Never Trust a Pirate (7 page)

One bed held a mattress that seemed to have avoided the predatory mice, and she chose that one, dragging the other mattresses out of the room and dumping them in the open space as well as the rusted bed frames, broken chairs, and accumulated detritus of a once larger staff. When she was finished, the large room held a single bed with a mattress that didn’t sag too badly, a small dresser with a washbowl and pitcher, a three-legged table she propped in the corner, and a decent chair. Once she was able to give it a good scrubbing, it would do very well.

Maddy glanced out the window. She’d left her watch behind—no simple maid would possess anything so valuable—so she had no idea what time it was. If she had to guess by the waning light it was likely close to six o’clock, and Mrs. Crozier was probably on the verge of coming after her. Maddy’s feet hurt, her lower back had a crick in it, and she wanted more than anything to sit on that bed, even lie down for a few moments. She hadn’t even started her day’s work and already she was exhausted.

Tant pis
, as Bryony would say. Too bad. She was the one who’d decided to do this, and she’d reap the consequences. A little hard work never killed anyone.

CHAPTER FIVE

B
Y DINNERTIME
M
ADDY WAS
convinced she was going to die. Her feet were past hurting—they were numb. She hadn’t sat down in three hours, and now was washing what seemed to be three weeks’ worth of dishes, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to find some sort of ease. Her shoulders ached, the small of her back was screaming, her arms felt rubbery and weak. She was a naturally energetic creature—there was no reason she should be so tired.

She had merely cleaned out eight fireplaces and reset the fires, hauling out the ashes and hauling in the coal since the so-called boy seemed to be nonexistent, and Wilf, Mrs. Crozier’s elderly, slightly inebriated husband, seemed to be glued to a chair in their quarters, appearing every now and then to fetch a mug of ale and then disappearing again. Maddy swept the salon and dining room furiously, letting loose a cloud of dust that settled over every surface, astonishing given the amount she was able to shovel into a dustbin. She then dusted every possible surface, shaking the rag out the windows at constant intervals. At first she paid no attention to the wind, and the dust simply blew back in, accompanied by a selection of street dirt. After dusting
everything once more, she carefully chose a back window where the wind off the ocean couldn’t enter and undo her hard work.

The captain’s residence was a terrace, bound on each side by other houses, and occasionally a word or a thump emanated from the other side, startling her. The Russells had always lived in the best of the best—while townhouses like this one and the ones in London were perfectly acceptable, Eustace Russell had had expensive tastes that he’d unfortunately passed on to his two younger daughters. Maddy had always enjoyed the luxuries money could buy, and she’d spent it lavishly when her father had given it to her. Now her extravagance shamed her. The cost of one of her ball gowns could have provided better lodgings for her sisters while they’d lived in London, and she’d worn that dress only once before discarding it.

Tarkington had particularly enjoyed all the trappings of wealth. His own family had been prosperous, though not anywhere near the level of the Russells with their nouveau wealth, but his family went back to the Domesday Book, and her father had encouraged the match, wanting to work his way further up the social ladder. And she’d been a damned fool.

“What are you doing, Mary?” Mrs. Crozier’s whip-sharp voice broke through her abstraction, and she looked up from the sink dazedly, wondering whom the housekeeper was talking to.

A moment later she knew. “Are you deaf, Mary Greaves?” Mrs. Crozier moved closer, trying to loom over her. Since the housekeeper was shorter than she was, the effort failed, but she made up for it in her voice. “Because if you are, then you’re on your way. I can’t deal with someone who’s deaf. For all I know you might be slow-witted as well. Most people don’t stand leaning against the sink, their hands in the water, staring into space.”

“I’m not slow-witted, Mrs. Crozier,” Maddy said, determinedly standing on both feet. “I’m sorry—I was thinking of something else.”

Mrs. Crozier sniffed. “Most like your last placement, and how much better it was.”

“Actually I was thinking how I like the size of this household.” Which was true—the house, upon reflection, was just right. Like the story of the three bears, the Russell houses were too big, Nanny Gruen’s and the cheap flat in London were too small, but the captain’s house was just right.

In a perfect world Tarkington would come back from South America, throw himself at her feet, begging for forgiveness. The aging captain would die and they would buy this house and live happily ever after, away from the craziness of London. There was plenty of room for children here, and the view of the ocean was tantalizing.

But Tarkington would never beg forgiveness, and besides, she wouldn’t want him if he did. She didn’t love him, had never loved him, and she wanted half a dozen estates and a titled, preferably dead husband…

“Are you certain you’re not moon-brained?” Mrs. Crozier was staring at her, gimlet-eyed.

Maddy didn’t dignify this with an answer. “I’m almost done here.”

“And it’s taken you twice the time it should have done. Leave it for now—you need to set the table for the captain and his guests. There’ll be six for dinner—very
intime
.” Mrs. Crozier gave the word an English pronunciation instead of the French, confusing Maddy for a moment until she realized it was simply the housekeeper trying to sound sophisticated. “The captain is having his fiancée, Miss Gwendolyn Haviland, and her parents, as well as Mr. Quarrells and his particular friend, Duncan.”

“But the numbers are uneven,” she blurted out before she realized what she was saying.

