Not Quite Darcy (4 page)

Chapter Four

Eliza collapsed on her bed.

Wash day sucked, big time. She'd spent most of her day in the laundry area, stuffed into the darkest corner of the smoky basement kitchen. Her hands were red and cracked from the harsh soap and her arms ached.

Her day had been occupied with wrestling armloads of damp cloth in and out of a series of large metal tubs. Then she had to smack them around with a complicated wooden device called a dolly before wringing everything out in the appropriately named wrangler. Finally, she lugged the wet mass of material upstairs to hang on the maze of line strung across the back porch.

She'd never been much of a fan of physical labor. During her brief foray into college life, she'd participated in a 5K run and afterward could barely lift a coffee cup for days. She never thought she'd never feel such pain again. If only she'd known about wash day.

After an hour of lying like a slug and staring at the ceiling, Eliza pulled herself up. With shaking arms, she reached out to open the leather-bound satchel on the floor by the foot of her bed. She emptied the small bag, then placed its meager contents into her wardrobe. Her inventory consisted of two uniforms, a dress, a nightgown, a robe and some antique toiletries.

A neatly folded bit of paper lay at the very bottom of the satchel. Something from Lancaster and York, no doubt. She unfolded it, anticipating instructions or perhaps a note of encouragement—only to be disappointed. The note simply listed three rules:

Time is short. Make it count

Form no lasting attachments

Tell no one where you are from

“Thanks for nothing, boys,” she muttered at the ceiling. She crumpled the paper into a wad and tossed it under the bed.

Darkness had nearly claimed the room, but she ached all over and didn't have the energy to light the gas lamps. Too bone-weary to worry about changing out of her slightly damp maid's dress, she fell back onto her bed, curled herself into a ball and willed herself to unconsciousness.

Sleep was not her friend, however. Though her muscles were exhausted, her mind was wide awake. Her head burst with questions about her mission and recriminations over her decision to come here in the first place.

A dim glow crept under her door frame. Curious, she pulled herself out of bed and slipped into the hall.

The corridor was surprisingly dark, but a wavering glow from around the corner provided enough illumination to navigate, and she went toward the source. Light spilled from the center of the three doorways lined up along front of the house. Since the door was wide open, she peered around the frame.

Eliza was delighted by what she saw. A small but comfy-looking room absolutely lined with books. A library. Well, a very small library, but full of reading material all the same. Just the thing her overly wired mind had been craving.

As she entered, she noticed another door that connected to a room to the south. A bedroom, she supposed. Since the southern door was closed, however, Eliza had this charming little hideaway all to herself. She grinned widely. Lovely shining brass gas lamps glowed warmly, illuminating the rows and rows of books lining the shelves along the walls and the floor featured a bright blue floral carpet. Against the back wall, in the center of the room, a large desk was piled with stacks of papers and ledgers.

Best of all, in one corner two bright green armchairs were tucked against an end table. The perfect spot for a restless Eliza to read a genuine Victorian romance. She forgot wet piles of laundry and aching arms in an instant. This was the nineteenth century, exactly as she imagined it.

Eliza didn't know why this room was welcoming and brightly lit. She didn't have the slightest clue if she should be there. But…it was. And she was. And it was time to treat herself.

She began to look through the books on the shelves. So many titles. So many names. Shakespeare, Milton, Locke, Darwin. The Browns had varied tastes to say the least. Science, poetry, novels. She snatched a volume promisingly titled
Valentine
by George Sand and curled up in one of the green wingbacks that had looked so appealing.

She tucked her legs up under the skirt, then perched the book on her knees. As she cracked it open the warm familiarity of falling into a book graced her with comfort few things could.

The pages were loaded with complex language, which took a bit of work to dig through. Still, with concentration, the words provided the kind of diversion she'd craved. It really wasn't her fault, she'd reason later, that she was oblivious to someone entering the room.

“Bessie.” William's voice shattered the silence like a brick through a window.

“Shit!” Eliza shouted, dropping the book to the floor.

