Not Quite Darcy (5 page)

Yorkshire-Upon-Pudding? Passing off Kurt Cobain as a Victorian poet? It was time to close down this little circus act before she got herself into even deeper trouble.

“I'm feeling quite tired, Mr. Brown. I'm sorry for…all this.” She made a sweeping gesture and stepped toward the door.

“Ah, well then. Yes. I shall wish you good evening, Bessie,” he mumbled, opening the door for her.

“Good night, Mr. Brown, sir.” She turned and bobbed a curtsy at him.

“Should you wish to use the library, please feel free to do so, Bessie. Mother no longer takes an interest and it would be a shame if I were the only one to avail myself of it.”

“Thank you. That would be great.” Eliza gave him a broad smile. A slight blush tinted the sharp angle of his cheekbones as his eyes flashed downward.

“You might wish to take this with you.” He held out the Browning book, his eyes still studying the carpet.

She took it from his hands, and he stepped backward.

“Then I should bid you good evening, Bessie.”

“And you, Mr. Brown,” Eliza returned in a voice that sounded so Victorian to her ears that she gave herself a little mental pat on the back.

As she fled to the safety of her room, she had to admit that the night's adventure hadn't been a complete bust. Though she'd gotten into some tricky conversational waters, she hadn't blown her cover.

William Brown was a far cry from the dashing young lord she'd hoped for, but there was more to him than she'd initially thought. If William was somehow key to her mission, to the American she had yet to meet, she might only have to find out what he hid behind his mask and she would find the solution to her mission. Trouble was, he seemed to sense she held a few secrets of her own.

Clutching her small poetry book, she made her way back down the hall to her room, emotionally and physically exhausted.

Chapter Five

William did not sleep. Insomnia wasn't unusual for him; his mother was ill and he'd endured many sleepless nights at her side. This night, however, had nothing to do with tending to a sick patient and everything to do with his unusual conversation with the new family maid. Her being an American, he would naturally have expected some differences, a few eccentricities. He hadn't expected Bessie. Her manners, her modes of speech, the way she approached the world—it was absolutely alien to him. The encounter had been more than disquieting. It had rattled something loose at his very foundation.

At four o'clock in the morning, still completely awake, he was pulled from his bed by the sounds of his mother's coughing. It was just as well. He dressed quickly, not bothering with a shave, and slipped into her room.

She lay curled on one side, pale even against the white sheets. Her fragile body shook with each cough, and William placed a reassuring hand on her back.

“Here Mother, let's sit you up.” He eased her into a sitting position, his hand pressing against the protruding bones of her spine. After tucking two pillows behind her back, he lowered her. He reached for the pitcher on her side table and poured her a glass of water, offering it to her wordlessly.

She raised her hand and it trembled in the air, a leaf on a breeze.

“Thank you, dear.” Her voice was raspy. She took the glass with shaking fingers and took a tentative sip. After a few swallows, she tilted the glass back and handed it back to him.

“I hope I didn't wake you,” she said. Even at her worst, she hated to be a bother.

“Not at all, Mother. Would you like to lie down again?”

“I shan't be going back to sleep now, I'm afraid.”

Since it was still dark out, William reached up, his fingers fumbling against the wall for the silver match holder. He grasped a match and struck it, then lit the wall lamp. The warm glow of the flame did little to brighten his mother's color. Though Beatrix Brown had been a great beauty in her day, consumption had gobbled up so much of her that she was only a shadow of her former self. Her once lustrous yellow hair was now white and brittle. The lean form of her youth was whittled down to skeletal. She shimmered with a fragility that was reserved for the terminally ill.

William dropped his gaze to the floor. “Would you like some company?”

“Yes, dear. That would be lovely.” She coughed again. “And we've much to talk about. My new nurse arrives today, does she not?”

“She arrived yesterday, actually.” He rubbed a hand against his stubbled chin. “Miss Bessie Pepper.”

“And were Bessie's papers in order?”

