For All Eternity (19 page)

She eyed him with unveiled insolence. “Oh? And what call do you got to be tellin‘ me what I can or can’t say? Last I heard the Pixie were in charge down here.” “Indeed she is, and it is her rule that forbids the use of coarse language by servants. Or have you forgotten?” he severely retorted.

Fancy sniffed. “I nivver forgot nothin‘. I ain’t stupid like some I could name.” She paused to shoot a pointed look over to where Sophie scoured the roasting hearth. When Sophie merely continued to work, deeming the barb unworthy of a response, she sniffed again and finished, “Not bein‘ stupid, I know I don’t have to take no heed of you or your — “

“As for the matter of Mrs. Pixton’s ‘niggling,’ as you so inelegantly phrased it,” the footman cut in, continuing his admonishment as if she hadn’t spoken, “it is her express wish that the staff make a fine impression on the Mayhews. Lest you’ve forgotten, there is a possibility that the ‘whelp’ will be the next mistress of Hawksbury. As such, she shall have the power to sack us all should she judge our services inadequate.”

Sack us? Ha! I should be so lucky,
Sophie thought, scraping at the congealed mutton drippings in the spit trough. But, of course, she hadn’t a prayer of being turned out. Not even if she burned down the kitchen, as she’d almost done while trying to light the baking ovens two days earlier. No, she was stuck at Hawksbury until the Beast, as she’d secretly nicknamed Lyndhurst, had tired of tormenting her. And heaven only knew when that would be.

Grimacing as much from dislike for Lyndhurst as at the reek of the rancid fat, she scooped up the last of the drippings and dumped them into the grease pan. After shoving the revolting mess well out of nose range, she picked up a rag and began wiping the last vestiges of slime from the trough.

Though it had been only three days since her midnight clash with Lyndhurst, it was long enough for her to wonder if perhaps prison mightn’t have been the better choice. Indeed, compared to life under the Beast’s vile rule, the rumored horrors of King’s Bench sounded more and more like heaven with every passing day.

Mentally adding a star by Lyndhurst’s lengthy entry on her list of Hawksbury trials, Sophie tossed aside her mucky rag and scrutinized her handiwork. True to his word, his despicable lordship humbled her at every turn. Worst of all, he did so without actually doing, or even saying, a thing.

Wishing she could drop what she deemed the spotless trough on his horrid head, Sophie gathered up her cleaning supplies and crawled over the spotless hearth. Dragging her faithful bucket and basket behind her as she went, she squeezed past the equally clean firedogs and spit, and crept into the cavernous fireplace beyond. As she did so, the bedlam of kitchen activity faded to a droning buzz.

After pausing a beat to flex her aching back, she stood up and peered at the smoke jack in the chimney. Of course it was greasy. Sooty, too. She sighed. No doubt her arms would fall off from fatigue by the time she finished cleaning it.

Blaming its grimy state on Lyndhurst and his request for mutton with red currants the night before, she fished a clean rag from her basket. After dipping it into her bucket of small beer and soap, she began scrubbing the contraption’s paddle wheel blades. As she slaved, she cast wary glances out at the hearth, half expecting to see his plaguesome lordship lounging there, staring at her.

That was his mode of punishment, staring. But only when she was engaged in a particularly degrading task. How he knew when and where she was thus occupied, she didn’t know. All she knew was that he was always there, stripping away her composure with his gaze.

Of course she tried to ignore him, tried desperately to dismiss his very existence. But, alas, it was no use. Despite her most valiant efforts, she always became flustered and ended up making the most mortifying blunders. And the torment didn’t stop there, oh, no!

Instead of wandering off, smirking his satisfaction as one would expect, he watched her frantically flounder about, trying to fix her mistake. Of course she failed at that as well. Indeed, so agitated was she by then that she usually ended up making matters worse. It was only when she’d muddled things past all redemption that he would snort and stalk off. The insufferable cur!

She paused in her scrubbing to glare at the paddles as if they were his lordship. Oh, how she longed to tell him what she thought of him and his infernal staring, to spill forth all the fury and indignation that seethed within her. But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t! Never. Not if he spent every second of every day for the next hundred years gawking at her. To do so would be to concede victory to his revenge, and she would run queer before granting him such satisfaction.

