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By the time she made the turn in the hall to go down the steps, Blake had retreated back to his bedroom.
Once on the staircase, Sapphire leaned against the wall and, holding the heavy basket in her arms, fought the sobs that racked her body. How could she have laid her emotions out like that to him so that he could trample them?
Love? There had never been any talk of love between them. Not once had Blake insinuated that he’d felt such a thing. And she didn’t love Blake. She didn’t!
After another minute or two, Sapphire sniffed, wiped her eyes with her sleeve and started down the stairs. Blake had promised he would send her back to London and she was going to hold him to it. Next time, however, she’d be more careful about her own vulnerability. It was stupid to have allowed herself to be taken in by his charms, to have yielded to her own base desires.
But next time they met, next time, she’d be sure she had the upper hand.
Sapphire saw no sign of Blake for the next several days. She wrote a carefully worded letter to Aunt Lucia and Angelique and another to Armand and pinched pennies from the desk in Blake’s office, getting one of the stable boys to post the letters for her. She made no mention of the relationship between her and Blake in the letters, but made it sound as if her trip to America was turning out to be a great adventure. She promised to write again soon and told them not to worry, that she would have great stories to tell when she saw them all again.
Mrs. Dedrick kept her busy with an endless number of household chores. Sapphire never thought she had taken her servants in Martinique or London for granted. She had always spoken kindly to them, had never been a harsh mistress and had never purposefully left a mess thinking another would clean up after her. But she realized that she hadn’t fully comprehended the role of a servant. She hadn’t understood how hard they worked, or, interestingly enough, how they moved about a household almost invisibly, learning the most intimate details of the lives of those they worked for.
Sapphire’s newfound friend, Myra, who had been working at Thixton House for a little over a year, was quick to tell her all about her last employer. Mrs. Sheraton was having an affair with her husband’s cousin, while the husband was having an affair with his business partner’s wife. In the meantime, Mr. and Mrs. Sheraton’s only daughter, engaged to one man, had been making assignations with a married man, and when the daughter became pregnant, she was forced to seduce her fiancé so that he would think the child was his. Despite her depression over her own situation, which she did not reveal to Myra, Sapphire found herself laughing as she went about the chores assigned to her.
Six days after her arrival in Boston, Sapphire and Myra worked together in the larger of Thixton House’s two dining rooms. As they polished the brass detail of the fireplace, Myra entertained Sapphire with tales of her previous employers’ odd likes and dislikes and told the story of how one of the sons had half fallen in love with her, and that was why she had been “loaned out” to work at the Thixton mansion. Apparently, Mrs. Sheraton did not want Myra in her home, influencing her seventeen-year-old son, but she knew too well that she couldn’t simply fire her.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Myra,” Sapphire teased as she settled on her knees at the hearth of the fireplace large enough to roast a steer. “Taking advantage of that poor, smitten boy.”
Myra giggled, the dark curls that peeked from beneath her mobcab bouncing as she lowered herself to her hands and knees and began scrubbing the inside of the fireplace with a hard-bristled brush. “He’s the one who started it to begin with,” she protested good-naturedly. “I told him it wasn’t fittin’ to fall in love with your mother’s maid.” She dunked the brush into the pail and pulled it out, streaming with water. “’Course, look where it’s got me now. I’m back to scrubbin’ floors. A demotion is what John called it. He was crazy mad w
ith his mother when she sent me packin’, I can tell you that much.”
Sapphire couldn’t help but smile. Myra was not educated, but she was bright, witty, attractive and, most importantly, she had a good heart. From the first day Sapphire arrived, Myra had gone out of her way to welcome her and make her feel more comfortable in her strange new surroundings. Myra would make some man a good wife, even if he was not a wealthy man’s son. Perhaps a wealthy man’s son didn’t deserve her, Sapphire thought wryly as she dipped her rag in the paste used to polish the brash, then began to rub the tarnished ball that sat atop a fireplace iron. Not if they were all as arrogant as Blake Thixton.
