Listen to the Moon (2 page)

The name suited her. In France, she would be a Suzette. If he’d met her as a French lady’s maid, he might have acted on this attraction. He bowed slightly. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Grimes.”

She looked touched and amused, as if she thought a show of respect for her sweet but a little ridiculous. “Thank you, Mr. Toogood. I’ll see you Friday, then.”

“If you’ll wait for me to finish here, I’ll carry your basket.” His neck heated.

She looked indecisive. “Will you be long? Mrs. Humphrey don’t like me to dawdle.”

“I shall hurry,” he promised. Hopefully she would think it manners and not eagerness.

“Well, I’d be a fool to turn that down, and my mother didn’t raise any fools.” She shifted the heavy basket on her arm and teased, “Maybe I’d ought to buy a few more potatoes.”

Potatoes: the only thing denser than cabbages. John didn’t react. “By all means. Where shall I meet you?”

“I’ll be staying warm by the hot-gingerbread woman.” A heavy drop of water fell from the sky and landed on her hand. “Or crowding under the Market Cross if it rains.”

John hesitated a moment before offering her his umbrella, thinking regretfully of the damage to his wool overcoat if it were to be soaked.

“Of
course
you’ve an umbrella.” She shook her head admiringly. “You keep it. I’ll be all right if I can get to the Market Cross ahead of the crowd.”

Before he could insist, she made for the ancient stone canopy. She went swiftly, for she gave herself no fashionable airs and wore thick-soled leather boots. Her stockings were undyed blue-gray worsted, her petticoats muddy and none of them a shade approaching white.

Her slim, tapering calves only appeared daintier emerging from her heavy boots.
She’s a pharisee come to play tricks on me.

Well, if she was a fairy disguising herself as a lowly maidservant to see what treatment she received at the hands of mortals, hopefully John’s manners would earn him a gift. Human men ensnared by fairy women never ended well, but they enjoyed themselves along the way. Seven years in a green bower with her, drugged on fairy wine and subject to her delightfully cruel whims, would indeed pass like a day.

Before he could imagine much more than summer heat, her wicked smiles and tumbled hair and bare skin twined in grass-green silk, he set the fancy aside. Sussex fairies were a diminutive race who labored, drank beer and sweated; they had little in common with Sir Walter Scott’s seductive elves. And it would serve a valet very ill to be cursed to speak nothing but truth, like poor Thomas the Rhymer.

A memory surfaced, of his father catching him listening to the maids’ fairy stories at Tassell Hall and correcting his laziness and credulity with a fresh willow switch. He’d never heard how that tale ended. It had been something about a man who laughed at some pharisees, and nothing ever went right for him again. Maybe Miss Grimes would know the rest of it.

It was strange to remember that he’d believed the stories then. How old had he been when he stopped?

Don’t let me ever hear you use the word pharisee, either,
his father had said. It was an ignorant word—the product, presumably, of an ancient and widespread confusion between the Sussex double plural
fairieses
and the Christian gospel—but John liked the way it sounded.

He’d never hated the pain of the switch as much as the humiliation of being forced to present his naked buttocks.

Why should he think of all that now, when it was decades ago?

A drop of rain darted past the brim of his hat and splashed against his nose. John shook himself, laughing at his own distraction, and hastened to finish his shopping.

Chapter Two

There was a hole in Sukey’s glove. Absently, she pushed it down until her bare fingertip protruded, then pulled it straight again, guiltily aware her fidgets were widening the hole.

She would have been home quicker and drier if she’d gone alone, instead of tarrying about while Mr. Particular haggled over his vegetables. He had a good face for haggling, didn’t he? Unflappable. He looked liable to outwait stone.

But his smile was lovely, even if he seemed afeared it would wear out with use.

Sukey Grimes, why do you always crave the ones who are a challenge? Why can’t you like easygoing lads who’ll kiss the ground you walk on and laugh at all your jokes?

Actually, when she put it like that, she supposed she was keeping herself out of harm’s way. If she fell for an openhearted man who adored her, what was to stop her bedding him? Marrying him? And Sukey didn’t plan to marry.