Her resolve thus reaffirmed, Sophie forcibly banished him from her mind and finished her task. That completed, she turned her attention to the suet-spattered walls around her. Growing more dispirited by the second, she calculated the work before her.

Considering the size of the space and the degree to which it was soiled, she would need at least five bucketfuls of the Pixie’s saltpeter, sal soda, and ammonia washing solution to adequately clean it. Factor in five trips outside to empty, rinse, and refill the bucket with fresh water, plus the time it took to measure and mix the cleanser, and it should take her, oh, two and a half, maybe even three hours of filthy, backbreaking work.

She groaned aloud at the prospect. God must think her wicked to the extreme to plague her with the cleaning of a fireplace both vast and greasy enough to lard and roast the Beast himself.

Lard and roast the Beast? She grinned at the fanciful picture of Lyndhurst skewered on the spit with an apple stuffed in his haughty mouth. Giggling her wicked amusement, she crawled from the fireplace, towing her bucket behind her. As she emerged, she was again surrounded by the discordant symphony of kitchen noise, accompanied by a chorus of prattling voices.

Fancy, she noted, had planted herself next to Charles at a long kitchen table, where he and four other footmen sat polishing silver. As for John, he still conversed with Cook, who looked about to erupt at any moment.

Sophie shrugged and stood up. Ah, well. The day wasn’t complete unless Cook had a row with someone. Nodding to the other servants as she passed, she hauled her bucket up the stairs and trudged toward the kitchen garden.

Such a lot of unnecessary fetch and carry, she grumbled to herself, weaving her way through the maze of herbs and vegetables. Especially seeing as how the main kitchen had not one, but two sinks with plumbing. However, rules were rules, and heaven help the servant unwise enough to use Cook’s precious slate sinks and running water for such a lowly purpose as cleaning.

When she finally reached the far garden wall, she dumped the foul water into a vat reserved for such purposes, then rinsed and refilled the worn wooden bucket at the nearby pump. After lingering a moment to savor the warmth of the early afternoon sun, she reluctantly returned to the kitchen and the dreary task ahead of her. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard John and Cook’s discussion explode into a full-blown squabble.

“Frenchy slop? Frenchy slop!” Cook bellowed at the top of her lungs. “And why, pray tell, should I cook that rot when good, solid English fare would serve for the better?”

“I already explained the reason,” the footman patiently countered. “The marchioness recalls Miss Mayhew showing a marked preference for this dish the time she dined with her family and thinks to be hospitable by adding it to the welcoming menu.”

“What’d have been hospitable would’ve been to give me the recipe in English,” the cook muttered as Sophie entered the kitchen.

John sighed. “I told you that Miss Stewart will be down shortly to translate for you. I can assure you that her French is quite impeccable. She shall — “

“What? Queen High-Horse is gonna favor us with her royal presence? You gotta be waggin‘,” Fancy exclaimed, casting the footman a spiteful look. “That uppity old hag’d sooner jump off the roof than hobnob with the likes of us. I ain’t never seen — “

“Bridle your tongue this instant, Fancy Jenkins,” John barked, his face mottling purple. “I shan’t hear another word against Miss Stewart. Not a word! Unlike yourself, Miss Stewart is a lady of exceptional refinement. As such, you shall accord her the respect she deserves. If you fail to do so, I shall be forced to take the matter up with Mrs. Pixton.”

If looks could kill, Fancy’s glare would have dropped him where he stood. “You can talk to the Pixie till you’re blue in the face for all I care, and a fat lot of good it’ll do you. In case you ain’t heard, I’m the best chambermaid at Hawksbury. If you think she’s gonna sack me for talkin‘ about that blind old excuse for a lady’s maid, then you’re queer in the head.”

“She might not sack you, but unless you mend your ways she shall never recommend you for the lady’s maid position when Miss Stewart takes her pension. And we all know how you covet the post.” This was from Julius, third footman, and a fast friend of John’s.

Fancy sniffed. “You don’t know nothin‘ about nothin‘.”

“Seems to me that if anyone should be a lady’s maid, it’s our Sophie here,” Charles remarked, winking at Sophie as she passed.

She smiled faintly at the footman, who grinned in return.

