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bath nights for everyone, and see if she could hire a laundry maid rather than have those duties devolve onto the housemaids, or even worse, their overworked housekeeper. More and more often small, forgotten tasks had come to her attention, with no one to attend to them but herself. In the two days she’d been in residence she’d laundered and even mangled linens; she’d polished silver that Bertie and the new footman, Jacob, hadn’t gotten around to; she had laid fires, emptied ashes, dusted bookshelves, washed windows, and peeled potatoes when the other servants were already busy; and while a part of her found the hard work and her ability to do it and do it well curiously satisfying, it was a far cry from what she’d imagined she’d be doing as a housekeeper. Her back ached, her hands were rough and red, and her legs were a mass of bruises from bumping into things, but she felt a certain buoyancy from the healthy weariness that covered her. More people should engage in physical work, she thought, and then was momentarily ashamed of herself. Most people had no choice in the matter. But truly, the idle rich didn’t know what they were missing.
Their father had always tried to imbue a strong work ethic in his children, and he’d been far too successful with his eldest daughter, as well as a complete failure with his youngest. Sophie never stirred herself if she could help it.
But at least her father’s puritanical views about work had served Bryony well in the long run.
“His lordship’s already up and about,” Mrs. Harkins greeted her. “That, or he went out late and hasn’t returned home. When Mr. Collins went in with his breakfast he’d already left.”
Bryony frowned. “That’s odd. He made no mention of plans to go out.”
“What did he say to you when you brought him his tray?”
He had said a great deal, but nothing she was prepared to share with Mrs. Harkins. “Oh, this and that,” she said in an abstracted voice. “I did notice the library was very untidy. Perhaps I’ll work on that while the maids concentrate on hauling out the third-floor bedrooms. They seem nothing more than a repository for old furniture and bric-a-brac.” She hesitated. If she was going to discover papers of some sort, wouldn’t she be more likely to find them tucked into a drawer in an unused room, rather than the obvious place, his office? “On second thought, I think they should work on windows on such a fine day. Windows and laundry. I’ve sent a note to Mr. Lawson, telling him we need at least one laundry maid and another footman to wait at table.”
“I’m able to wait at table,” Mr. Collins volunteered from his seat to her right, putting down the newspaper he’d been engrossed in. An Irish newspaper, in fact, when Bryony didn’t realize they printed them in England.
“Thank you, Mr. Collins, but I don’t think that will be necessary. You’re already stretched too thin as it is. If we need you in an emergency we will call on you, but in the meantime it isn’t your place.” Servants were incredibly mindful and jealous of their status, Bryony had discovered, much more so than in society. Any democratic ideas she’d tried to institute at Renwick and the town house had been quickly rebuffed.
“Yes, Mrs. Greaves. And what would you have me do today? I made significant progress sorting through his lordship’s clothes, pulling out that which needed to be laundered or mended.”
“Don’t worry none about the mending, Mr. Collins,” Bertie said cheerfully. “The gentry don’t like mended clothes—they just throw them out and have new freshly made. We usually share the old stuff amongst ourselves, though somes of us resell ’em.”
It was a common enough practice, one of the few advantages of the serving class. “And you do the same with Lady Kilmartyn’s?”
Mrs. Harkins laughed. “Lord love you, we wouldn’t dare. None of us could hardly wear them, and her ladyship worries that some of her more distinctive dresses might be recognizable if someone buys it from a rag merchant. She has that mademoiselle destroy everything she’s finished with.”
“Destroys them?” Bryony echoed, aghast. “All her expensive wardrobe?”
“Seems to me you could at least take some of the trim off, reuse that,” Mrs. Harkins said with a sniff.
“It must be very extravagant,” Bryony said tentatively, fishing for information.
“Indeed it is. Not that money’s an object. His lordship’s rich as Croesus, and Lady Kilmartyn lives to spend it.”
“No one has unlimited money,” Bryony said.
Mrs. Harkins shrugged. “Well, he just inherited ownership of the ship-building business he started with some cit. Things seem to happen like that—money just falls in his lap. I don’t think Lady Kilmartyn needs to worry.”
“If she did, I doubt she’d be here,” Emma said from her spot across the table, draining her cup of tea.
“Don’t let Mademoiselle hear you say that,” Mrs. Harkins warned her. “You know she carries tales, and you’d be out on your arse in a moment’s notice.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Bryony said. “The hiring and the firing of the staff has been left up to me, with his lordship having the final word.” Unbidden the memory of his objection to the term “your lordship” came back to her, and she could feel her face heat. “Though I will agree we need to treat our employers with the respect they are due.”
“I was, Mrs. Greaves,” Emma said with a wry grin.
Bryony had to cough to hide her answering smile. Clearly Lady Kilmartyn may have managed to fool most of society, but the members of her household weren’t as easily hoodwinked.
“Windows today,” she announced, ignoring the faint groan from Emma and her new assistants, Grace and Allie. “I haven’t had a chance to check his lordship’s room, to see if anything needs replacing. You say he left early today?”
“He did,” Mr. Collins affirmed. “Her ladyship has gone out as well. Would you like me to accompany you, Mrs. Greaves?”
“No need,” she said airily. “I merely want to check the curtains, upholstery, and such. I’ve only had a brief glimpse of it on my first tour of the house, and I’m responsible for it.” Not to mention a darkened glance when she helped him into bed two nights ago. In fact, she was responsible for everything, a curse and a blessing. No one would ever question why she should ferret around in the earl’s bedroom.
If Lady Kilmartyn was out she probably ought to start with her rooms, but she really didn’t wish to. And it made sense that if there was some sort of proof to be hidden it was far more likely in Kilmartyn’s rooms than those of his despised wife.
She waited until the staff had started on their daily tasks before climbing the servants’ stairs again to the third floor where Kilmartyn slept. She was slowly getting used to her many trips up and down the narrow flights, and when she came out into the third-floor corridor this time she wasn’t out of breath.
A good thing, since the first thing she saw was a perfect stranger in the middle of the hall, standing at the door to the ballroom, looking for all the world as if he belonged there.