His mouth fell open and his eyes widened. After a moment's recovery, he closed the door.

“My mother is asleep in the next room,” he said, his voice low and concerned.

“Well, somebody ought to rig you up with a collar and a bell.” Eliza's unclenched her fists and took a steadying breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I was just saying that you surprised me.”

“May I ask what you are doing here?” He bit his bottom lip, then continued. “That is, I mean to say, are you feeling unwell?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know this room was off limits. I thought I'd read, you know, a book.”

“Off limits?” he repeated, seeming stunned. Then he looked at her, his tone incredulous. “You read?”

“Well yes, I was reading. Until you came in here and scared the living snot out of me.” She was in a strange state—a combination of exhaustion and fright. It appeared that her ability to speak in a Victorian style was the first thing to go. A properly subservient attitude also seemed to have abandoned ship. Not that either of these were too firmly entrenched to begin with.

William shook his head. “It's most surprising that someone of your station reads.”

“I can also pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time. It's a real show stopper.” She was far too tired to keep pretending to be someone else. Tired of being talked down to, and mucking out laundry and getting skeptical looks every time she spoke. But—damn her mouth—she really ought to …

“I beg your pardon?” he asked. His face was a mask of puzzlement.

“I should go to bed, Will—Mr. Brown.” She stood on shaking legs.

“No, Bessie, please I…” He hesitated. “I meant no disrespect to you at all. I do not intend to offend, I assure you. I simply was unaware that you had the ability to read. I think it most impressive.”

Should she bow? Toss him another curtsy? This was exhausting. She opted for a nod and moved toward the doorway. “Thank you, Mr. Brown.”

He leaned down to retrieve the book she'd dropped. His eyes widened in surprise. “
Valentine
, is it? And how do you find George Sand?”

“Oh, I found him pretty easily. Right over there in the massive poetry section. At the beginning of the ‘S' authors.”

“I mean to say, do you enjoy Sand's work?” He tilted his head toward her.

Eliza made a conscious effort to use words that didn't sound quite so twenty-first century. “Well, I've not read much of him and the language can be a little bit of work to get around, but yes, I like him. He seems to be a bit of a rebel.”

“Indeed.” William chuckled. “Mr. Sand was a pen name for a most scandalous woman by the name of Armandine Dupin. Most females object to the works on moral grounds.”

“Well, you didn't seem to mind either. It was in your library.”

“Point taken.” William handed the book back to her, briefly meeting her eyes.

“Someone's pretty fond of poetry. Is it you, Mr. Brown?” When the conversation turned to being obsessed with a genre of books, Eliza felt on much more solid ground.

“Oh, yes!” William plucked a slim red volume from the shelf. “Library is a bit poetry-heavy, I'll confess. I adore the writings of Elizabeth Browning. She wrote a poem about George Sand, actually. Are you familiar with Browning?”

This poetry fanboy version of him was such a long walk from the stuffy Englishman that she giggled. The effect was devastating. Upon hearing her laughter, the warmth on his face evaporated in an instant. He snapped the mask of properly repressed English gentleman into its usual place and nodded curtly.

 “Oh!” Eliza stammered, awkwardly. How could he have gotten her response so wrong? She hadn't been mocking him. “No, I wasn't laughing about Elizabeth Browning. I was just unfamiliar with her, to be honest. My education about poets is pretty uneven. I was never the best student.”

Silence spun out. William's fingers drummed against the spine of the Browning book.

“I like poetry,” Eliza lied.

After a moment, he cleared his throat, but said nothing more. He simply stood there with his eyes downcast, waiting for her to leave.

“I have quite a few favorite poets myself,” she added, trying desperately to subdue the proper Englishman and sneak another glimpse of the stranger who'd just begun to emerge. If her mission here centered around William, getting to know him would be a priority, after all.

“Who do you favor, Bessie?” His blue eyes gazed from behind his spectacles. He looked…shy. Vulnerable, even.

“Who do I favor?” she repeated.

“Which poets do you enjoy?”