Mr. Toogood raised one eyebrow at Mrs. Isted. Just a little incredulous curl at his left temple. That was a joke, that was. Mrs. Isted busted out laughing, and Sukey laughed too, even though the joke wasn’t for her.

She wished it was, so badly her stomach hurt with it.

Marriage don’t make you any less lonely,
she reminded herself, turning her attention back to her worn glove. Anyone with eyes or ears knew that.

Sukey’s aunt had told her once that her mother had been bright and laughing afore she married. That she’d dressed herself fine as fivepence. Sukey couldn’t picture it.

“Miss Grimes.”

Sukey started. “Mr. Toogood?” Lord, his voice had as many layers to it as the Dymonds’ French wedding cake. She’d like to put a hand on his broad chest and feel it echo around before coming out his mouth.

Probably she’d have to slip her hand inside his shirt to feel anything. His skin would be hot and—smooth or hairy? Her fingers curled.

“Are you ready to return home?”

She held out a hand for his basket, so he might carry her larger one. He gave her his umbrella and took charge of both baskets. Domineering, wasn’t he? It would serve him right if she held the umbrella over
his
head, but if she did that, great cold drips of water would run down the umbrella’s ribs onto her shoulder and ear. She wasn’t contrary enough for that, even to see the thwarted look on his face. She tucked the handle into the crook of her elbow so she could cradle the cabbage and wrapped-up herrings in her arms. “I’ll never need a stepladder when you’re around.”

He set off towards home without asking what she meant. No doubt with that height, he took her meaning at once; people must ask him to fetch things off high shelves all the time.

“Are you from London, then?” she asked, nearly dancing along in the luxurious freedom of walking home from market without rain in her face and a heavy basket dragging at her arm.
It’s not so bad
, she always thought, and then the last fifty feet were an agony that drove her to bargain with God.

He gave her a startled look. “My parents are the butler and cook at Tassell Hall.”

The Tassell family seat was near Chichester, if she remembered aright. As far off as London, but in nearly the opposite direction. “I’d never guess you were from Sussex.” What a shame! A homey burr would sound wonderful with that voice.

He didn’t answer.

“You’ve been to London, though, haven’t you?”

“I’ve accompanied my gentlemen there on many occasions, yes.”

“What’s it like?”

He considered. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, narrowly missing his jutting nose. She didn’t understand why desire coiled hot in her belly at the sight. Somehow, she liked that he wasn’t looking at her, that his amber eyes were focused like a hawk’s in another direction entirely. “Loud. Sooty.”

She waited, but that was all. “You aren’t much helping me, are you?”

That seemed to strike him as funny. His forehead smoothed out and the corners of his mouth tucked in, hiding a smile. “I’m carrying your basket.”

“So you are,” she agreed, delighted anew by his unexpected willingness to joke. “I meant at making conversation.”

“My apologies. Perhaps I might carry the groceries, and you might carry the conversation?”

What could she talk about all the way home that wouldn’t require his participation? “I could tell you a fairy story, if you like.”

His smile peeked out. “I don’t believe in fairies.”

“See if any help in
your
kitchen, then.”

“Do they help in yours?”

She laughed. “I like to think so. There’s
something
lives in my kitchen, anyways. It’s forever moving the teaspoon from where I set it, and blowing on the coals, and drinking the last few drops of rosewater.”

“Perhaps you’d do better without it.”

“Hush! My bread would never rise again.”

He eyed her, trying to decide if she meant it. He thought her a stupid country girl, that much was plain.

“Too clever and modern for your own good, aren’t you?” she said. “You’ll believe in God, I suppose, but nothing else out of the common way?” The thought struck her that maybe his chivalry wasn’t chivalry at all, but courting. Maybe he thought her so far beneath him, he could ask her for a tumble without it hardly being an insult.

Had she been foolish, treating him friendly? She had to go into his rooms to clean them, and Mrs. Pengilly was going deaf. If he guessed she’d been happily imagining him poking her, he’d never believe she didn’t want him to really do it.

