Not Quite Darcy (6 page)

“What's a Dollar Princess?”

Dora raised her brows at Eliza. “You know—them rich heiresses that come over here to snap up an English husband. Don't they call them that back in America?”

“Ah, no.” Eliza jostled the bag of soot and a little puff of ash escaped into the air.

“If you ask me,” Dora said in a low tone, “I fear Mr. Brown isn't going to do so well with the Dollar Princesses. Them ladies are looking for titled gentlemen and our Master is just a mister.”

Finished with sweeping, Dora scooted the grate back into place. When she looked over at Eliza, she grinned. “You're a mess, Bessie.”

Eliza lifted a fingertip to her cheek. When she pulled it away, it was covered in ash. “Disgusting and gray? Just like breakfast.”

Dora stifled a giggle. “I'll put these in the bin. Can you just get the feather dusters? They're in the closet by the stairs.”

By the time Dora returned, Eliza was industriously whisking a duster over a scalloped corner table. “Do I just dust the tops or go all out—legs and everything.”

“Bessie!” Dora wore a shocked expression.

“What'd I say this time?”

“We're to dust everything, the limbs as well.”

“Limbs? Good god. I can't say ‘legs'?”

“Well, it's not considered proper, exactly.”

“I just…wow.” Noticing the concerned look Dora was giving her, Eliza smiled. “We did things differently where I'm from, that's all.” She knew Victorians were uptight, but this was taking things to a Prude All Star level. With a sigh, she went back to dusting.

Chapter Seven

William sat alone in the corner of the Alexander Club's library. Though rain pattered a steady rhythm against the walls, it was quite cozy inside. A fire crackled in the corner, illuminating the book-lined walls and rich brocade draperies framed the windows. The library was his favorite room at the club. Well, it was his only room at the club. His Mother would have been crushed had she known that his “social connections” consisted primarily of men like William Shakespeare and William Blake. As they'd long been in the grave, their acquaintance would likely do little to promote the Brown family's social aspirations.

After nearly a month away, he should have felt a terrific comfort to find himself sliding back into his routine. He'd been back for a few days now. Why did he feel such an overwhelming sense of disquiet? Of unease?

A light smattering of raindrops struck the window, pulling his attention away from his book.

For some inexplicable reason, he'd forgone his usual poetry in favor of Mark Twain's
The Innocents Abroad
. When it was first published, he'd written it off as populist drivel, but since his usual fare couldn't hold his interest, he thought to try something different.

He drummed an index finger along the spine of the book. His strange sense of restlessness made little sense. He couldn't be worried about Mother. Though the new girl was unusual, she appeared to be perfectly competent as a companion and nurse. Indeed, his mother seemed to thrive under Bessie's care. Though Mrs. McLaughlin had expressed displeasure at the girl's lack of skills, he had no doubt the housekeeper would come around in time. Bessie hadn't even been with them for a week yet. She would adjust.

Realizing he might as well give up reading as a lost cause, he placed his book on a side table. Perhaps if he were to have a nice strong cup of tea, it would be just the thing to lift him out of his funk. Perhaps even a little conversation with a few of the other members could divert his attention from this odd restlessness.

William went down the hall to the rear lounge where the majority of members tended to congregate. With its mahogany paneled walls, leather chairs and view of the back garden, it was the most popular room in the club. Though the rain had thinned the numbers today, a few men clustered in groups.

Just as William entered, a trio of gentlemen approached the door. Cavendish, Madison and Perry were college chums who were seldom out of one another's company. In their mid-twenties, they were the youngest in the club. Of the three, William knew Edward Perry the best, and he only had a passing acquaintance with him. He was tall with dark hair and dark eyes. A rather quiet sort of fellow, but when he spoke, it was with great wit. William had once held a lively conversation with him regarding the merits of Chaucer.

Perry nodded in greeting. “William Brown, what brings you from the confines of your library?”

“Good afternoon, Perry.” William tilted his head toward the younger man. “I was feeling a bit restless. Thought I'd have a spot of tea.”

Cavendish and Madison burst into laughter at that, and William felt himself shrinking.

“We were just heading out, if you'd care to join us,” Perry said.

William could never tell if a person was taunting, joking or serious, which was why social situations generally terrified him. Looking at Perry's friendly expression, he decided the offer was a genuine one.

“Where are you going?” William asked.

“To the Amateur Athletic Club,” Cavendish said, as he shrugged into his coat. “Ever been?”

“No,” William said. He'd heard of the place, but never entered the establishment. William's place was amongst books and he knew it.