Her mind was a blank page. Just white nothingness.
A poet, Eliza. A name of a poet. Anybody here. Just name someone. Anyone.
Desperate, she glommed onto the only poetlike person she could quote with any kind of reliability. “Kurt Cobain,” she heard herself say.
Oh brilliant. Fucking brilliant, Eliza.
The only remnant from her short-lived retro-grunge phase was Nirvana lyrics.

“I must admit, I'm quite unfamiliar with Mr. Cobain,” William replied.

“Oh, he's terrific. Not big with the thees and thous, but gets to the heart of it all the same.”

He looked at her, a slight smile tugging up the corners of his mouth as he watched her.

“Would you do me the favor of a recitation? Have you a line or two from Mr. Cobain?”

She met his eyes. He wasn't testing her. He was actually warming to her a bit, relaxing his guard.

“Certainly. Love to share one of his poems with you. Let me just think here.” She ran through a litany of Nirvana lyrics.
Smells Like Teen Spirit
 was definitely going to be out. Ditto: 
Rape Me.

Coming up with precious little, she had no choice. Staring at the carpet for courage, she launched into the lyrics of
About a Girl
.

It wasn't Victorian poetry, but talked about needing an easy friend. When she got to the line about him fitting the shoe and asking if he had a clue, she dared to look up.

William simply stared at her—a stunned expression on his face.

She stopped quoting lyrics and smiled at him. “I'm afraid I don't remember the rest.”

He smiled weakly. “Very uh, striking. Extremely unusual use of language. Is he an American poet, then?”

“Oh, yes. From Seattle.”

A wide grin broke out on his face. “Seattle has poets? What a charming surprise. I had envisioned nothing but fish and lumber.”

“That's America for you. Full of surprises.” She edged past him, making her way toward the door before her mouth could land her into any deeper trouble.

“Your references from Mr. Lancaster say that you hail from California, as I recall.”

“Yes, I'm from a town near Los Angeles,” she said.

“I see.” He nodded politely. “But you were born in England.”

“Just like it says in my papers.”

His fingers traced the binding of the book as he watched her with curious eyes. His expression was impossible to decipher. Was it merely an employer wondering about an employee kind of question? Was it a guy wondering if he had a psycho maid in his library at midnight?

“Where is it your people are from? That is to say, from which part of England?”

Eliza gulped. What a horrible question. She couldn't say London, because he would be able to tell right away that she had no knowledge of the city whatsoever. She had to think of a location far removed from civilization. Some kind of English equivalent to what Americans would call The Boondocks.

She wracked her brain for some obscure location. Any rural-sounding place at all. “The Shire,” Eliza said with a tone that made it almost sound like a question. “My people come from the Shire.” Sure, it was in
Lord of the Rings
 but only because Tolkien was referring to a real place. Right? Unless hobbits were invented in the post-Victorian era. God, this was exhausting.

“Which shire do you mean?”

Under usual circumstances, she might be able to name half a dozen English locales with “shire” in the title. Romance novels were full of them. Circumstances were most unusual, unfortunately. In her current panicked state, her mind was a blank slate. Damn those Repairmen, for getting her into this. Damn Lancaster and…

“York! Shire. Yorkshire!”

Her burst of enthusiasm seemed to hit him broadside and he looked at the floor. A lock of brown hair fell across his eyes and he brushed it away absent-mindedly. “Ah, lovely. My uncle hails from Yorkshire and I've spent a great deal of time up north. Might I inquire what area of Yorkshire are you from?”

Eliza sucked in another deep breath. Conversation about her life was a friggin' minefield and she seemed to be stepping in all the wrong places. Name of a town in Yorkshire. Any British-sounding name here. Romance novels talked a lot about Gretna Green, but she was fairly certain that was in Scotland. The only solidly English town name she could recall in her muddled state was Shakespeare's birthplace: Stratford-Upon-Avon.

“Yorkshire-Upon-Pudding,” Eliza blurted.

He looked at her, stunned.