For All Eternity (13 page)

“The best!”

“And what sort of maid does he seek?”

The footman grimaced at her reminder of his failed mission. “We need someone to do odd chores. A maid-of-all-works.”

“Does the position require previous service experience?”

He grimaced again. “At this point I’d hire anyone with a wit above a sheep.”

Sophie laughed, as much from excitement as at his droll reply. “I can assure you that I possess wits beyond those of a sheep.”

“What!” He gaped at her as if she claimed to be the king in women’s clothing. “You aren’t saying that you want the position?”

“That is exactly what I’m saying.”

“Egad! Surely you jest.”

It was Sophie’s turn to be taken aback. “You think me unworthy of the job?”

“No! I assure you that I meant no such insult.” He frantically shook his head. “I just naturally assumed that a fine lady such as yourself must be jesting to suggest taking such a mean position.”

Sophie returned his gaze for a beat, then sighed and bowed her head, shamed by the admission she knew she must make. Choking on her pride, she haltingly confessed, “I might be a lady, but I’m afraid I am no longer so very fine. In truth, I have but a half crown to my name. And unless you hire me for the maid position, I shall be sleeping on the street tonight.”

“What!” he gasped.

Miserably she shook her head. “I am utterly destitute.” There was a long, heavy silence, then he cleared his throat and said, “Might I ask what happened to put you under the hatches?”

“I suppose you must know if you are to consider hiring me,” she murmured, though what she would tell him, she didn’t know. All she knew for certain was that the truth was out of the question.

He cleared his throat again. “Miss — “

“Barring — uh — I’m Sophia Barton.” Why tempt fate by giving her real name?

He bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Barton. And I am Terence Mabbet, fourth footman to the Marquess of Beresford.”

She dipped a shallow curtsy in acknowledgment. Straightening back up to his impressive height, Terence continued, “Though I am but a mere fourth footman, I can assure you that I always adhere to the rules of gentlemanly conduct. One of those rules is that a gentleman must always see to the welfare of a lady in need. That means that it is my duty to give you the position whether you chose to confide in me or not.” Sophie smiled and nodded, though what she really longed to do was hug him. “You are most kind, Mr. Mabbet.”

“Terry. All the other servants call me Terry.”

“Terry. And you may call me Sophie. All my friends do so.”

He grinned. “By gum! We will be friends.” Looking beyond thrilled by that prospect, he reached over and once again took her arm. “Now that everything is settled, we should be on our way. It’s almost dark, and we have a goodly ride ahead of us.”

At her nod of consent he escorted her to the wagon, a glossy burgundy and gold affair with polished brass lamps. He had just lit the lamps and was gathering the reins in preparation to depart, when Sophie remembered her valise.

“Oh no! Wait. My valise. I dropped it when I ran from the road,” she cried, desperately peering about her. Though the black leather bag held little of monetary value, it contained the last vestiges of her bygone life and was thus priceless to her.

Gallantly pledging to retrieve her belongings, Terry jumped from the wagon and raced to the site of her near demise. It was but a moment later when he returned, bearing a large, badly scuffed object that bore little resemblance to her once elegant valise.

Visibly abashed, he handed it to her, muttering, “Sorry. I seem to have run it over.”

Him and half the merchants in Exeter, she thought, staring at her crushed bag with dismay. No doubt her bonnets were flattened beyond repair. As for her mother’s ivory hand mirror …

Her dejection must have shown on her face, for Terry reached over and gingerly squeezed her arm. “Please forgive me, Sophie. I feel ever so wretched about all this. I do hope I haven’t ruined anything of great importance.” By his expression you’d have thought that he was responsible for all the plagues in history.

Hating to see him, her rescuing knight, look so, Sophie smiled and hastened to reassure him. “Please don’t feel badly, Terry. Of course I forgive you. Save a crushed bonnet or two, I am quite certain that you did no irreparable damage to anything.”