“Her references were quite in order, yes.” Though he had to admit it was Bessie herself who was most…unordered, to a disturbingly delightful degree. He'd never met anyone quite like Bessie. Indeed, he'd not considered the possibility of a person like Bessie even existing.

He felt his mother's gaze on him and suddenly, urgently, he wanted to fill the rapidly growing lapse in conversation. “Bessie seems quite intelligent, actually. She appears to be knowledgeable about books and has professed an interest in poetry.”

“How unusual in a maid, but I suppose they do things differently in the colonies.” Mother glanced at him and raised her eyebrows slightly. “She is an American, isn't she?”

“Not precisely, though her past twelve years of service were spent in California.”

“Oh? Well, I would presume that would be quite enough time to alter a person's manners.”

“I must ask,” William said as he settled into his usual chair at her bedside, “why it is that you were so keen on hiring an American? You don't have any acquaintances in the colonies that I know of.”

She gave him a wavering smile. “Nothing wrong with familiarizing oneself with a new nationality. After all, so many young American ladies are making their way to England now. I should think that having Bessie on our staff would help us to become acquainted with their ways.”

His mother spoke of Americans as if they were a tribal people, best viewed from a distance and ideally in the company of an expert anthropologist. He opened his mouth to inquire about her interest in them, but when he saw her blinking nervously at him, he closed it again. Though her determination to have an American maid had been odd, he had no good reason to cause her discomfort by questioning her further.

“I'm so relieved that you'll be free to return to your club,” she said in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “A young man shouldn't be cooped up in a sick room, but out maintaining social connections.”

“Spending time with you is no chore, Mother—I assure you. And with Bessie so newly arrived, I don't mind staying at home. At least until she's established.”

“Nonsense.” His mother waved a pale hand in the air. It would have been a more convincing gesture of dismissal if her hand hadn't trembled quite so much. “She comes highly recommended, as you've said. Besides, Dora and Mrs. McLaughlin will be about should the new girl have any trouble.” Her voice dissolved into a series of ugly, rattling coughs. William stood back, biting his bottom lip.

He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Shall I prepare some powder, Mother?”

She sighed. “No, son. It makes me so sleepy. I'll wait for Dora to bring breakfast. Surely I can hold out for that long.”

“How about I read some Jane Austen to you in the meanwhile? She would be charming company until your meal arrives, don't you think?”

“That would be lovely, William. You're such a dear.”

As he reached over to her bedside table to pick up the well-worn book, he heard the sound of Mrs. McLaughlin stomping up the back stairs, then pounding, likely on the new maid's door. The woman had the grace of a bull on a good day—and this morning sounded like a very bad day indeed.

William opened the book where the marker lay and began to read.

Dora delivered a breakfast of buttered muffins and eggs with diced ham. His mother only picked at it. Consumption had reduced her appetite to that of a hummingbird. After breakfast, Mother requested a dose of Dover's Powder, which William prepared by mixing the concoction with a cup of hot tea. As expected, the medicine eased her coughing and also sedated her. She spent the morning napping. Leaving his door open, in case she should need him, William went back to bed, grateful when sleep claimed him at last.

Mother woke shortly after noon, and he settled into his usual chair at her bedside. During her morning slumber, her braid had come slightly undone. In the absence of Fanny, Dora had done her best, but ladies' hairstyles were not her forte. He hoped that Bessie was competent when it came to such things. Appearance was of tantamount important to his mother. She might be ill, but would see that as no excuse for being unkempt.

Footsteps approached the door. Instead of two taps, as he expected, there was instead a very long pause. He and his mother exchanged a puzzled glance. He stood and walked toward the door to see what was going on, when three loud raps sounded on wood.

He lifted the latch to find not Dora, but Bessie. Her eyes were wide, the green completely surrounded by white. She gripped the silver lunch tray tightly, and her left hand now wore a white bandage, which covered her knuckles.

“Good afternoon, Bessie. Are you quite all right?”

“Yes.” She dropped her gaze to the lunch tray. “Sir,” she added at last. “I'm here with breakfast…no, lunch, for your mom…no, mother.”

