Not Quite Darcy (3 page)

“About that—” York began before Lancaster cut him off by dumping a small satchel into Eliza's lap.

“You should be off, then,” Lancaster said, urging Eliza to her feet.

“Like this?” Eliza swept her hands toward her short skirt and pumps.

York took the satchel from her hands. “We've readied appropriate clothing for you. If you would kindly retire to our water closet? It's just behind the curio cabinet.”

Eliza stepped past the gentlemen to find a sparkling, but very small, bathroom. She closed the door. Hanging on a hook just behind the door was a terrible letdown. If the lovely green gown in the window had an exact opposite, this dress was it. Plain black with the slightest hint of white trim. It felt like revenge for getting the dress so cheap.

Once she removed the disappointing dress, she found a few linen items hanging up as well. Her “underwear” consisted of pantaloons, which she turned inside out twice before getting right. They featured a split crotch and, once on, were far breezier than underwear had a right to be. On the plus side, bras seemed to be out, in favor of camisoles. She slipped into the new clothes as quickly as possible, mostly because she was afraid that if she took too long, she might change her mind about the whole adventure. The buttons were terribly difficult to fasten—she was only glad that the dress was of the front-buttoning sort.

After slipping on stockings and then forcing her feet into some boots—and struggling with more buttons—she tied her hair into a quick bun and attached the horribly unattractive bonnet.

She looked at herself in the mirror and winced. Just last week, she'd splashed out a hundred and fifty bucks for highlights—all for nothing. Scrunched into the bun, her hair had never looked worse.

She folded her former outfit into a tidy pile and left the bathroom. Her skirt rustled in a way that was going to be very hard to get used to.

“Am I in mourning or something? Because this outfit is chock full of
eww
.”

Lancaster flared his nostrils as though he'd just stepped in something foul. York gave her a grandfatherly pat and handed her the satchel. The moment she had it in hand, Lancaster grasped her arm, and squired her toward the mirror.

“Don't give a girl a chance to catch her breath, do you?”

“Time truly is of the essence here, Miss Pepper,” Lancaster said.

“But…what about my accent? Isn't it going to weird them out to have this American woman show up as Lady of the Manor?”

Lancaster exchanged a quick look with York, then dropped his gaze. “We've found a way to explain that. It's all here.” Lancaster thrust a neat stack of folded papers into her hands. He nudged her a little closer toward the mirror. Her shoes made squishing sounds from the small pool that had collected around its base.

“Though your American-ness will explain much, it won't cover a multitude of sins,” Lancaster cautioned. “Choose your words carefully and have a care to blend in, Miss Pepper. Remember the simple rules we've given you and you should be able to accomplish your mission without incident.”

“Sure. Right. The mission that you can't tell me about. Got it.”

York stepped toward her and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You'll do splendidly. I have a very good feeling about you.”

Eliza turned back toward the mirror. The mist from the surface had dampened the hem at the front of her dress. She took another step closer, then had a rather urgent thought and spun back around to face York. “How will I get home?”

“Click your heels together three times and say ‘there's no place like home,'” York intoned seriously.

“You're shitting me,” Eliza burst.

Lancaster looked affronted while York collapsed into laughter. “Sorry, dear. I couldn't resist. You see I—”

Lancaster interrupted his partner and gestured toward the mirror and the ever-growing damp puddle on the carpet. “You'll return to us in the same manner by which you leave us. When the time is right, we will make the mirror evident to you.”

Eliza nodded and gripped the bag tightly. She stepped toward the mirror and the toes of her boots scraped against the gilt-edged frame, scuffing it slightly.

“I'm scared to death, to be honest,” she admitted, staring at the shimmering scene before her. “What if I can't figure out what my mission is supposed to be?”

“Even a child from your time would know what to do when the situation arises.” Lancaster made it sound more like an insult than reassurance.

She felt York step beside her. He hesitated for a moment, then wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tucked his head near her ear. He smelled like peppermint and aftershave. In the brief instant, he whispered in her ear, “Have an eye to any Americans you might come across. And
William
is your key to the—”

“Archibald?” Lancaster snapped. “Less said the better.”

