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Chapter Three
Bidding farewell to Lady Clara and Mr. Robertson as they departed for her ladyship’s confinement was one of the happiest and saddest days of Molly’s life. She was at once delighted that her ladyship was preparing for motherhood and terrified for her—and for herself.
For years now, her employer’s routine governed Molly’s every day. In truth, for as dedicated as she’d been to Lady Clara, she herself had benefited from their closeness and her ladyship’s generosity.
Standing in a group among the other servants watching the Robertsons’ carriage roll away from the mews behind the house, Molly felt as adrift as a ship without a rudder. It was a heartbreaking thought to wonder whether she’d ever see Lady Clara again, but that very fear bandied about in her mind.
What shape would her own days take now? Caring for Lady Clara had been a safe container that held her, organized her.
Most of her fellow servants were kind and helpful, but she’d noticed more whispers as she passed. While Lady Clara had taken pains to make known that Molly would lose neither salary nor status, the servants had to wonder about her staying behind. Being a maid to the lady of the house afforded her a certain respect among the staff. She had already felt so different from the others; the demotion could make her an object of ridicule.
She remained frozen in place long after the last rattle of the wheels sounded on the cobblestones, dreading the return to what was, in effect, an empty mansion.
Even with her eyes closed, Molly knew it was Mrs. Taylor, the housekeeper, who approached, the keys and scissors hanging from her chatelaine tinkling. That sound terrified the other servants, for Mrs. Taylor had no tolerance for mischief, misdeed, or idleness, but she and Molly were kindred spirits and had worked well together for many years.
The housekeeper’s voice was as tight with emotion as Molly’s would have been if she tried to speak. “We will all pray that her ladyship will return hale and hearty.Andevery day until the Robertsons return, we will see to our responsibilities as well! Now, you’ve been charged and entrusted with duties. See to them.”
Mrs Taylor coupled the brusque command with an understanding pat on the arm, then turned on her heel. Molly followed, knowing the housekeeper was right on all counts—and it was to her own benefit to stay occupied.
Mrs. Taylor froze before going into the house. “Thomas! Where should you be now, lad?”
The fourteen-year-old houseboy emerged from behind the pillar where he’d been hiding. He straightened his spine, eyes shifting guiltily.
Taking pity on him, Molly turned to the housekeeper. “Might you spare him to help fetch water? I’m seeing to the orangery today.”
Mrs. Taylor’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded. “Then it’s straight upstairs to your chamberpot duties!”
“Yes, Mrs. Taylor,” Molly and Thomas replied in unison.
As soon as the housekeeper was out of sight, the fair-haired young man smiled sheepishly. “I don't want ter empty the chamberpots!”
“Wise or not, it’s only a reprieve I’ve given you. You might regret my interference later. Chamberpots don’t age well.”
His face twisted, but after a moment, he laughed and gave her a wink. “At least it’s not July!”
Molly shuddered and laughed simultaneously, then dispatched Thomas to gather pails and page boys who would fetch the water and carry it to the conservatory.
Aside from the Robertsons themselves, only Molly was permitted entry to the orangery. Especially these last months, in anticipation of Lady Clara’s departure, Molly trailed after her, learning how to care for the exotic trees. Besides watering, she had some pruning today to help the beauties keep their shapes.
Carrying a heavy pail of water in each hand, Thomas frowned. “`Oo would want so many trees ter take care of?”
Molly placed a gentle finger on a stiff leaf. “Aren’t they pretty?”
After glancing around the conservatory with a skeptical look, he shrugged. “They `ave a look like trees. Green leaves, they `ave, like any tree. And they need a lot of water.”
She smiled patiently, confident that her own brothers would have concluded much the same at his age. “They’re better than chamberpots, though, aren’t they?”
“Yes, miss.” His winning smile faded when two pages came into the conservatory with more pails, the amused expression replaced with an air of aloof toughness. As soon as they departed, he turned back to Molly.
“Here, lad, tip that pail into the watering can, will you?”
After filling it, he lingered, watching Molly test the soil of each pot before watering and helping her replenish the can as she made her way through the conservatory. A half dozen fragrant orange trees thrived in elegant pedestal-style containers.
“Where are the trees from, miss?”
“Brought all the way from Portugal, they were. And these”—she gently rapped a knuckle against the Anduze clay pot that came up to her waist—“are from France. Mr. Robertson had all this made for the lady. Imagine that. She’s tended these trees with care. Now it’s to us, Thomas, to do so while she’s gone. I’ll need your help if they’re to live. And for Cook to make more marmalade for you.”
He grinned, and Molly did the same, remembering how much he’d loved his first taste of orange in the kitchen recently. It had taken him many months to overcome his suspicion of the brightly colored substance smeared on hearty bread, but he finally indulged in the treat offered to the servants once a fortnight.