Oh dear. This unsteady creature was such a different person from the confident, lively woman he'd spoken with in the library just last night. Her transformation was astounding and a little disheartening. Perhaps he'd underestimated Mrs. McLaughlin.

He lingered a moment, his back to his mother, until Bessie glanced up again. He gave her a quick, reassuring grin. To behave in such a manner felt a little strange to William, a little unnatural. Yet she seemed so suddenly insecure that he could not help himself. When their eyes met, her lips quirked up in a weak attempt at a smile. It wasn't much, but it was just enough to help thaw her severe expression.

William stepped back into the room and moved to clear the side table for their lunch. Bessie placed the tray down carefully. Her shaking hand caused the china to rattle out a peppy beat.

“Mother, please allow me to introduce Bessie Pepper.”

Bessie dipped her head and knees. Her curtsy had vastly improved since yesterday. Today it resembled, well…a curtsy.

“Pleased to meet you, ma'am,” Bessie said, her voice soft, eyes on the carpet.

“Welcome to our household. I trust my son and Mrs. MacLaughlin have seen to explaining the running of the house?”

“Yes.” Bessie shot William a nervous glance and inexplicably curtsied yet again.

“I'm certain Bessie will fit right into the household in no time at all.” William was certain of no such thing, but Bessie looked so unhappy he had to say it.

“And you're from America, as I understand.”

“Yes, from California, to be exact…ma'am,” Bessie said. The way she continued to add “ma'ams” and “sirs” to conversation, almost as an afterthought, was quite striking. She threw the words onto the end of statements the way one might add a garnish to a dinner plate.

“I look forward to hearing about it.” Mother smiled. It was so wonderful to see a smile grace her lips again. “And now that you're with us, William can attend his gentlemen's club in the afternoon. He's such a good boy. He's lodged no complaints at being pressed into round-the-clock service to me.”

“I'm happy to help,” Eliza said. “Perhaps after lunch I could read to you.”

His mother looked startled, but not displeased at her response. “Yes, he told me about your ability to read, Bessie. Most remarkable. Reading would be a welcome diversion. William's been reading
Sense and Sensibility
.”

“But first thing this afternoon,” William said, “Bessie is scheduled to administer your mustard plaster, Mother.” He turned to look at Bessie. “You are familiar with the application of plasters, I presume?”

“Certainly,” Bessie replied, her concentration focused on arranging the lunch tray.

“Oh William.” Mother's voice came out on a sigh. “You know my feelings in that regard.”

“But we've neglected the treatment in Fanny's absence.” He tugged at his hair nervously.

“Last time it burned me horribly. You remember.”

“The doctor was quite specific, Moth—”

“You wouldn't insist upon it though, would you son?” She gazed up at him with a pitiful expression.

William glanced down at her, guilt twisting his resolve into knots.

“We needn't follow Dr. Hill in all matters.” Her voice wavered and she reached out to clasp his hand. “Your father wouldn't have. He would have stood up on my behalf.”

“As you wish, Mother.”

“Thank you, dear. You're such a good boy.”

William stood and moved toward the door. “I shall leave you in Bessie's capable hands, then.” He lifted the latch and left the room without another word as Bessie settled in beside her patient.

Chapter Six

The door closed with a click. Eliza looked down at Beatrix Brown and felt a lump rise in her throat. Though she'd been around ill people before, this was something different, something more profound. Mrs. Brown wasn't as much sick as she was wasted. Diminished. A thin shadow of the woman she must have been in her prime, so pale against the sheets. The bed seemed to swallow her.

Eliza forced a smile. “How about we get started on your lunch? Mrs. McLaughlin said that cucumber sandwiches are one of your favorites.” She held out the delicately trimmed sandwich, hoping that she wasn't supposed to use a knife and fork. When Mrs. Brown took a nibble, Eliza's trepidation uncoiled a little.