“Yes, yes. Very well.” York ended the embrace and shot Eliza a guilty grin.

Despite her rapidly ebbing confidence, Eliza returned his smile and lifted one foot cautiously. She hesitated for only a moment, then ducked her head down.

Feeling the need to say something, anything, at such a momentous occasion, she went with her old standby. It had served her well when jumping off the high dive and when riding on
Tropic Terror
at the amusement park, and under the circumstances, she could think of nothing better.

“Geronimo!”

Eliza stepped through the mirror.

Chapter Three

As Eliza stepped through the frame, a series of small shocks jolted her—as though miniature electric eels were crawling over her skin. A strong
whooshing
sensation lifted her up and through the mirror. The ground beneath her feet turned gelatinous, then quickly grew solid, throwing her equilibrium off. She lifted her arms, prepared to fall, when she suddenly felt the world right itself and her balance returned.

A nondescript brick wall filled her vision when she looked back. The antique shop was gone.

At first, she was unsure of what do to, then she looked to her left hand, which held the tidy stack of papers. Reluctant to place the satchel on the wet sidewalk, she unfolded the papers by shaking her hand violently. At the top of the first sheet was an address written in a looping script.

Mr. William Brown, 17 Archimedes Road, Hampstead
.

She stuffed the slightly dampened papers into her satchel and scanned the row of stately Victorian homes lined up on the street before her. Brass numbers gleamed on brightly painted front doors, and the sidewalks were adorned with tidy flower beds. She smiled to herself when she found she stood directly in front of number seventeen. It looked to be new, the deep-red brick set off by bright blue trim. How easy it was to imagine the sort of man who would live in such a tasteful home. He'd have jet black hair and a chiseled chin. Though his prideful manner might put off a more timid sort, he would only be waiting for the right woman to see through his haughty exterior.

Eliza hopped up the steps, lifted the door knocker and rapped three times. After several long moments, a large, matronly woman creaked the door open. She was dressed in black much as Eliza herself and eyed her with a stern glare. She had to be the housekeeper.

“You're Miss Pepper?”

Eliza nodded and flashed her most winning smile. It had absolutely no effect.

“We were expecting you at nine o'clock,” the woman snapped. “It's five past that now.”

Unsure of what to say, Eliza gave her a blank look.

“The agency sent the correct paperwork along with you?”

“Of course,” Eliza assured.

“Very well, follow me.”

The housekeeper whirled around. Eliza slipped inside, shut the door and tucked in behind the woman as she marched across the large foyer. The folds of her voluminous skirt rippled like the wake of a ship.

Stopping before a door that was slightly ajar, the housekeeper gave two sharp raps. Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and stepped into the room.

“Sir, the girl from the agency has arrived. Would you like to see her now?”

“Ah, yes,” a quiet voice replied. “Thank you, Mrs. MacLaughlin.”

The housekeeper stepped aside, allowing Eliza entrance. Upon seeing the room, she had to stifle a little squeal of joy. It was a Victorian parlor, exactly as she'd always imagined it would be. Thick draperies covered the windows. Misty scenes of the English countryside graced the walls. As a finishing touch, plushly upholstered furniture filled the room to the point of bursting.

The only thing missing was a tall, brooding Englishman. Eliza scanned the parlor hopefully.

The only man in the room was a disappointment. Though his features were pleasant—if anything a little too fine—he was distinctly un-Darcy-esque with his tweed suit and an unruly tumble of brown hair. His eyes were blue, but hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He walked toward them, stopping directly in front of Eliza.

She felt two pairs of eyes boring into her before she realized that she was expected to curtsy. She bent both knees outward, giving her a bow-legged appearance and frantically executed what was, by her estimation, one of the more awkward curtsies in the history of manners.

Regardless, it seemed to have passed muster, because Mrs. MacLaughlin stopped giving Eliza the stink eye. “Mr. William Brown, this is Bessie Pepper.”

Eliza winced. She supposed she'd have to blend in with the time, but Bessie? Really? Since they were still looking at her, she bobbed another curtsy for good measure. This time she coordinated her knees so they didn't pop out at odd angles.

