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Rochford nodded. “Indeed. She has agreed to give some private instruction to a pupil in her school. I forget the name.”

Christopher’s heart sank. “That girl happens to be my Phoebe.”

Rochford slapped his hand on his shoulder. “Capital. She’s one of the best, you know.”

The mounting dread twisted into an iron fist in his stomach as understanding finally settled in his brain.

Miss Hilversham was the Duchess of Rochford.

She was married.

Chapter 16

Hungersford Hall was a world away from the seminary in Bath, and Anna marvelled at how drastically her life had changed. She knew that she had enjoyed an unusually favourable position as a housemaid at the seminary. She’d always been treated kindly by everyone, from the headmistress down, and had forged genuine friendships below stairs. Certainly, her time there had been challenging, for a housemaid’s existence could hardly be otherwise.

Her duties had required her to rise well before dawn to clear out and light the fireplaces in the students’ and teachers’ rooms. She had to collect and dispose of the slop buckets, change the linen of each bed, dust and sweep the floors and shake out the rugs. She had gathered mountains of soiled garments to take to the laundress for washing, and then pressed, folded and mended them. She had to carry buckets of steaming water from the kitchen to the upper floors without spilling any of it on the stairs. Occasionally, she had to run errands and fetch items from local shops.

She had routinely tumbled into bed in her small chamber in the attic well past midnight, exhausted, fully aware she would only get several hours of sleep before she had to get up again, and the relentless cycle would repeat anew.

Her days had been like that, filled with exhausting physical labour that would never end. Her income wasn’t high, but she received more than an average maid would in a standard household. She was earning her own keep, she was not a burden on her brother, she did not have to take to the streets, and neither was there any danger of her ending up in the grim workhouse.

She had heard many stories from other domestics who were mistreated and abused, and who received a pittance for all their labour. Young women, especially, who had to beware of their roving male employers who sought to take advantage of them. Seen in this light, her position at Miss Hilversham’s was a blessing.

It was a hard life, but it was a safe life.

No one would come after her and clap her into prison and then execute her publicly because of her social status.

Like Maman. Like Papa.

She could not remember her parents, for she had been a mere babe when her parents perished during the Terror. Yet the knowledge of their fate, for no other reason than that they were aristocrats, was reason enough for her to embrace her lowly status without a sliver of regret.

She rubbed the back of her neck.

She would rather toil as a housemaid than live in fear as a comte’s daughter whose life was at perpetual risk. For she’d had nightmares her entire life, terrible, vivid dreams, where the crowd roared as the blade fell and blood streamed…

She hadn’t had a single nightmare since arriving at Hungersford Hall. She’d never felt so safe, or so entirely at home.

And now, oh! Her job as companion and governess to Miss Phoebe seemed like the sweetest reprieve. She possessed more leisure time than she had ever known. She couldn’t recall when she’d slept that much, for Phoebe rose late, and there was no reason for her to rise before the rest of the house did. She discovered she enjoyed teaching. She took immense pleasure in planning the lessons, spending many hours in the library to devise lesson plans that were not only interesting, but educational.

Her hands were no longer those of a servant. She’d used the jar of rose cream that she’d found in her bedchamber, and the raw and blistered skin on her palms had disappeared entirely. The only time she used her hands was for embroidery or when she mixed herbs and creams on those rare afternoons when she assisted the earl with his patients.

She’d been initially terrified of him, thanks to the theatrical tales Phoebe had used to wheedle her into coming. Those stories had turned out to be nothing but moonshine, however, and she found he treated her as an equal.

It was unheard of.

They were not equal.

She felt intensely unworthy. She was just a maid, she repeated to herself.

She must never forget that.

* * *

Marks emerged from the house, bearing the mail on a salver.

“Two letters for you, miss.”

She looked up in surprise. “For me?”