Fancy squawked and cuffed his ear.

“Well, it’s true and you know it, Fancy,” he maintained, resentfully rubbing his abused ear. “Sophie’s the daughter of a baron, and is a real lady.”

Fancy emitted a disdainful noise. “So she says. I, for one, ain’t likely to believe it till I see some sort of proof.”

“The proof is right before your eyes.” Julius nodded to where Sophie searched a cupboard for the saltpeter solution. “You have only to note her pretty ways and hear her fine speech to — “

“Enough! Neither shall be elevated any time soon. I happen to know that Miss Stewart has no intention of taking her pension for at least another year,” John barked. “Now, back to work, all of you. That includes you, too, Fancy. Surely you have better things to do than stir up trouble?”

Fancy shrugged. “Not like it’s none of your concern or nothin‘, but I’m waitin‘ for the Pixie to come down and unlock the stillroom cabinet. I need lavender soap for the whelp’s room.”

“Then, I shall find her and ask her to come down directly,” he snapped. After murmuring something to Cook, who looked more irate than ever, he turned on his heels and marched from the kitchen.

“Pompous old sod,” Fancy muttered the instant he was out of earshot. “Everyone knows he’s got an itch for Queen High-Horse.”

More interested in the gossip than she’d ever have admitted, Sophie took her time in measuring and mixing the cleanser. She’d just poured it into her bucket when someone hissed her name.

Recognizing the voice as belonging to her prattlebox bed partner, Pansy, she looked up and glanced in the direction from which it had come. Being as it wasn’t wash day, the laundress had been put to work in the kitchen. Right now she stood at a stout oak table about four feet away, polishing the kitchen knives.

When Sophie raised her brows in inquiry, Pansy pulled a Shrewsbury cake from her apron pocket and waved it temptingly in the air. Sophie eyed it longingly for several seconds, then peered over her shoulder to where Fancy sat enumerating her qualifications as a lady’s maid. Seeing her thus occupied and not likely to cause her any immediate grief, she moved over to stand beside Pansy.

” ‘Ere. You said they was yer fav-rites,” the girl murmured, slipping her the cake.

“Oh, Pansy. Wherever did you get it?” she exclaimed, genuinely pleased. She hadn’t had a Shrewsbury cake since leaving London, and not a day had gone by that she hadn’t longed for one.

The girl shrugged and picked up a tourne knife. “It were leftover from the family’s breakfast. You said you liked ‘em, so I asked Cook if I could ‘ave it.”

That Pansy had remembered her mention of the cakes astonished her; that she had gone to the trouble to procure her one without reason or expectation of anything in return left her feeling oddly humbled. Tucking the cake into her pocket to savor later, Sophie rather shyly murmured, “Thank you. This is indeed a fine treat.” The laundry maid shrugged. “It’s jist a Shrewsbury cake. It ain’t nothin‘ much.”

“Yes, it is. It’s the nicest gift anyone has given me in ever so long,” she countered, and she meant it.

Pansy shrugged again, though her cheeks pinked with pleasure. “So. Whadda you think o’ this business ‘bout John and Miss Stewart?” she mumbled, rubbing the knife briskly against a leather-covered polishing board.

Sophie hid her smile at the girl’s embarrassed change of subject. Though she had no particular interest in Miss

Stewart, she was exceedingly fond of John. Unlike many of the servants, who constantly lorded their stations over her, he had never treated her with anything but respect and kindness. Indeed, he’d even aided her with her chores on occasion, though they both knew it was shockingly below his station to do so. Why he extended her such courtesies, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she was thankful for his friendship, and that she wished him only the greatest of happiness. It was those wishes that prompted her to inquire, “Is the chitchat true?” Pansy nodded without looking up from her task. “John’s loved Miss Stewart for well on twenty-five years now, tho‘ she dinna start lovin‘ ‘im back until ‘bout two or three years ago.”

“Twenty-five years?” she gasped, more startled by the notion of such an ancient lady’s maid than by the length of John’s courtship. “She’s been with the marchioness that long?” When Fancy had called her old, she’d naturally assumed the woman to be about thirty-five, which was definitely on the deep winter side of life for a lady’s maid. But if she’d been with her ladyship for twenty-five years, that meant that she must be nigh on —