“Tell me about the master here,” Sapphire asked softly. There was no one else in the dining room or the adjoining keeping room, but she was learning that there were ears everywhere.
“Not much to tell.” She shrugged with ambiguity, but then looked up with excitement. “’Cept to say he’s got to be the best-lookin’ gentleman in Boston. ’Course you already knew that, him takin’ you in in London when he found you on the street.”
Sapphire had to look away and bite her lip to keep from saying what she wanted to say about Blake Thixton. Instead, she polished the andiron harder. “What’s he doing in this big house all alone?”
“I wondered the same thing when I first come.” Myra sat down on her bottom to take a break, which she did as often as possible without being caught by Mrs. Dedrick. “Works hard, that man does, a sight harder than Mr. Sheraton, I’ll tell you that. Leaves early in the morning, comes home late at night. Girls in the kitchen who knew girls who worked here before them say his father was the same, only he weren’t so nice as this one.” She arched her brows knowingly.
“Do tell,” Sapphire whispered, copying a phrase she had heard Myra use. Taking Myra’s lead, she tossed down the rag.
“Foul man, the elder Mr. Thixton.” She wrinkled her nose. “A drunk, too. Some say he beat the young Mr. Thixton when he was a boy. Liked to smack his servants around, too, which is why there ain’t nobody left here who actually worked for the old Mr. Thixton. Just Mr. Givens, only he ain’t one of us.” Myra placed her palm on the smoothly polished wood floor and leaned over, lowering her voice even further. “Why, you can take one look at that man’s face and tell he’s an unhappy soul. Don’t know if the old Mr. Thixton was mean to him ’cause his wife left him for a fisherman like they say or ’cause he swallowed a turd, but he’s got himself a foul disposition, that man has.”
Sapphire covered her mouth with hands that stank of polish to keep from laughing out loud. Myra had a way with words, and though she might speak crudely at times, there was no denying her meaning.
Myra giggled again and then reached out to tap Sapphire’s hand. “Truth be told, I think Mr. Thixton works so hard ’cause he got nothin’ else. I see him at night, though, sittin’ all alone on that balcony of his, lookin’ out over the water. He’s lonely is what he is, and I think he didn’t build this house to show off like some say. I think he built it ’cause somewhere inside him, he’s hopin’ someone will love ’im. Someone will come here and love ’im and give ’im babies.”
Myra’s words struck a chord in Sapphire and she had to glance away. She was so angry with Blake right now that she could barely stand it, but she still felt a sadness for him. “Is he…does he see women?” she found herself asking.
“Oh, we got plenty women comin’ and goin’ in this house, but all but one by the back door, if you know what I’m sayin’.” Myra winked. “Mrs. Sheraton bein’ one of them.”
Sapphire knew she should have been shocked, but she was too tired to be. “You said all but one. Who doesn’t come by the back door?”
Still seated on the floor, Myra rested her hands on her shapely hips and swayed. “Miss Clarice Lawrence. Mr. Thixton’s got a business partner, Mr. Lawrence, nice man who always cleans his plate.” She gave a nod of approval. “Been friends for years, they say. It’s his daughter got her sights on him. She has her way, she’ll be the one sleepin’ upstairs in that big bed, orderin’ us around.”
Sapphire raised herself to her knees, pressing her hands to the tops of her thighs. “Does…is Mr. Thixton—”
“Who’s to say? She’s sour as early grapes, but she got the beauty of one of them women in his paintings.” She pointed to the dining room wall where hung a nearly life-size oil painting of one of the Roman goddesses, painted in rococo style.
Sapphire felt a lump rise in her throat. Of course Blake wasn’t interested in anything in her beyond what she could offer him in his bed. When he could have a woman like Clarice Lawrence—she eyed the painting—why would he want a woman like Sapphire who was without money or family lineage?
A sound in the connecting keeping room startled Sapphire and she snatched up her polishing rag. At the same time, Myra popped up onto her knees, grabbing the brush that bobbed in the dirty bucket of water.
“This way, Miss Lawrence,” Sapphire heard Mr. Danz, the day butler, saying.