His only reaction to the edge in her voice was a slight raising of his brows. “At Tassell Hall,” he said drily, “maidservants who excel at their work sometimes find that the fairies have placed a silver coin in their shoe.”

That was aimed at her, she supposed. He’d put her down as lazy, only because she’d left some dust in an empty set of rooms. Here she was suspecting him of designs on her virtue, and he lectured her like a disobedient child. The wash of relief left Sukey deflated. “Because raising a girl’s wages would be too simple,” she muttered.

“I see you’ve guessed the stratagem. It’s an open secret that my mother distributes the coins at Lady Tassell’s behest, but the custom is cheaper than raising wages, and results in a deal more gratitude.”

Mrs. Humphrey also set great store by gratitude, so long as it was other people’s to her. Sukey tightened her grip on the cabbage. Mrs. Humphrey would inspect all her purchases when she got them home, and ask how much she’d paid. Her mistress wasn’t a bad woman, just a nipcheese, but Sukey wished she was more grateful for her maid-of-all-work’s forbearance.

“Here we are,” she said, in a worse mood than when she’d left. “Thanks for the help. I’ll see you Friday.” She held out his umbrella.

He gave a slight bow. “Thank you for the company. I’ll carry this into the house for you, if you like.”

She glanced towards the front windows of the boarding house. The curtains were shut for warmth, but that didn’t mean no one was peering through. In the wintertime Mrs. Humphrey kept a meager fire in the parlor, and the boarders crowded in. “My mistress wouldn’t like it.”

He handed the basket over without argument, settling the umbrella on his shoulder as if he weren’t already wet through. “Until Friday, then.”

Sukey went in, setting the herring on the table. She rifled through the basket as she heaved it up after, to see what needed drying off.

“Who was that man you were dawdling outside talking to?” Mrs. Humphrey demanded behind her.

Sukey jumped and dropped the cabbage. Heart racing, she caught it inches from the ground and rose, clutching it to her bosom, shoving the teetering basket more securely onto the table with her shoulder. Mrs. Humphrey made the sound that caused her friends to sometimes call her Mrs. Harrumph behind her back. “Got a guilty conscience, have you?”

“No, ma’am. I beg your pardon, but you startled me.” Sukey set the cabbage down and began laying the vegetables out on the table.

“I suppose that
man
is why you’re late coming home from market. All my ladies remarked on it. Remember that this is a respectable house, and your behavior reflects upon all of us. Mrs. Stickles on Forest Road told me she was obliged to let her girl go, only for drinking a pint of ale with a footman staying at the Lost Bell.”

Sukey would lay odds that if any of the boarders had remarked on it, it was only to note that Mr. Toogood was handsome. But she swallowed
I didn’t dawdle outside even a bit.
She
had
waited at the market. What if someone had seen her and mentioned it to Mrs. Humphrey? She’d have to say she hadn’t wanted the groceries to get wet, and likely Mrs. Humphrey would point out that a little water never hurt a cabbage yet.

She’d ought to have come straight home. Why did prudent thoughts always come when it was too late to do any good? One of these days the boarding-house mistress would stop gloatingly hinting at giving her the sack, and do it. Before Sukey, she’d never kept a maid past six months. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I tried to be as quick as I could. That was Mrs. Pengilly’s new lodger I was speaking to, who used to be Mr. Dymond’s valet.”

Mrs. Humphrey’s eyes narrowed. “And you’ll be tidying up for him?”

“Yes, ma’am, as he lodges with Mrs. Pengilly.”

“Lent you his umbrella, did he?”

“Yes, ma’am. He seems a very polite fellow.”

Mrs. Humphrey turned a potato over in her hands, checking for sprouts. “Well, be careful, girl. He was giving you the eye. Men never do favors for free, and Mrs. Pengilly is deaf as an adder.”

The general tang of fear in the kitchen turned sharp and metallic, slicing Sukey’s throat as she breathed in. “I’m afraid I was thinking the same thing, ma’am.”