“You should come with us.” Perry walked to William's side and clasped an arm about his shoulder. “It might do more to sate your restlessness than a cuppa would.”

William reached a nervous hand up to tug on his hair. They couldn't be serious. “I'm afraid I'm ill-suited for such a venture. I don't have the appropriate clothing, you see.”

“Bosh,” Perry said, shaking his head. “We could lend you something.”

Cavendish waggled his eyebrows at William. “Something new, something different might be just the thing.”

“You should come with us, old boy,” Perry said. “You can't live inside that library forever.”

“Well, I suppose I could come along.” William forced a smile on his lips. “Why not?”

“Why not indeed.” Cavendish grinned widely and held his hands up in a boxer's stance. “The same old cuppa tea can grow stale.”

“Come along then, Brown,” Perry said.

By the time William left the train, the comfortable drizzle had turned into a proper storm. He turned his umbrella against the wind and leaned into it as he walked down Archimedes Road toward home. The rain plastered his trousers to his legs, which were aching due to his exertions at the Athletic Club that afternoon. The burning sensation of sore muscles was unusual, but appealing in a strange sort of way.

He lifted the latch of his front door and entered, with no small assistance from the wind at his back.

Mrs. McLaughlin waited for him in the entrance hall, an expression of extreme annoyance writ large across her face. He hadn't even put his umbrella in the stand before she struck. Though she was a capable housekeeper, she had the subtlety of an elephant.

“Welcome home, Mr. Brown, sir. I really must insist upon a word with you.”

Oh, that it would only be one word and not the three or four dozen that she looked primed to deliver. “Certainly, Mrs. McLaughlin. Shall we step into the study?”

She bobbed her head in acquiescence and followed him into the austere room off the entrance hall. With dark oak paneling and forest-green drapes, it was the most somber room in the house. A fire currently blazed in the grate dispelling a layer of gloom. Mrs. McLaughlin must have ordered it lit in anticipation of the word she was so primed to deliver.

“What seems to be the trouble?” William leaned against the corner desk. Perhaps if he didn't get too comfortable, their conversation could be a brief one. He had a strong suspicion this yet unnamed trouble rhymed with “messy,” which he admitted would be entirely deserved.

“It's the new girl, Bessie.” Mrs. McLaughlin's hands tangled in the front of her apron.

“Has she done something wrong? Is Mother—”

“Oh, no, sir,” Mrs. McLaughlin interjected. “Your mother is quite fine. As far as Bessie's nursing duties go, I see nothing amiss. Not yet, anyway.” She gave her apron a vicious twist. “It's her maid duties, sir. The lass doesn't know a thing about the running of the house. I swear that Davy himself knows more about kitchen duties than that…American!”

William bit back a grin, remembering their interaction in the library.

“There is a matter of a small fire she started her first morning here,” Mrs. McLaughlin said. “And her complete lack of ability in the kitchen. And her incomprehensible way of talking. And this morning…well it was the final straw.”

“What did she do?”

“She went and hung the wet laundry out to dry in the yard, not on the porch like anyone with half a brain in her head would know to do.”

“I'm sorry to hear you are dissatisfied, Mrs. McLaughlin. It's most unfortunate.”

His clear lack of alarm at Bessie's failings seemed to trim the older woman's sails. She pressed on, undaunted. “Unfortunate, sir? I should think it's a bit beyond that. Our sheets are completely ruined. They'll have to be rewashed—start to finish. I'm afraid something will have to be done, sir.”

One thing about Mrs. McLaughlin—she didn't dance around. “You'd like me to dismiss Bessie?”

“I would, sir. I'd do it myself, but I thought since you were the one doing the hiring, I ought to get your approval first.”

To be fair, he could understand his housekeeper's frustration. Remembering the bright spark of a girl darting around the library the other night, he couldn't imagine what she must be like in a kitchen. It would be fearful and wonderful to behold. Still, she was learning, wasn't she? Whenever he ran into her, she'd been trying so hard. She'd been such a lift for his mother. And even though Mrs. McLaughlin might have an iron fist when it came to the staff, when it came to his mother, she had a heart of goose down.

“I understand your concerns regarding her household duties, Mrs. McLaughlin. But I must confess that my primary concern in employing Bessie was in relation to her nursing duties. And in that regard, I am most satisfied with her. She's done a world of good for Mother already.”

“Has she, truly?” Mrs. McLaughlin's face softened as he hoped it would.

William nodded, relieved he could at least be honest in this. “I've not seen Mother so happy in nearly a year.”

“Well…then.” Mrs. McLaughlin ceased murdering her poor apron and looked at the ground, considering the edge of the carpet for a moment.