Mrs. Brown appeared to prefer silence as she ate, which was fine by Eliza. The morning had been a disaster of epic proportions, and she longed for a port in the storm. Mrs. McLaughlin was beyond disappointed at Eliza's many failings. She couldn't mop properly, didn't know her way around the pantry and when told to light the parlor fire, had nearly managed to set the floor aflame. In her former life, no one had ever explained the importance of fireplace screen placement. Go figure.

Mrs. Brown ate half the sandwich before she waved her lunch away. Bessie returned the tray to the kitchen, managing to avoid the housekeeper altogether. When she returned to the sickroom, Mrs. Brown requested that Eliza read a bit from
Sense and Sensibility
. From the way the woman watched her, Eliza suspected she was being tested. This was confirmed when, only a few paragraphs in, Mrs. Brown interrupted to tell her she was doing, “Very well. Very well, indeed.” The compliment was given in such a tone that she might have been commenting on how remarkable it was that someone had trained a bear to ride a bike.

After a few hours, Mrs. Brown had her fill of the Dashwood sisters. Reading had progressed slowly due to prolonged coughing fits, which were quite terrifying. As her patient had hacked and struggled for breath, Eliza resisted patting the ill woman's back, afraid it would be somehow “uppity” of her to indulge in such familiar behavior. Instead, she resorted to getting Mrs. Brown multiple drinks of water and dabbing her face with a cool cloth. Mrs. Brown murmured that she liked the damp cloth treatment a great deal and wondered why Fanny had never done such a thing.

When the missus had at last drifted off, Eliza was unsure of what she should do. Torn between lingering by the sleeping woman and engaging in some random bit of cleaning, she opted to slip downstairs and simply ask Mrs. MacLaughlin herself. She found the housekeeper in the kitchen busily dicing some kind of unidentifiable root vegetable.

“Mrs. Brown's asleep.” When it came to Mrs. MacLaughlin, the less said, the better.

“It's past three. There's some lamb, cheese and bread on the counter there for you.”

“Thank you.” Eliza was surprised to find how famished she suddenly felt. Lamb might not be
In ‘n Out Burger
, but it sounded a great deal more swallowable than the porridge she'd forced down at breakfast.

“How's the missus this afternoon?” Mrs. MacLaughlin asked between chops.

“I mostly just read to her, but she had a couple of coughing fits that were just awful. I didn't realize she was quite so ill.” Eliza couldn't mask the sadness in her voice.

Mrs. MacLaughlin turned to look at her with pursed lips. “You'd best be up to the task, miss. We won't tolerate any ineptitude when it comes to our missus. And we don't want her settling in with a new girl, just to have you leave.”

Eliza swallowed a mouthful of roll and guilt made it stick in her throat. After a few moments, she came up with a truthful response. “I'll do my best. Caring for Mrs. Brown is my favorite duty.”

Mrs. McLaughlin harrumphed indignantly, then returned to her attack on the rutabaga-turnip object on the cutting board.

“When you've eaten, back upstairs with you. Remain with her until the mister returns from his club. Then come back downstairs and we'll set you to work on the silver.” She leveled a glare in Eliza's direction. “I trust you'll be unable to set silverware ablaze.”

At another reminder of her failures of the morning, Eliza nodded and returned to her meal.

By the time Eliza returned to her patient, Mrs. Brown was awake again and seemed already anxious for company. She chatted, mostly about her son, while Eliza listened with interest. The more she could learn about William, the better for her mission.

Mrs. Brown's son, however, didn't seem to have a very dark and storied past. His father had died in a flu epidemic when William was five and his mother had focused her energies on her only child. Her driving force in life seemed to have been providing him with the best education, pushing him toward the upper fringe of society.

By his mother's account, William was a model son—doting, patient, sensitive. And he wrote the loveliest poetry. Though she seemed concerned regarding what she referred to as his “liberal political leanings,” she blamed those on his time at Oxford and was certain he'd come around to a more conservative mindset as he matured. When his mother mentioned his age—twenty-nine—Eliza had to wonder how close to adulthood she thought William to be now.

