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Chapter1
THEA
Ihad always believed myself rather adept at hiding, but this time, I wondered if I’d gone too far in my disguise. Flour dusted my nose, hiding my faint freckles and pale skin beneath a coating of white powder and effectively disguising what dark hair was peeking from beneath my maid’s cap. I surely looked as though I’d lost a round of bullet pudding, and while that game was enjoyable during Christmastide, it was November now, and Cook was not going to be pleased to discover the mess I’d made.
Baking appeared so much easier when someone else was doing it. But when I was asked to knead the dough, the particulars of the act evaded me. It could not be so complicated, though. Roll the lump, punch the lump, roll it some more . . .
“Gracious heavens, child,” Cook said, bustling back into the workroom. Her brown hair was hidden beneath a cap, an apron tied about her ample waist. “What are you trying to do to that poor loaf?”
“Knead it?”
“Beat it to death, more like,” Cook muttered under her breath. She scooted me aside with her hip, and I leaned back against the counter and wiped the back of my wrist over my forehead. I had only been working as a kitchen maid in the Fuller household for a fortnight, but even now I could not properly prepare the dough for rising.
“Get working on those peas,” Cook said, pointing to an empty bucket in the far corner.
“Yes, ma’am.” I picked up the bucket and let myself outside.
“Gather some beets while you’re out there,” Cook called through the closed door. “And wipe your face, child. You look a mess.”
I opened the door to acknowledge that I’d heard her.
After spending the last few years in Mrs. Moulton’s finishing school for young ladies, I felt extremely out of place in the belly of a grand house, helping prepare dinner and clean up after Cook. Mother would be aghast, were she alive to see me now, and I spun my ring on my finger at the thought. Discomfort aside, the anonymity of my current position lent me a degree of security. It would not matter who the Fuller family had to dine, for I would never find myself face to face with any guest of theirs.
After doing my utmost to establish a career as a governess—the children were too young and disobedient—and then a modiste’s assistant—she had appreciated my fine manners, but my stitches were abysmally wide—I’d stumbled onto this kitchen maid opportunity at a market in Brumley. I found it a sign of good fortune after a streak of ill luck. It was the ultimate hiding place. I would never be discovered in this capacity, and Cook was determined to teach me what I needed to know. Though it did seem I tried her patience more often than not.
But more than anything, I valued my current position because I had only myself to depend on. My safety and success were reliant upon no one but me, and it was not as though I could break my own trust. It was a comfortable position to be in, welts on my hands and cracked knuckles notwithstanding.
My knees grew damp on the hard, cold ground while the late autumn sun warmed my bent neck. I leaned forward and picked peas, snapping them at the base of the vine and dropping them into the bucket. Residual powder from my kneading mishap tickled my nose, and I lifted the bottom of my apron to wipe the flour from my face.
It had been nearly six months since I’d slipped out of my finishing school and run off to find refuge from the unpleasant future looming ahead of me. In that time, I had yet to find a situation as happy as this—which was perhaps a poorer reflection on my previous two positions than praise for this one. Cook’s mannerisms were harsh and the work grueling. I fell asleep every night before my head reached the pillow, and my hands were slowly turning to leather. But brief moments outside like this were small fortunes I could tuck away to help me through the long days.
I knelt in the kitchen garden, the sun beating on my back and warming my skin through the coarse maid’s gown I was required to wear. The uniform was a far cry from the lavish ballgowns and silk stockings I was accustomed to, but finery was worth sacrificing for a life I could call my own.
I did not intend to remain a servant forever, just long enough to meet a man and carve out a future for myself of my own choosing. Though meeting men seemed increasingly difficult in this position. Perhaps my goals would be better achieved were I to find a position as a shop girl or assistant—so long as it did not require sewing.
My parents had spoiled any desire to claim a gentleman for a husband. In my experience, gentlemen were the very worst of creatures, and I would be much happier with a humble man.
Hoofbeats pounded the hard-packed lane that ran alongside the garden. A drystone wall separated me from the road, but still I bent away to avoid the cloud of dust that would soon billow in my direction. The gentleman atop the horse wore a decent set of finery, and a scowl marred his handsome fa—oh,dear heavens.A chill washed through me when my gaze fell upon his familiar countenance. I knew him.
Either this man was Benedict Bradwell, or the sun had played a trick on me by assigning him the face of the last man in England I ever wanted to see again. A man I had begun to call handsome, even. My brain deserved a scrubbing with soap for entertaining such a thought.
His bored gaze dropped to me, and before I could fully dive behind the stone wall for cover, recognition lit his blue eyes.
Drat. He’d seen me. I listened to the pounding of his horse’s hooves fade down the road a bit, clutching the bucket tightly and hoping he would continue on his way. To my dismay, the horse slowed. I could hear Benedict turning about, but I could not face him. If he was to discover me—to confirm it was trulymehe saw in the bedraggled maid’s gown bent over a garden patch—he would surely drag me from my safe situation in Brumley and deposit me at my lecherous chaperone’s house. Or, worse, Benedict would take me home with him.
I jumped to my feet and ran for the house, alarm lacing my stomach and lighting fire beneath my quick steps. Benedict called my name, which only made me run faster. I slammed into the kitchen, and Cook startled, looking up from where she was shaping dough into loaves.
“We’ll have none of that, now,” she said, scowling.
“Of course, ma’am.” My heart raced and my cheeks flushed. Surely Benedict would not follow me into the kitchen of a stranger’s house.
I moved to the corner of the worktable and started peeling open the pods and separating the peas from the shells, my heart doing its utmost to beat directly out of my chest.
The door rattled from a quick knock, and Cook looked at it with a questioning brow. He’d followed me? Panicked, I reached over the table while Cook’s head was turned, took a fistful of flour, and threw it over my face.
I coughed. Gritty powder snuck into my nostrils, drying my skin, and I blinked away the excess from my eyes. I focused again on my task separating the peas, keeping my gaze lowered.
A heavy knock rattled the door again, and Cook bustled over to answer it. She swung it open and drew in a breath of surprise. I had to admit Benedict could strike a dashing figure when he so chose, but Cook’s breathlessness felt disloyal all the same.
