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BY DINNERTIME MADDY WAS convinced she was going to die. Her feet were past hurting—they were numb. She hadn’t sat down in three hours, and now was washing what seemed to be three weeks’ worth of dishes, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to find some sort of ease. Her shoulders ached, the small of her back was screaming, her arms felt rubbery and weak. She was a naturally energetic creature—there was no reason she should be so tired.
She had merely cleaned out eight fireplaces and reset the fires, hauling out the ashes and hauling in the coal since the so-called boy seemed to be nonexistent, and Wilf, Mrs. Crozier’s elderly, slightly inebriated husband, seemed to be glued to a chair in their quarters, appearing every now and then to fetch a mug of ale and then disappearing again. Maddy swept the salon and dining room furiously, letting loose a cloud of dust that settled over every surface, astonishing given the amount she was able to shovel into a dustbin. She then dusted every possible surface, shaking the rag out the windows at constant intervals. At first she paid no attention to the wind, and the dust simply blew back in, accompanied by a selection of street dirt. After dusting everything once more, she carefully chose a back window where the wind off the ocean couldn’t enter and undo her hard work.
The captain’s residence was a terrace, bound on each side by other houses, and occasionally a word or a thump emanated from the other side, startling her. The Russells had always lived in the best of the best—while townhouses like this one and the ones in London were perfectly acceptable, Eustace Russell had had expensive tastes that he’d unfortunately passed on to his two younger daughters. Maddy had always enjoyed the luxuries money could buy, and she’d spent it lavishly when her father had given it to her. Now her extravagance shamed her. The cost of one of her ball gowns could have provided better lodgings for her sisters while they’d lived in London, and she’d worn that dress only once before discarding it.
Tarkington had particularly enjoyed all the trappings of wealth. His own family had been prosperous, though not anywhere near the level of the Russells with their nouveau wealth, but his family went back to the Domesday Book, and her father had encouraged the match, wanting to work his way further up the social ladder. And she’d been a damned fool.
“What are you doing, Mary?” Mrs. Crozier’s whip-sharp voice broke through her abstraction, and she looked up from the sink dazedly, wondering whom the housekeeper was talking to.
A moment later she knew. “Are you deaf, Mary Greaves?” Mrs. Crozier moved closer, trying to loom over her. Since the housekeeper was shorter than she was, the effort failed, but she made up for it in her voice. “Because if you are, then you’re on your way. I can’t deal with someone who’s deaf. For all I know you might be slow-witted as well. Most people don’t stand leaning against the sink, their hands in the water, staring into space.”
“I’m not slow-witted, Mrs. Crozier,” Maddy said, determinedly standing on both feet. “I’m sorry—I was thinking of something else.”
Mrs. Crozier sniffed. “Most like your last placement, and how much better it was.”
“Actually I was thinking how I like the size of this household.” Which was true—the house, upon reflection, was just right. Like the story of the three bears, the Russell houses were too big, Nanny Gruen’s and the cheap flat in London were too small, but the captain’s house was just right.
In a perfect world Tarkington would come back from South America, throw himself at her feet, begging for forgiveness. The aging captain would die and they would buy this house and live happily ever after, away from the craziness of London. There was plenty of room for children here, and the view of the ocean was tantalizing.
But Tarkington would never beg forgiveness, and besides, she wouldn’t want him if he did. She didn’t love him, had never loved him, and she wanted half a dozen estates and a titled, preferably dead husband…
“Are you certain you’re not moon-brained?” Mrs. Crozier was staring at her, gimlet-eyed.
Maddy didn’t dignify this with an answer. “I’m almost done here.”
“And it’s taken you twice the time it should have done. Leave it for now—you need to set the table for the captain and his guests. There’ll be six for dinner—very intime.” Mrs. Crozier gave the word an English pronunciation instead of the French, confusing Maddy for a moment until she realized it was simply the housekeeper trying to sound sophisticated. “The captain is having his fiancée, Miss Gwendolyn Haviland, and her parents, as well as Mr. Quarrells and his particular friend, Duncan.”
“But the numbers are uneven,” she blurted out before she realized what she was saying.
“You think we should go out and find two more women to even things out?” Her tone was derisive. “You’ll find that Mr. Quarrells and Mr. Duncan have no interest in the fairer sex. At all.” There was something meaningful in her voice, but Maddy had no idea what she was hinting at. “You ask too many questions, and you have too many suggestions. You need to learn your place. You may have been an upstairs maid at your previous employer’s mansion but here you’re just a slavey, and you need to remember that.”
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.” Eventually she was going to get her revenge on this old witch. When Tarkington returned… no, she didn’t want him to return. And she’d forgotten, she wanted money and a title, and she’d make someone like Lord Eastham buy this house and toss Mrs. Crozier onto the street before whisking her off to his country estate.
Except she liked this house more than the thought of some mansion. And she didn’t want Lord Eastham, who had liver spots and smelled of camphor. She wanted someone like that outrageous stranger who’d kissed her in the alleyway after paying off her attackers, the swine. She couldn’t afford to let herself fantasize about him—he was rude and not what she wanted at all. Except for his kisses…
“I assume you know how to set a table after all your superior positions?”
That was one thing that had been drilled into her at the Swiss finishing school her father had insisted on sending her to. Not the setting so much as the proper order in which to use things, but it worked for the job at hand. “Of course. What’s on the menu?”
Mrs. Crozier’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you care?”
“Because I need to know whether we need spoons for a cream soup or a broth, if seafood forks are necessary, teaspoons or demi-tasse spoons…” Her
words came to an abrupt halt at the expression on Mrs. Crozier’s thin face.
“Jayzus, girl, do you think this is Buckingham Palace? Two forks, one knife, two spoons, one small, one for soup, and who cares if it’s a cream soup or a broth? I’ve told you, the captain doesn’t care for folderol. Besides, Wilf has the key to the silver—you don’t think I’m about to entrust it to you, do you? He’ll get the cutlery out for you.”
“But what does Miss Haviland think about all this?”
Mrs. Crozier snorted. “It’ll be up to her to train the captain, not me, thank God. He’d be a right handful, the captain would.”
Old men were always difficult and set in their ways, Maddy thought.
“Go on, then. Wilf will serve when he gets his uniform on, but you’d best put on a clean apron and tidy that ridiculous hair in case you’re seen by any of them.”
Maddy put a hand to her hair and felt it drifting out of its tight knot and floating down around her face, escaping the cap entirely. “Yes, Mrs. Crozier.”
“There’s a mirror in the back hallway, and fresh aprons are piled in the cupboard just beyond it. Make yourself presentable. You look like a slattern.”
