A Christmas Gone Perfectly Wrong: A Blackshear Family novella (B 0.5) (28 page)

“Mirkwood, aye.” In her dressing-table mirror the maid’s blond head bobbed once. “Sir Theophilus, as will be, once he’s finished driving his father to an early grave.”

“I see you know more than I. Is this the fruit of belowstairs gossip?” She couldn’t work up any stronger admonition, with her mind so urgently occupied.

There had to be some way to secure the school’s future; some sounder scheme than a mere written plea. Mr. Atkins’s flattering faith to the contrary, she was no persuader. His thanks ought to go to the bottle, for Mr. Russell’s imperfect recall of what he had and had not authorized. She should have accomplished nothing without that.

“You know Sarah, who makes the sauces?” Sheridan’s voice looped and fluttered among her thoughts like a cheerful unreproached bird. “Her sister works in the house there, and she said Mr. Mirkwood had come to stay not by his own choice but by his father’s.”

“As a kind of banishment?” This finally drew her full attention. What sapskulled father, and what sapskulled son, could view the Sussex countryside as a penance?

“Banished, to be sure.” A handful of hairpins dropped musically onto the silver tray at her right. “Put away from the temptations of London, in a place where there’s little chance for deviltry. Cut off from his allowance too, I’ve heard, so no running down to Brighton for the amusements.”

Deviltry. Amusements. This much, she could have guessed. “I am sorry to hear it.” She found her maid’s eyes in the mirror. “However we need not sustain the life of a man’s misdeeds with discussion, or with any notice at all. We will merely hope he may profit by his stay in Sussex.” Not very likely, though, if he continued to sleep through church.

Sheridan picked up a comb and eased it into Martha’s hair, ducking her head in a chastened way, but her smile suggested she was indulging, still, in agreeable thoughts of Mr. Mirkwood and his transgressions.

Undoubtedly one might have done more, in ten months, to curb the maid’s affinity for gossip and plant some foundations of decorum. But to regret that now would be no good use of her time. Indeed, she might perhaps employ the trait to some advantage.

“Do you know anything of Mr. Russell’s brother James?” she said. “Do the older servants ever speak of him?”

“Mr. James Russell.” A muscle twitched in the girl’s cheek; her features otherwise went neutral. “Why do you ask?”

“He stands to inherit Seton Park, and I have certain matters to discuss with him in advance of that.” This time she felt a tiny catch in the comb’s movement, though Sheridan’s face betrayed nothing. “He didn’t come to the wedding or to Mr. Russell’s funeral, so I must rely on others’ impressions.” Three, then four, then five seconds went by in silence. “You’ve heard some reports of him, I think?”

“Sometimes the older servants have said things.” The maid’s eyes flicked up to hers in the mirror, and down again.

“And what have they said? I beg you will be frank with me.” A chill was creeping up her backbone. What could instill this sudden reserve in the same girl who’d chattered so readily of Mr. Mirkwood’s disgrace?

Sheridan’s mouth pursed. She set her head on an angle and watched her hands combing. Finally, she spoke. “They say he ruined two housemaids here when he was a young man.”

“What?” The chill flooded every part of her now. “Who says so?”

“Mrs. Kearney. She was second housemaid then. She says it was only her pockmarked face kept her safe.” Her lips went tight together; her hands divided out a lock of hair.

“Safe from… being lured into a degraded connection, do you mean?” Or safe from something worse?

“Wasn’t much luring in it.” Like huge malign hailstones the words fell, a few at a time, while Sheridan worked the comb through. “He went into their rooms at night and told them they’d be dismissed if they said anything about it. And then the two were dismissed all the same, because of what condition they found themselves in.”

“Was he never brought to justice?” The threadbare whisper exactly suited that woman she saw in the mirror, pale as the white lawn chemise she wore. And the question was a foolish one. Nobody held such men to account. Women could only pray for mercy, and bear what came.

The maid shook her head, not bothering to reply in words. “Not that he’ll ever lay eyes on me,” she said after a moment. “There’ll be no place for me here if you don’t stay.” She set the comb aside and busied herself in plaiting the combed-out hair. “Only I was hoping you would. All the servants were. I suppose things would have come out different if you’d been blessed with a son.”

“Different indeed.” Martha lowered her eyes from her blushing mirror image. “But as we’ve known these few days, all chance of that is…” She stopped. Here came the mutiny again, boiling up from somewhere deep in her belly and confounding all her words.

She raised her chin and met with her reflection as her breaths went quick and shallow. Sheridan’s reflection, too, the sweet springtime face paired with eyes that already knew too much of the world.

Women could only pray for mercy…
That wasn’t true. Women could do more. A desperate woman could do more.

Women could only bear what came.
But a chance had come. A chance had come and looked her in the eye that very morning.

In the mirror her blush was receding, her features settling into the lines of calm resolve. This could end in a dozen different kinds of disaster. There’d be no guarantee of success. And how to get through it without losing all claim to principle, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

So be it. She could wait for Providence to come to these women’s aid, or she could make use of what Providence had already put in her path. “Sheridan.” She twisted to face her maid squarely. “Tell me again about Mr. Mirkwood. Tell me everything you know.”

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