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Brown said.

“I shall just leave you then, sir.” Mrs. MacLaughlin gave Eliza a final skeptical glance before exiting the room.

William Brown gestured toward the small settee before returning to his chair by the fire.

“Have a seat, please.”

Eliza settled herself, placing her hands primly on her lap. Interview, was it? So she wasn't to be a debutante, introduced to the London Ton. Apparently, she was some sort of governess. A
Jane Eyre
kind of thing. Perhaps he was interviewing her for his brooding, widowed brother who lived on a windswept moor. A disappointment, but she could roll with it.

She flashed Mr. Brown a broad smile, and he looked away with discomfort. Eliza bit her lip, remembering to rein herself in a bit more.
Olde-tyme
Englishmen were less about smiling and more about stiff upper lips. She schooled her mouth into a firm line and tried to look as severe as possible.

“Do you have paperwork with you, Miss Pepper? Mr. Lancaster wrote that you would bring it with you. However, I can certainly arrange to see him regarding the matter.”

“No, I've got it here.” She opened her satchel and retrieved the slightly damp stack of papers. She handed them to Mr. Brown, who accepted them with a nod. He took his time, thoroughly reading each sheet before returning the tidy pile.

“Well, you come most highly recommended, but I suspect you knew that.”

She nodded, reminding her upper lip to remain immovable.

“And born in England, yet you've spent the last twelve years in America?”

“Just as it says in the papers, sir.” She gave herself a mental pat on the back for remembering the
sir
bit. She was pretty sure that governesses did a bit of
sirring
and
ma'aming
.

“And I assume that Mr. Lancaster has filled you in on the details of your position here?”

“Not exactly.”

“No? He thought you rather ideally suited to it. I understand your previous employer's situation was very similar to my mother's.”

“Situation?”

“My mother has the consumption.” He dragged his words out and his eyes remained trained on the carpet.

Romance novels were full of characters ill with consumption, or as they called it in the twenty-first century, tuberculosis. As she remembered, it was also fatal.

“I'm sorry.” Her tone was so genuine that Mr. Brown gave her a startled glance. His blue eyes widened behind his spectacles before he dropped his gaze back to the carpet.

“Mr. Lancaster proclaims you to be most diligent. And I assure you, since I prefer to tend to Mother myself, your primary duties will be those of a maid.”

Maid? Governess would have been disappointing. Nurse would have been worse, if only because she was clueless about modern medical stuff, let alone anything Victorian. But a maid? It was like Lancaster and York were making her the butt of a cosmic version of
Punk'd
. Those bastards. And York especially had seemed so nice.

“Bessie?” Mr. Brown gave her a questioning look, and it was only then that Eliza realized her mouth was gaping open like a carp at feeding time. She snapped her jaw closed and nodded at him,

“Ideally, you could have trained under your predecessor for a few weeks, but the situation being what it is, I suppose we'll have to muddle through. You may confer with me regarding any medical questions, certainly. And with Mrs. McLaughlin or Dora regarding any of your maid duties.”

She offered him a weak smile. Under the circumstances, it was the best she could do.

“You're to have Fanny's old room. Mrs. MacLaughlin has moved her things out. Perhaps it's best to spend today acquainting yourself with the running of the household. Tomorrow, I shall introduce you to Mother.”

Eliza nodded, too numb for words.

“And this is something of an awkward situation, but I must ask for an indulgence,” he said. “I'd like to keep my mother sheltered from the circumstances surrounding Fanny's departure. Mother is to avoid undue stress. Let us simply say that Fanny left our employ and leave it at that. I'm sure you understand.”

Eliza understood exactly nothing, but she nodded her head just the same. Keeping Fanny's details to herself would be no problem at all, since she didn't have the slightest idea herself. In fact, shutting up about Fanny was the one task in this whole messy situation that she felt confident she could do well.

As if on cue, two sharp raps sounded at the door and Mrs. MacLaughlin reentered.

“Would you be wanting more tea, sir?”

