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Marilee bade the footman to retrieve the snow from out of doors while she arranged a few herbs from the doubtful Mrs. Cavendish. She mixed a cooling salve that would keep the burned skin from cracking and peeling. Then, she returned to the lady’s chambers to set about making Lady Lydia satisfied.
An hour later she had arranged a flowing coif that disguised the mark without the slightest hint of the reddened skin beneath. Marilee had managed to set the curls without the least disturbance to the lady’s hurt all while artfully arranging the locks in a way that enhanced Lady Lydia’s aristocratic features.
Lady Lydia pinched her cheeks, bit her lips until they were plump, and stared at herself in the full-length standing mirror. She turned three full circles looking for anything out of place before clapping her hands with glee.
“You are wasted below stairs,” she declared with a flourish.
Before Marilee could respond, a knock at the door and the butler’s voice declared that there was a Mr. Crowley waiting in the parlor for an audience.
Lady Lydia swore in the most unladylike fashion. “Smyth, bring those papers from the library.”
“I shall do so directly,” said the butler with a nod. He turned with amazing alacrity and hurried away.
“Be quick about it,” Lady Lydia snapped, “and then tell Mr. Crowley I shall be down when I am ready.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the butler as he hurried away.
Marilee’s brows drew together in confusion. Lady Lydia was as ready as she might ever be, but that did not stop the mistress of the house from offering a wry grin. “He can steep in discomfort for a while longer,” she explained.
“Is he unwelcome?” Marilee asked before she could stop herself. Of course, such open conversation had been the norm with her sweet friend Miss Caroline, but it was likely out of place with Lady Lydia. “Has your father chosen a suitor who…”
Lady Lydia grunted with annoyance. “Oh, no no no. He is no suitor. He is a…well…my solicitor now, I suppose,” she said thoughtfully. “My father’s old Mr. Marksham died last year, and the accounts were passed over to his associates, this Crowley and Crowley. They were just awful you understand, two old withered men, I could barely abide them at all. At least the new Mr. Crowley is a pleasure to look upon.
Marilee felt a blush fill her face, and Lady Lydia looked at her shrewdly.
“So he is not a suitor,” Marilee said clarifying carefully.
“Oh, Good Gawd no,” Lady Lydia said aghast. “I intend to be a duchess,” she boasted. “I just wish that Mr. Crowley would just handle the papers without bothering me every other day about something or another. You might think after I took him from that hovel, he would be happy to handle the estate and simply take his due, but no. Questions. Always with the questions.”
Marilee was shocked that Lady Lydia had said as much. She seemed a woman of few words and even less open to sharing with her staff. Marilee allowed herself an inward smile of victory though she kept her outward features closed. She must have warmed the lady to her some small bit with her ministrations.
“Could he not meet with your father instead?” Marilee offered. “After all, women…”
She broke off at Lady Lydia’s sharp look. Then, the lady snorted in a most unladylike way. “Father is daft.”
Marilee schooled her face to show no emotion, but if she had a father who was living, she was sure she would certainly not speak so of him.
Lady Lydia took a deep breath, uncharacteristically explaining, “Father hasn’t the patience for finances in his old age and much preferred Mr. Marksham’s prudent methods. As did I, in truth, but as Mr. Marksham has abandoned us for the grave, the lot must fall to me, since father will only muck up the works if he is allowed his say.”
Marilee opened her eyes wide, thinking, but the man was Lord Blackwell, not Lady Lydia. It was not her place to speak with men of finance, but she would certainly not say anything that may upset the lady. Still, Marilee did not think that Mr. Marksham died solely to leave the Blackwells out of sorts, but she could not say so. Instead, she made for the door, her services here complete. She could at least help Peggy for several hours while Lady Lydia was attending her dinner party. Too soon Marilee was halted.
“Go down and keep him occupied for an hour or so,” Lady Lydia offered with a flippant wave over her shoulder.
“Who?”
“Mr. Crowley, of course.”
“Me?” Marilee sputtered, her face turning beet red. Her heart beat a steady tattoo.
“Do not pretend that it is a hardship,” said Lady Lydia.
Marilee did not, but this was almost a kindness. Surely the lady had some ulterior motive, but for the life of her, Marilee could not think what it was. Still, she hesitated.
“Go on,” she waved. “I will have a few words with papa and read a little by the fire. Perhaps Mr. Crowley will take the hint and leave of his own accord.”
“Should I tell him you are not receiving,” Marilee asked.
“Oh no,” Lady Lydia said.