Before long, soft footsteps sounded in the hall, quickly followed by two raps upon the door. William entered the room and smiled widely upon seeing his mother. The transformation to his face was astounding. He looked so tender, so approachable, when wearing that sweet smile.

He quickly moved to his mother's side and gave Eliza a nod of acknowledgment.

“Did you have a good afternoon, Mother?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Brown said, looking at Eliza. “Bessie reads remarkably well. She even affects a certain tone when reading Colonel Brandon. It was most entertaining.”

William bent down and kissed his mother's forehead gently. Though the master of the house was hardly masterful, she had to admit that his mild disposition had its plusses. She recalled their conversation in the library. According to her novels, most proper English gentlemen wouldn't stoop so low as to converse with a servant for any length of time. Come to think of it, she wasn't entirely sure if Mr. Darcy knew servants existed.

“I'm going to put a few things away before I join you for dinner,” he said. “I believe Bessie is needed below stairs. Will you be all right on your own?”

“Yes dear.” She waved him away, but wore a pleased expression.

Eliza slipped out and the click of the latch announced that William followed behind. As she began to walk down the hall, his voice stopped her.

“Thank you.”

She turned around slowly to see him standing there, hand still on the latch, looking at her with a smile that reached his blue eyes.

“I haven't seen her so happy in a long while,” he said.

“It's my job, Mr. Brown. And besides, she's a lovely patient.”

“It may be your job, but I believe you've done more than that today, Bessie. You have my most sincere gratitude.”

Eliza could only grin widely in response.

He dropped his eyes to the carpet then, his smile fading.

She sighed, quite a bit more loudly than she'd intended. It unnerved her when he continually dropped his gaze, as though he was hiding something.

He turned and went to his room without another word. She had no option but to trudge downstairs. She had a date with silverware and Mrs. MacLaughlin had likely been saving scathing looks for her for the past hour.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Eliza pulled her heavy eyelids open at the steady rapping sound. At first, she had no idea where she was, then it all came flooding back, along with a feeling of dread. She felt her way across the darkened room until her fingers bumped into the latch. Upon opening the door a crack, she peered through to meet the narrowed and angry eyes of Mrs. MacLaughlin.

“It's your second morning here,” the older woman snapped. “You should know our hours by now. I've had the kitchen fire burning for half an hour.” She glared at Eliza through the crack in the door before turning to stomp down the back stairs.

Eliza shut the door behind her and groaned. “Good god. Forty-hour work week—I didn't love you enough when I had you.”

She struggled into her still unfamiliar clothes, her head numbed with sleep. After struggling with the strange, split-crotch pantaloons, she pulled her maid's uniform over her head.

“Not-so-little black dress, I hate you already,” she grumbled. “It's like my life is being directed by Tim Burton. With any luck, William's best friend will turn out to be Johnny Depp and he'll be my mission here. He's American, after all. A girl can hope.”

She scrunched her hair into a knot and stuffed it under her maid's cap. Messy, but effective. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she trudged down the back stairs until she reached the basement floor of the home.

Of all the rooms in the house, Eliza disliked the dark and smoky kitchen the most. The place was a confusing maze of rooms and work stations: a larder, a pantry, a scullery. It was laid out as if aliens had read a badly translated description of a kitchen and tried to put one together with only determination and luck.

Mrs. MacLaughlin stood in front of the range, which squatted, large and unstovelike in the center of the room. It inexplicably featured the only hot water in the house.

Since Mrs. MacLaughlin was cook as well as housekeeper, this was her undisputed domain. Much of Eliza's dislike of the place was due to feeling like an intruder in what was clearly claimed territory. Yesterday, the housekeeper had asked Eliza to fill the copper and had nearly had an aneurism when she'd filled a tea kettle instead.

“Bessie, fetch the black lead and emery paper from the scullery,” Mrs. MacLaughlin said.

“I—uh—” Eliza replied.

Mrs. MacLaughlin groaned and stomped heavily toward a closet. After a few moments of rustling, she procured a handful of unidentifiable objects and slammed them down beside the stove.