“But your bonnets — “

“Their value is nothing when weighed against the kindness you’ve shown me.” And it was true, she realized with sudden dawning. One ounce of kindness in a time of need was worth far more than all the bonnets in London. That revelation stunned her, who valued possessions above all else, to the very core of her materialistic soul.

“Bah! I did nothing that any respectable person wouldn’t have done,” he retorted, though she could tell from his blush that her praise pleased him. Without further ado he slapped the reins, and they were off.

Chapter 7

Down High Street they dashed, onto Fore Street and over the Exe River bridge. Though Terry kept his recklessness in check, he still drove far too fast for Sophie’s peace of mind.

Ah, well, she thought, clinging to the side rail for dear life. At least the seats are well cushioned, and I most certainly can’t complain about the springs. Not that she’d have complained at any rate. She was much too grateful simply being in the wagon and headed for sanctuary to find fault with anything.

After traveling a couple of swift but blessedly mishap-free miles, she grew confident enough of his driving to release her grip on the bar. Feeling suddenly safer than she’d felt in what seemed like forever, she relaxed back in her seat and watched the moon rise, smiling as Terry began whistling a jolly tune.

On through the dark they dashed, each night-stained landscape indistinguishable from the last. Rocked by the wagon and lullabied by Terry’s whistling, Sophie soon sank into a deep, dreamless slumber. She felt as though she’d just closed her eyes when she was awakened by a sudden jolt.

Blinking away her sleepy fog, she drowsily peered about her. They were in a courtyard of sorts, formed by two jutting wings and what she assumed was the main house, all built from a brick whose hue was obscured by shadow. By the lines of mullion windows, many of which spilled forth a hazy stream of light, she could see that the house stood four stories tall and contained a myriad of rooms.

As she watched two silhouettes pantomime in a second-floor window, she heard a door creak open. In the next instant light flooded from her right, drawing her attention to a short female form holding a lantern.

“It’s about bleedin‘ time you got back, Terry Mabbet,” the form bawled. “Her ladyship took sick this afternoon, and with us short ‘o help and you off dillydallyin‘, the Pixie’s had ta do the ‘xtra fetchin‘ herself. She’s in a fine nettle over it, I can tell you. Says she gonna scold you stone-deaf for bein‘ gone so long.” “The Pixie?” Sophie looked to Terry for clarification. “Mrs. Pixton, the housekeeper.” His face paled as he uttered the name.

“Well?” the form demanded. “What’ve you to say for yourself?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Fancy Jenkins, but it took longer than expected to find a suitable maid,” he retorted, his confident tone at startling odds with his frightened face. “Good help is hard to find, you know.” “She’d better be the bleedin‘ best maid the Pixie ever saw if you’re to keep your hearin‘.”

Terry shot Sophie a rather anxious look. “Er … I assure you she is.”

The form emitted a loud sniff. “Well, come along with you then. The longer you dawdle, the harder it’ll go for you.”

After handing the reins to a boy who seemed to appear out of nowhere, Terry jumped from the wagon, then assisted Sophie down. By the way his hands trembled as he took her arm, she could tell that he was terrified by the prospect of facing the housekeeper.

Sorry for his trouble and wanting to do something to help, she murmured, “Perhaps it would be for the best if we tell Mrs. Pixton that the wheel broke on the way back here, and that it took us a goodly time to find a wheelwright to fix it.”

Looking as if he were next in line for execution, Terry shook his head. “It broke on the way to Exeter, not the other way around. The Pixie will see through me for sure if I try to tell her otherwise. She always knows when someone is fibbing.”

“You don’t have to fib. Simply say that a broken wheel delayed you, and leave it at that. Since you returned with me, she shall no doubt assume that you attended the fair, thus concluding that it broke on the way back here.”

“And I shall be out of the briers on all accounts without uttering a single fib,” he finished for her.

She nodded.

He grinned. “Clever girl. I can see that I truly did bring back the finest maid in all of England.”

“Unless you wanna get sacked, you’d best come along and ‘xplain your tardiness to the Pixie,” the form snapped.