Mrs. Humphrey set down her potato with a thump. “Wait here.” She returned with a large wooden rattle of the sort carried by the constable and night watchman. “Take this with you. I’ll listen for it.”

Tears pricked at Sukey’s eyes.
Don’t be a sap,
she told herself, but it was no good. She felt grateful. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s very kind of you.”

Her mistress harrumphed and picked up the next potato.

* * *

Sukey let herself into Mrs. Pengilly’s kitchen just after dawn on Friday, yawning.

“Good morning, Miss Grimes.”

Sukey, half-asleep, nearly dropped her basket. At this hour Mrs. Dymond would be in bed with the covers over her head. But Mr. Toogood stood wide awake at the kitchen table, fine clothes covered by a truly enormous apron, rolling out dough in his shirtsleeves.

How would she have explained it if Mrs. Humphrey’s rattle had spilled out from under her dusters and rags? “Good morning, Mr. Toogood.”

He’d swept out the hearth and laid a good strong fire. “I know you normally do some cooking for Mrs. Pengilly and her lodger, but as I’m at loose ends, I’ve arranged to do that while I’m here. I’ve cleaned my rooms too, so when you’re done with hers, if you’ll come down here perhaps we can give her kitchen a…” His eyes smiled and that eyebrow curled a little. “A spring cleaning.”

He was waiting for her to tease,
But it’s November.
Yet her heart dripped down into her boots, that he was poking around doing her work better than she could and thinking to himself that
she
ought to do it better. To top it off, he looked crisp as a new banknote, and she’d barely remembered to comb her hair before jamming her cap on her head.

She turned away, pretending to fuss with the tie of her bonnet, and wiped sleep from the corners of her eyes. “There’s only so much you can do in two part-days a week.” Too early for archness, her words came out sullen as an infant. Sukey dwelt longingly on her pallet and blanket. “Mrs. Pengilly’s never complained.”

He faltered in his rolling. “I didn’t mean to offend. I thought it would be something nice to do for her, and spring cleaning is always more cheerful with company.”

She supposed that was all right. “Spring cleaning is never cheerful,” she said, more to give him the chance to contradict her than because it was true. She’d never admit to it—getting excited about your work was for shoelickers like John Toogood, Gentleman’s Gentleman—but spring cleaning was almost like a holiday, wasn’t it?

He scraped up his dough and lifted it gingerly into the pie plate. “It used to be my favorite time of year at Tassell Hall.”

“Better than Christmas?”

His eyes widened a fraction of an inch to signify being appalled. She didn’t understand how he made that so droll. “Do you have any idea how drafty a country house is in December?”

“None at all.” But she snickered about it all the way up the stairs, rich folk freezing their bums off in houses too big and gleaming for sense.

Sukey was unsurprised, when Mrs. Pengilly rose from her bed, to discover that she was charmed by her new lodger too. “A fine figure of a man, isn’t he?” The old woman’s eyes sparkled. “So tall.”

Sukey winked at her. “He’s got his coat off in the kitchen. Or he did an hour ago.”

Mrs. Pengilly cackled happily. “Miss Starling told me he carried your basket home from the market.”

All my ladies remarked on it
,
Mrs. Humphrey’d said. Miss Starling didn’t mean any harm, but Sukey would thank her to mind her own business. She waved a hand. “You know men. Never forgo an opportunity to show off.”

“Yes, for a girl they fancy.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” But part of her wanted to ask,
Has he said anything about me to you?

“He’s not as strong as my Harry was,” Mrs. Pengilly said with satisfaction. “Harry could carry me from here to the Market Cross and not get tired.”

Sukey laughed. “I expect there’s less call to be lifting barrels in valeting.” Harry Pengilly used to say he worked in shipping, but everybody knew he was a smuggler. Sukey still remembered her father pulling her close when they passed him in the street, whispering to her not to stare at his broken nose.

A knock came at the door. “It’s Mr. Toogood. I’ve brought you a slice of onion pie.”

Mrs. Pengilly beamed. “An excellent cook, that young man,” she confided loudly to Sukey.