“I understand that Bessie may have some struggles, but you've managed to train quite a few new girls in your time here. I would think that another one, even an American, would be a task which you are quite capable of managing. Especially since it would be such a benefit for Mother.” When Mrs. McLaughlin didn't respond, William pressed his case. “Do you think you could give her another month?”

Mrs. McLaughlin pursed her lips. “Of course, sir. If it's in the best interest of the missus, naturally I can.”

“Wonderful.” William clapped his hands together and took a step toward the door in an effort to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

Mrs. McLaughlin followed him into the entrance hall. “I'll have a word with Bessie about this though, sir. Give her a last warning, so to speak, as soon as she returns.”

“Returns? From where?” William asked.

Mrs. McLaughlin gave him a patient look. “From the back garden. She's pulling the sheets now.”

“In this downpour?” The rain had been falling in buckets when he'd arrived. The back garden, unprotected from the southerly winds, would be a maelstrom of biblical proportions.

William snatched his umbrella from the stand and stepped past Mrs. McLaughlin, heading for the rear of the house.

“Sir, you can't,” Mrs. McLaughlin said.

“I just came in from the rain. I assure you a few more minutes of dampness won't ruin me. Please, return to your duties in the kitchen and I'll handle this. I insist upon it.”

“But…sir.” Mrs. McLaughlin's cheeks glowed in frustration.

“Mrs. McLaughlin, as you already mentioned, I hired Bessie personally. Since I brought her into our home, I feel responsible for her. Rest assured, I shall attend to this and give her an appropriate warning regarding her future employment with us. You needn't trouble yourself with this issue further.”

Knowing better than to wait for more protestations from Mrs. McLaughlin, he pulled open the back door and stepped onto the porch. Even under the shelter of the roof, the wind drove the rain into him in punishing torrents, cold and furious.

The air was pregnant with the scent of earth and water. Through the downpour, he saw a maze of linens hung near the flower beds to the east. They were sopping wet and so heavy on the lines that they reached the ground and smudges of mud wicked up the cloth. It looked as though creatures of earth were grasping at the sheets with brown fingers.

Bessie was nowhere to be seen.

Dear god, what had he gotten himself into?

He opened his umbrella, which was hopelessly outmatched, and strode toward where the laundry hung. “Bessie?” he called. The wind snatched his words and carried them around the edge of the house. “Bessie Pepper?”

A gust snatched at his umbrella and he tightened his grip, despite the fact that the thing was practically useless against the deluge. Icy rain pelted his face and drenched his clothes. Once he reached the clothesline, he lifted the edge of a sopping sheet and stepped under it, hoping to find Bessie on the other side. The clotheslines were more tightly packed than he'd envisioned, and he merely faced another line of linens.

“Bessie!” Despite the thick maze of cloth, she couldn't be more than a few feet away. She had to be able to hear him. He lifted another sheet, the final one as it turned out, and was met with a view of the garden wall. Looking to the right, he saw her.

Empty laundry basket held in her hands in a death grip, her knuckles white, she looked at him with a vacant expression. Her cap had fallen askew and her hair had come partially undone. Several strands were plastered against her face. Her heavy maid's dress was sodden and clung to her thin frame. Her face was wet, though her red-rimmed eyes led him to believe that something other than rain dampened her cheeks.

She looked so lost, so terribly sad. He stepped toward her before he'd properly considered what he was going to do about the problem of Bessie and the sheets.

He wanted to reach out to her, but knew better. Such a thing would not be proper. Instead he extended his umbrella to her, handle first. “Take this, Bessie. And give me your basket.”

She accepted the umbrella wordlessly, and he gently pulled the basket from her grasp.

“Go to the porch and wait for me,” he said. His voice was so…well, commanding, he almost didn't recognize it as his own.

She blinked once, then turned and walked toward the house with a steady gait. She wasn't dashing though the rain, but striding through it, impervious. What an absolutely puzzling creature.

William tossed the basket on the ground then grabbed the heavy sheets with both hands. He stripped them from the line with a jerk, never minding the amount of water and mud flung onto his clothes. The linens were heavy and unwieldy and the wind didn't ease his task, but after a few moments, he had a basket of filthy, water-soaked sheets and the lines were bare.

Gripping the heavy basket tightly, he ran through the deluge toward the back porch where Bessie stood, watching him with a blank expression. He dropped the basket at his feet with a thud. She continued to stare, mute as a statue. Whatever had happened to that bright light of a girl the other night? Surely Mrs. McLaughlin and a little bit of rain weren't enough to put out that kind of flame.