made of lockram instead of cambric or holland.
She held my gaze for a long moment, a bit of boldness that might indicate she had been in a household of strong standing, been valued, even, and comfortable.
But at the last minute she dropped her gaze and directed it toward the planks of the floor, unwilling to reveal to me her secrets.
“Only in exchange for a place to stay,” I finished.
“I deduce you do not have many other options.”
After a moment of hesitation, she nodded in confirmation, as if it were difficult to acknowledge even to herself.
“We’re grateful for your help and, as I said, your help is needed. But you’ll need to step beyond the bounds of your role. I need you to wait on our guests. You’ve seen it done plenty of times. Just bring up a tray and go about it properly.”
“A tray of what?” she asked.
“Wenthelen will show you,” I said, and stepped from the kitchen before I could be punished by our cook’s response.
In the state room, Mathilde was sitting across from Lavinia and Finnian, barely disguising a frown.
“Oh, good, you’ve returned,” Lavinia said. “Finnian has brought a nosegay and a love letter he would like to give to your daughter.”
Taken aback, I managed only a quick glance at him. He nodded in agreement, and, I saw, was holding a small bouquet of posies. He patted his breast pocket.
“I—ah—which one?” I managed, not daring to look at Mathilde.
“Well, that’s what we must discuss. Which do you think is better?”
I could not stop myself from coughing.
Lavinia went on. “Rosie may be better suited to him in stature and inclination, but I understand if you’d want to see your eldest married first—it would be a terrible blow to Mathilde otherwise.”
The door swung inward and behind it, Morwen pushed through with an oversized tea service. We didn’t have new tea leaves and I was quite sure the biscuits were two days old, but Wenthelen had seen that the appropriate silver had been used—polished, already, in preparation for Simeon’s visit.
“On the table there,” I told Morwen.
“And,” Lavinia continued, “I was not sure if Rosie’s affections were still fixed on Prince Simeon. No boy wants to follow in someone else’s wake.”
I noticed, from behind, that Morwen had straightened and was listening. Certainly, our household was confusing—motley and now, it was revealed to her, adjacent to royalty.
“They had a dance,” I acknowledged. “That is hardly something to hold against her.”
Lavinia’s countenance shifted from hawklike to delighted. “A dance with one sister and an engagement with another.”
“The prince danced with many.” Refusing to meet Mathilde’s eye, I watched Morwen hurry to finish, nervous on her behalf. One of the teacups clattered in her hand.
Lavinia chortled. “If I didn’t know better, I would say your family has worked out some kind of magic charm.” She turned to her son. “Finnian, what do you think of the matter?”
“I—” he began, reaching with both his hands to tuck his hair behind each ear.
She nodded. “Yes, I agree. It should be Mathilde.”
Mathilde half stood, abruptly, and catching herself, sat back down.
“Mathilde,” I repeated. I looked at Finnian, the heir to the largest estate in the county.
He was not bad-looking, he just had not yet grown into his face.
I reasoned that he might be suitable indeed in a few years’ time—what with his inheritance and his parents’ oversized property.
And it would place one of my daughters just down the road.
“We are flattered,” I said, decisively. Mathilde was practical.
Unlike Rosie, she wasn’t interested in an affair of the heart.
Already, I could see how Elin’s engagement might turn our fortunes.
It was easy to forget about the roof upstairs.
About Rosie’s cracked heart. About the prospect of Lavinia as a mother-in-law.
Mathilde opened her mouth to protest, and I held up my hand, silencing her as effectively as I could.
Lavinia cleared her throat. “Etheldreda, please come with me. I have something in my carriage I need to show you.”