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Chapter Nine
After a surprisingly restful slumber in unfamiliar quarters, upon a narrow cot that, nevertheless, was entirely her own, surrounded by the quiet snuffles and snores of other women, Rose awoke to Mrs. Whittaker jostling her gently.
“Rise and shine, Miss Rose.”
Rose rubbed her eyes. “Is it morning already?”
“I’ve let yer sleep in an hour later than t’other girls, ‘pon His Lordship’s request, but we best be finding yer some work to do. Idle hands have no use ‘ere.” Her words were not a warning but something she had evidently repeated a thousand times. Her cheerful smile, on the other hand, was precisely what Rose needed after the escape from London she had just made. A reassurance that she had done the right thing.
“Do you know where I might be useful?” Rose flung back the covers and got to her feet, her toes curling against the smooth floorboards.
Mrs. Whittaker ushered her toward a basin of cold water, where she might wash her face. “I’ve an idea, yes. His Lordship says yer were a seamstress, so I thought we might make use of yer in’t laundry, where yer can help wash and dry and darn the clothes what come through this household. Yer wouldn’t believe t’wear and tear some of the fellas can do to a pair of trousers or a shirt! Yer’d think they was all feral.”
Rose chuckled in between splashes. “I’d like that, Mrs. Whittaker.” She noticed that the housekeeper’s polished way of speaking from last night had transformed into a regional accent. Northern, perhaps. She guessed it was intentional, for the sake of being understood.
“Right y’are. There’ll be clean dresses in the wardrobe over there that yer can use and a pinny to go over it.” She pointed to the wardrobe in question. “Just find one that fits, and yer’ll be right as rain.”
Rose hesitated. “Don’t they belong to someone already?”
“That’s the wardrobe for spares, don’t yer worry.”
Relieved that she would not make enemies on her first day here, Rose went to the wardrobe and picked out a dress that would fit well enough over her slender frame. She dressed quickly and tied the pinny in a neat bow at her back, before putting on the worn boots that she had come here wearing.
“Will these do?” Rose asked nervously, approaching Mrs. Whittaker in her new attire.
The housekeeper observed the boots. “Aye, they’ll do. Yer only in the laundry, so no-one will notice. Even if they did, it’d be me what scolds you, and I’ve said they’re all right.” She laughed brightly in a raspy sound that reminded Rose of her old governess. “A few holes and a few scuffs—nothing that can’t be remedied with a bit of boot polish and some glue. You can ask for both in the workshop by’t stables. If they’re feeling mighty generous, they might even fix ‘em for yer.”
With that, they set off out of the servants’ quarter to find the laundry, where Rose would begin her new life at Langston House. In that relatively brief walk, she discovered that Mrs. Whittaker loved nothing more than to chatter away like a trilling blackbird, leaping from one topic of conversation to another with acrobatic skill.
“Yer know, I was shocked when yer appeared at the house last night. Their Lordships haven’t done aught like that before, though Lord Bentley has tried to sneak in other ladies from time to time, if yer know what I mean?” She barked another husky laugh that drew a cheered smile onto Rose’s lips. “I knew yer weren’t one of them when I looked at yer, all draped in His Lordship’s tailcoat. I took it back to him, in case yer were worried where it went.”
Rose flushed with embarrassment. “I had a tear,” she tried to explain. “I believe he was being chivalrous, so I wouldn’t be… um… exposed.”
“Oh aye, I thought the same thing meself, but he’s never done aught like that, neither.” Mrs. Whittaker rattled on. “He’s a righteous and wonderful gentleman, make no mistake, and he’s got honor in abundance, but that were a nice thing to see—that sort of gentility toward a lady in need. Warmed me cockles, so it did. It were like the old him, for a moment there.”
“The old him?” Rose wanted to know more of this alternate version of Lord Langston, but Mrs. Whittaker had moved on to subjects new.
“And then he set to telling me all about yer history, and what yer’d done in London, and what sort of a wretch yer father was.” She shook her head with a mixture of admiration and disbelief. “That’s how I knew yer used to be a seamstress. It were him what suggested the laundry, in fact. I imagine Lord Bentley fell asleep in the carriage, so yer and His Lordship had a fair amount of time to talk?”
Rose nodded uncertainly. “Um… yes, I suppose we did.”
“I’ve never seen him so talkative after a trip to London. He’s usually grim for days. Lord Bentley is as cheerful as ever.” Mrs. Whittaker shook her head like a harried but secretly gleeful grandmother, who both despaired of and adored her charges.
Why has he taken so much time to see that I’m taken care of?He had blown tepid and cold throughout their carriage journey last night, and upon their arrival here. And yet, now that morning had dawned, it appeared he had endeavored to show furtive compassion for her situation. It made Rose wonder if there was more to this gentleman than the cold demeanor that he adopted. Perhaps, that was merely a façade to hide further layers of character beneath.
Still thinking curiously of him, Rose followed Mrs. Whittaker as the older woman led her down through the kitchens, where the delicious-smelling loaves of fresh-baked bread and all manner of buttery pastries were laid out like prized wares upon a stall.
“Yer can take a pastry if yer’d like, since yer missed breakfast.”
Rose did not argue. She took up a diamond-shaped feat of painstaking patisserie, with a jewel of rich red jam in the middle, and bit into it with ravenous fervor. She could not remember the last time she had eaten anything but thin porridge for her breakfast—and, indeed, for most of her other meals away from the sewing house—if there was no stale crust of bread and rancid butter to be found.
The decadent buttery layers melted onto her tongue, mingling with the tartness of the raspberry jam and jolting her taste buds back into vivid life. She swallowed hungrily and took another bite, and had devoured the entire thing by the time they reached the humid outpouring of the laundry. Although, on the way, she narrowly avoided tripping over a trio of basking cats on the kitchen’s threshold. Had it not been for Mrs. Whittaker’s quick hand, skirting her around the felines, she might have stepped on one.
“I saw other cats in the hallway. Whom do they belong to?” Rose licked her fingers as they crossed the kitchen gardens, with herby aromas rising from the plant beds, and veered around to the back of the house where the outbuildings lay. More cats lounged in a suntrap, tails flicking, eyes closed in restful peace.
“His Lordship,” Mrs. Whittaker replied simply. “He’s a liking for them.”
“Oh.” Rose supposed that was not so peculiar, though she had fully expected a house full of hounds, after Lord Bentley’s words upon their arrival. Cats were infinitely preferable to a pack of excitable dogs.