“Ah, well,” she whispered, casting Terry a reassuring look. “Might as well face the dragon now and be done with it.”

He nodded his agreement, and together they followed the form through the door. Just within lay a shadowy flight of stone stairs, down which the form vanished. Guessing that the kitchen lay below, Sophie trailed down behind Terry, who took the steps two at a time.

It was indeed the kitchen, and a very grand one at that. By its dimensions and the impressive array of amenities, it appeared that the house had seen some grand entertainments. Judging from the number of people toiling away, it was apparent that those entertainments still occurred from time to time.

“The Pixie’s in the stillroom. She said you was ta go there the minute you returned,” said a voice from their left.

Recognizing the shrewish tone as that belonging to the lantern-bearing form, Sophie looked over to put a face to the voice. From her domineering ways, she expected to see a woman somewhere on the ripe side of thirty. Like Terry, however, the form’s age proved a surprise. Why, she couldn’t have been much past twenty.

She was also very pretty, Sophie noted, viewing her with the critical eyes one female employs to assess another. With her lush figure, wide blue-green eyes, and the auburn hair she spied peeking from beneath her cap, the woman no doubt commanded a great deal of male attention.

She also noticed that the woman returned her scrutiny in kind. By her fierce scowl she apparently had little liking for what she saw. When Sophie smiled, hoping to disarm her obvious hostility with friendliness, she sniffed and tossed Terry a disdainful look. “I hope to heaven that this ain’t the new maid.”

“Indeed she is,” Terry replied, giving Sophie a small push forward. “Fancy Jenkins, please meet Sophie Barton. Sophie, this is Fancy, one of our three chambermaids.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Sophie murmured, punctuating the pleasantry with a cordial nod.

Fancy sniffed again. “Mrs. Pixton ain’t gonna be pleasured to meet you, Miss Hoity-Toity. Bet you ain’t never wringed a chicken’s neck in your whole uppish life.”

“W-wring a ch-chicken’s neck?” Sophie echoed, growing queasy just saying the words.

Another sniff. “Whadda you think a maid-of-all-work does? Sip tea and play the pianoforte?” Redirecting her displeasure to Terry, Fancy more hissed than said, “I won’t be at’ll surprised if the Pixie sacks you for this bit of buffle-headedness.”

“What buffle-headedness?” a man inquired, coming to a halt beside Fancy. By his livery he, too, appeared to be a footman.

And a fine-looking footman he is, Sophie thought, discreetly appraising his person. What a shame that God has chosen to waste those fine hazel eyes and that handsome, dimpled face on a mere servant.

Fancy’s harsh demeanor visibly softened at the sight of the footman, though Sophie doubted if he observed the change. He was far too busy ogling her to notice anyone or anything else.

Fancy, however, noticed him and his interest in Sophie. Elbowing him sharply in the ribs to draw his attention to herself, she said, “I were tellin‘ this dolt — ” she stabbed a finger at Terry ” — that he’ll probably be sacked for hirin‘ her — ” she redirected the finger to Sophie ” — as the new maid-of-all-works.”

“Indeed?” The footman returned his admiring gaze to Sophie. “I, for one, must say that I heartily approve of his choice.”

Fancy joined him in staring at Sophie, though in a manner that was far from admiring. “
Humph!
You’ll be changin‘ your mind quick ‘nough when you find yourself havin‘ ta do her chores for her.”

“I shall be honored to assist such a lovely lady,” he purred. Sketching a courtly bow to Sophie, he added, “Allow me to introduce myself. Charles Dibbs, second footman, at your service, Miss — “

“Barton. Sophie Barton,” Terry supplied.

When Charles took her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her palm, Fancy yanked Sophie’s arm from his grasp and shoved her against Terry. “The Pixie’s waitin‘ for you,” she snapped. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t keep her waitin‘ any longer.”

“In that case, I shall see you later, pretty Sophie,” Charles cooed, winking at her as Fancy towed him away.