Worse, she nearly pressed closer into Molly’s side, trying to feel that softness with her own body.
And then she did it anyway.
Molly smelled like Mrs. Wraxhall’s eau de toilette—either she helped herself or some of the perfume had rubbed off her mistress’s garments—mixed with the sweet, soapy smell of babies. It was such a normal scent, the sort of thing any woman might smell like. She did not know why she had expected Molly to smell like mystery and intrigue, foreign perfumes and rich musk. Instead she smelled like a person who had a job and a child and a purpose in life, not merely a vague infinity of breasts and hips and crooked grins.
From time to time, Alice found herself looking a little too closely, too warmly, at a woman. At home it had been the curate’s sister, then the landlady at the inn. At first, she reassured herself that everyone must have this difficulty: women’s bodies were justgoodand one did enjoy looking at good things. One didn’t want to ogle, but it was like admiring a particularly well-iced cake, that was all. Perfectly natural. Later, she had to acknowledge that her thoughts about women did not much resemble her thoughts about cake, however well-iced. So she averted her eyes and kept herself busy and tried not to think overmuch about what any of it meant.
With Molly this close she had to think about it.
Molly stopped walking and cleared her throat. Alice frantically scrambled for something to say to explain why she was pressing up against Molly’s body like a cat, but tonight she was behaving like a lunatic and couldn’t even manage the simplest excuse for her actions. It was as if she hadn’t amassed a lifetime of experience in placating and excusing. She settled for the next best thing, which was straightening her back and trying to pull away.
But Molly’s arm now wrapped around Alice’s waist, tight as a vise.
“You’re cold all the way through,” Molly said. Then the arm was gone, and Molly was pulling off her own cloak and wrapping it around Alice.
“But you’ll get cold,” Alice protested.
“I’ve been colder.”
So had Alice, but she was out of practice.
Molly pulled the cloak tight across Alice’s chest, but then apparently forgot to remove her arms, because she stood so close to Alice that their breaths mingled into a single cloud in freezing air.
Molly hadn’t intended to be gallant, and she certainly wasn’t in the habit of sacrificing her comfort for anybody, but the sight of Miss Stapleton shivering, embarrassed, and obviously afraid had affected her. Molly wanted to do more than wrap the lady in a cloak. She wanted to tuck her close, hold her closer, and think of interesting ways to rub some warmth back into that rail-thin body.
The girl needed hot soup.
And kissing.
And more. Molly had very clear ideas of whatmoremight consist of, even if it had been a while since she had put any of those ideas to practical use.
She’d give it good odds that Miss Stapleton was interested inmoreas well, whether she knew it or not. Whether she’d let herself was another question entirely, one Molly didn’t intend to find out the answer to. Molly had a decent life working for Mrs. Wraxhall. She wasn’t likely to find another employer who would look the other way when her maid disappeared to care for an illegitimate daughter, and she wasn’t going to throw away Katie’s chance at a decent future for a quick tumble.
No matter how much she wanted to.
So now Molly was shivering in her black wool frock, and Miss Stapleton was shivering in her gown, pelisse, and cloak, and Molly still had her arms wrapped around the lady. Really, they ought to move. This was not the time to be dallying in the shadows, and Miss Stapleton was nobody to dally with either. But Molly liked the feel of her, and judging by the way Miss Stapleton sort of melted against her, she liked it too.
Miss Stapleton pulled back a fraction of an inch, just enough for Molly to get a good look at her. “You won’t be able to see her when we’re in Norfolk at the house party,” the lady whispered.
Thank God for the bit of moonlight shining on the lady’s face, or Molly might have thought Miss Stapleton was rubbing Molly’s nose in misfortune. But there was no mistaking the bleakness in the other woman’s eyes.
“It’s happened before, and it’s—” She nearly said that it was fine, that it was part of her job, that she didn’t mind. But those were all lies. “I miss her something awful.” Molly swallowed, fisting the wool of the cloak in her hand and feeling Miss Stapleton sway closer. “And I think she misses me, but sometimes I think she might not. And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”
The lady sucked in a breath and briefly shut her eyes, as if she had stepped on a tack.
Molly remembered what she had heard about Miss Stapleton serving as a glorified governess for her sister’s children and housekeeper for her father. At the time, Molly had thought it a shame that the girl hadn’t even been paid for her servitude, and then was turned loose into the cold. And that was before she had seen the handkerchiefs meant for tiny hands, read the stories intended for little ears.
“Right,” Molly said. “You’ll know about how that is, won’t you.” The lady nodded once, looking grateful not to have to explain herself. “We ought to keep moving if we don’t want to freeze.”
Molly kept her arm entwined with the lady’s the rest of the way home.
Chapter Three
“Please let me unpick that trim,” Alice asked for the fifth time.
“No. It’s my work. Get your own post as a lady’s maid if you want to unpick trim so badly.”
“But I don’t want to embroider any more handkerchiefs”—she could hardly bring herself to do so, knowing they’d never be seen by her nieces—“and helpful elves have mended the spencer I meant to work on.” She cast Molly a pointed glance; the maid didn’t look up from her sewing, but Alice thought she saw a smile. “I’ll go quite mad if I have to sit here with nothing to do.”