“You think we should go out and find two more women to even things out?” Her tone was derisive. “You’ll find that Mr. Quarrells and Mr. Duncan have no interest in the fairer sex. At all.” There was
something meaningful in her voice, but Maddy had no idea what she was hinting at. “You ask too many questions, and you have too many suggestions. You need to learn your place. You may have been an upstairs maid at your previous employer’s mansion but here you’re just a slavey, and you need to remember that.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.” Eventually she was going to get her revenge on this old witch. When Tarkington returned… no, she didn’t want him to return. And she’d forgotten, she wanted money and a title, and she’d make someone like Lord Eastham buy this house and toss Mrs. Crozier onto the street before whisking her off to his country estate.

Except she liked this house more than the thought of some mansion. And she didn’t want Lord Eastham, who had liver spots and smelled of camphor. She wanted someone like that outrageous stranger who’d kissed her in the alleyway after paying off her attackers, the swine. She couldn’t afford to let herself fantasize about him—he was rude and not what she wanted at all. Except for his kisses…

“I assume you know how to set a table after all your superior positions?”

That was one thing that had been drilled into her at the Swiss finishing school her father had insisted on sending her to. Not the setting so much as the proper order in which to use things, but it worked for the job at hand. “Of course. What’s on the menu?”

Mrs. Crozier’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you care?”

“Because I need to know whether we need spoons for a cream soup or a broth, if seafood forks are necessary, teaspoons or demi-tasse spoons…” Her words came to an abrupt halt at the expression on Mrs. Crozier’s thin face.

“Jayzus, girl, do you think this is Buckingham Palace? Two forks, one knife, two spoons, one small, one for soup, and who cares if it’s a cream soup or a broth? I’ve told you, the captain doesn’t care for folderol. Besides, Wilf has the key to the silver—you don’t think I’m about to entrust it to you, do you? He’ll get the cutlery out for you.”

“But what does Miss Haviland think about all this?”

Mrs. Crozier snorted. “It’ll be up to her to train the captain, not me, thank God. He’d be a right handful, the captain would.”

Old men were always difficult and set in their ways, Maddy thought.

“Go on, then. Wilf will serve when he gets his uniform on, but you’d best put on a clean apron and tidy that ridiculous hair in case you’re seen by any of them.”

Maddy put a hand to her hair and felt it drifting out of its tight knot and floating down around her face, escaping the cap entirely. “Yes, Mrs. Crozier.”

“There’s a mirror in the back hallway, and fresh aprons are piled in the cupboard just beyond it. Make yourself presentable. You look like a slattern.”

Mrs. Crozier wasn’t far off. Maddy’s dark hair was falling in loose waves from the tidy white hat that looked just a bit like a nightcap, and she was flushed from toiling over the hot sink. Of course her arms were red up to her elbows, and she quickly rolled down the sleeves of her dress, thankful she wouldn’t have to pull those blasted sleeve covers over it. That was for heavy work, and with luck her heavy work for the night was done.

Exchanging her wet apron, she scurried back up to the dining room. The linen tablecloth had already been set out, as well as the cutlery, and she went to work, ignoring the pain in her feet as she set six places with a shocking minimum of flatware. The tablecloth was excellent quality, the glassware all crystal from Ireland, the china a politically questionable Limoges. Exquisite, all of it, she thought, looking around her.

The disgruntled Wilf had appeared, uniformed this time, though the livery was ill-fitting. “Watcher looking for?” he demanded, surveying the table with a reluctant sniff of approval.

She turned. “A centerpiece of some kind. An epergne, perhaps?”

“What’s an epergne?”

Rats! That wasn’t that uncommon a piece, was it?
“A silver or gold centerpiece? With little baskets or bowls or candleholders?” she said hopefully.

“Naaah,” he said after much consideration. “Don’t think so. Happen the captain doesn’t like things in the middle of the table. He says it gets in the way of seeing people.”

Good point
, Maddy thought grudgingly, remembering all the dinner parties when she was closed in by flowers and candles and unable to see anyone across the table. And the ones across the table tended to be the most interesting, even if you were supposed to confine your conversation to the guests flanking you. “Surely there’s something low we can use. The table looks too… austere.”

Wilf just looked at her, and she had the sneaking suspicion he didn’t understand the word. And then she remembered dusting a beautiful ceramic bowl in the salon, one done in shades of blue and red by an artist from a foreign country. The signature was Asian, and she suspected the bowl was Japanese, but not the common stuff that flooded the market. This was something particularly beautiful.

“Don’t worry—I’ve got an idea.”

Fortunately no one had arrived in the salon as yet, though she thought she could hear voices from the front hallway. She snatched up the bowl and dashed back into the servant’s quarters, to the butler’s pantry just beyond the dining room.

Filling the bowl with fresh water, she racked her brains for the sight of the back garden. She’d noticed at least some flowers blooming in the back. She would have to make do.

The spring air was cool and crisp, and something seemed to have dragged the bat’s corpse away, thank God. It was early in the year, but there were daffodils and tulips in bloom, and she cut a handful, hurrying back in to avoid Mrs. Crozier’s evil eye. She arranged the flowers, swiftly and perfectly, so that they floated softly. If there was
one thing she excelled at in the so-called feminine arts, it was arranging flowers. She was ghastly at needlework, hopeless at cooking, but give her a container and flowers and she could create a masterpiece.

They were already in the salon. She could hear an elderly male voice, slightly loud, slightly bombastic, and immediately decided he must be the captain. She set her creation down in the middle of the table and dashed back to the kitchen and Mrs. Crozier’s unnecessary demands.