“Oh, no thank you. I believe we're finished here.”

He turned toward Eliza and gave her the hint of a correctly formal smile. It did not reach his eyes. “Welcome to the household, Bessie. I'll let Mrs. MacLaughlin settle you in now.”

“Okay,” Eliza mumbled, earning a pair of startled glances from William and Mrs. MacLaughlin.

Before she managed to stuff her foot farther down her throat, she spun around and scurried toward the door where the housekeeper waited.

Mrs. MacLaughlin closed the door behind them and gave Eliza an apprising glare. “I wanted to interview you myself, you know. Most unusual, having the master himself see to you. He's very particular about his mother, you understand. Wants to assure himself she'll be getting the best care.”

Eliza nodded noncommittally.

“So you go on upstairs. Dora will be finishing up the bedchambers. You should assist her.”

“Dora?” Eliza asked.

“Our housemaid. She's waiting for you upstairs.”

Unsure if she should curtsy, nod or salute the stern woman, Eliza opted for none of the above and began climbing the stairs.

“Not
these
stairs!” Mrs. MacLaughlin's tone was affronted. “The rear ones.” She shook her head in disgust. “I never—”

With a sigh, Eliza slipped down the hallway and navigated her way toward the back of the house. She creaked up the narrow stairway, which emptied into a wide hall covered in gold brocade wallpaper. The dark wooden floorboards gleamed and she stepped carefully. Falling on her ass due to the freshly polished wood would be the cherry on the cake of her day.

After passing several doors, she came to the front of the house—where William Brown and his mother lived, she assumed. A plump redheaded girl who couldn't be a day over sixteen was busy stuffing linens into a basket and humming to herself. When she looked up to see Eliza, she beamed a friendly smile.

“You must be Bessie.”

“So they tell me,” Eliza said.

Dora stared for a moment, then chuckled. “You're not a serious sort at all, are you? And you really are an American? Ooh, this'll be an adventure. Come and help me take the sheets downstairs and we can have a good chat over the laundry. But have a mind to keep as quiet as you can on account of the missus.” She tilted her head toward the closed door on the left.

The girl led the way down the hall. Just before they turned for the back stairs, Dora set her basket down in front of the last door on the right. “You can tuck your bag in there. Was Fanny's room. Will be yours now. No sleeping in the attic quarters for you.”

“Is that where you sleep, Dora?”

“Oh, no. I go home at night. All of us do. Mrs. MacLaughlin, Davy and me. Our mister is a very modern sort of employer.” The maid nodded proudly, as if the staff sleeping in their own homes was some kind of breakthrough for the working man, on par with abolishing serfdom.

Eliza pulled on the latch and stepped into the room. It was compact and sparsely furnished with a small bed, a table and a mismatched wardrobe in the corner. Light streamed in from an oval window, which looked out on the rear garden.

“Don't know how this compares to how they do things in America, but I must say, it's a quite posh room, this is.”

“It's lovely.” Eliza placed her bag at the foot of the bed and turned toward the girl.

“What happened to the girl who used to have this room?”

“Fanny?” Dora asked.

Eliza nodded.

“Well, she took off with a lad she met at the market. Was a farmer from down Sussex way. Up and married the fellow. Left service behind entirely from what I hear tell of it.”

How odd. William Brown referred to Fanny as though she'd engaged in some kind of scandalous behavior. Eliza's romances had rarely touched on the lives of the servants. A little fact that was leaving her woefully unprepared in what might be expected of her.

“We're not to talk about Fanny's departure with Mrs. Brown,” Dora urged.

“Yes, William mentioned that.”

“Who?” Dora wore a shocked expression.

“I mean to say Mr. Brown.”

“Good lord, Bessie! He's modern, but he's not—”

“I know, Dora. I know. It's just been a really long day. You have no idea.”

“I'm afraid your lot's not about to improve. Monday's wash day and we've got all behind now Fanny's gone. We should hurry downstairs and get on with it.”

Eliza shoved her trepidation to the back of her mind and went downstairs, toward whatever primeval versions of Tide and Maytag awaited her in the laundry room.