Eliza couldn't imagine how to clean a stove with lead and paper, so she watched as Mrs. MacLaughlin scrubbed the range. When the woman had finished, she lit a fire and set a pot of water on top. She sprinkled some oats into the water and thrust a spoon into Eliza's hand. “Here, stir the porridge while I prepare the eggs and ham.”

Eliza gripped the spoon and stuck it into the pot.

“Didn't you have kitchen duty in your previous position?” Mrs. MacLaughlin wore a suspicious expression as she watched Eliza stir.

“No. I don't know a whole lot about this stuff,” Eliza said.

The housekeeper pulled down a basket of eggs and began cracking them into a large ceramic bowl. “And you speak in a most peculiar manner with all your American words. Best you be speaking the Queen's English now.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Subservience seemed to be a cure-all for whenever Mrs. MacLaughlin was feeling snippy. Which seemed to be always.

The back door opened and Dora tumbled in, greeting everyone with a bright smile. Eliza returned the smile and threw in a wave for good measure.

“Sleep in, did you?” the older woman sniffed.

“I got up at my usual time,” Dora breezed. There was so little guile in her that she didn't see it in others. “Would you like me to tend the grates or assist with cooking, ma'am?”

“Take your breakfast while I finish cooking for them that's upstairs.”

Dora grabbed a stack of bowls from a side cupboard and set them beside the bubbling pot. After scooping up a ladleful of porridge, she handed the dipper to Eliza and took her seat at the long, scarred wooden table.

Eliza dished up a bowl and settled in beside Dora just as the back door opened. Davy—no last name, just Davy—shouldered his way into the room. She'd met him in passing on the previous day. He served as both gardener and carriage driver for the household. He was a well-muscled young man, though his features were difficult to distinguish due to the tangle of black hair perpetually covering his eyes.

Dora clearly had it bad for the boy, and she maneuvered her chair toward the empty seat while Davy ladled up his breakfast. While Eliza gagged down a bowlful of what looked and tasted like boiled shoeboxes, she listened to Dora and Davy converse through a series of giggles on the part of the former and grunts from the latter.

Eliza looked around the dark, smoky kitchen, and fought a wave of homesickness. Her apartment was cramped, but her tiny kitchen table was perched by a window. It only held a view of the interstate, true, but at least it was sunny. She pushed around a lump of porridge, longing for
Capt'n Crunch
.

After washing her bowl in the scullery, she returned to the main kitchen area to find Dora had gone upstairs with breakfast for the Browns. Mrs. MacLaughlin waited for her with crossed arms and a scowl.

“I'm sending you to tend to the grates upstairs, but don't attempt to light anything.” She pointed a plump finger at Eliza. “Just cleaning. I'll send Dora along to watch you.”

Eliza nodded and slipped upstairs, waiting for Dora just inside the parlor. When the younger girl arrived, she carried a small shovel and black canvas bag.

“Mrs. MacLaughlin seems a bit cross today,” Dora said.

“It's nice to know she has good days,” Eliza replied. “Can you show me how to do the whole grate cleaning thing? I didn't do this at my old job and I'd really like to avoid setting the floor on fire today.”

Dora thrust the canvas bag into Eliza's hands. While the younger girl swept the grates, Eliza scooped the soot into the bag.

“So Dora,” Eliza said between scoops, “do you know why it is that they hired me for this position?”

Dora's forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Why, because Fanny left us.”

“I don't mean that, exactly. I mean, why did they hire me, an American? Everyone seems to be making such a big deal of it.”

“Ah, word is that the missus was keen on hiring an American due to her son.” Dora dumped another shovelful of soot in Eliza's bag, then cast a worried glance over her shoulder. Once she was certain they were alone, she continued in a not-so-quiet whisper. “Mrs. Brown fancies marrying him off to an American, you see. She reckons if he gets more accustomed to them and their peculiar manners, he'll be a little more at ease around them Dollar Princesses.”