Not Quite Darcy (9 page)

Chapter Ten

For the next few days, though Eliza saw William daily, they were rarely alone. They might share a word in the hall as they passed, or exchange updates about his mother outside her bedroom door—but any kind of friendship, of intimacy, remained leashed like a well-trained dog.

By the end of her second week, Eliza began to notice subtle changes in the little world within the house. Mrs. MacLaughlin doled out fewer dirty looks every day. Mrs. Brown seemed to grow more comfortable with Eliza as well. Best of all, William followed through on his pledge to continue boxing. She couldn't help but feel proud of him and in her role in the matter. He stayed later and later at the club and returned to the house in a mood that bordered on confident.

On Friday morning, Eliza woke earlier than usual. It was her two-week anniversary of arriving in the Brown household and the day felt significant somehow. She fumbled to the wardrobe in the predawn light and slipped into her maid uniform. After pinning her hair into a bun and tucking it beneath her cap, she sat on the edge of her bed, brimming with nervous energy.

Mrs. MacLaughlin wouldn't be in for a while and there was no point in going down to the kitchen since she hadn't the foggiest idea about starting the stove or doing any of the complicated housekeeper duties.

With nothing better to do, she began to tidy up her small room. Her possessions were so few that it didn't take long to straighten up. When she reached under the bed for a stray hair pin, her fingertips brushed against a wadded up bit of paper. She withdrew it and smoothed out its crumpled edges.

It was the note, her three rules from the Repairmen. She'd tossed it away without a thought her first night in the Brown home, but here it was again. Almost as though it had been mailed, special delivery, by Lancaster and York. A nagging reminder sent through time and space.

Looking over the list of rules, she had to admit that she'd done especially well when it came to the final rule. She'd told no one the truth about herself, about her mission there. As far as the first rule was concerned, she'd done a fine enough job as well. She'd tried her level best not to waste any time, to make it count. When they worked you from dawn to dusk, wasting time hadn't really been much of an option.

The second rule, though. That was the troublesome one.

Form no lasting attachments.

She read the words in a whisper and felt a guilty knot form in her throat. Her thoughts immediately went to William.

Nothing had happened between them, she reassured herself. True, they had an odd kind of friendship, but that was all it was. A “kindred souls” kind of thing. They were both lonely, isolated in their own ways and so they felt a connection. She hadn't acted on it. She wouldn't. She knew better.

God knows he wouldn't. If he felt anything at all. Which, who was she kidding, he didn't.

She looked at the note, staring at her like an accusation.

Like she needed a reminder. She was only a visitor here, a time tourist. Besides, even a very fake Victorian expert as herself knew that the master of the house and the maid could never be.

She had a life in California and he had a life here. There wasn't any changing that.

She sighed and willed herself to concentrate on the wonders of the modern age. Cell phones, air conditioning, computers and movies about Marvel Superheros. She didn't belong in this time and she shouldn't have to remind herself that she shouldn't long to.

It was past time for her to get down to business, to figure out her purpose in this place. Her two-week anniversary seemed significant, somehow, and she'd accomplished bupkiss as far as her mission was concerned. Unless, perhaps, the whole deal had been an elaborate scheme to get William to box. Maybe in the future the world would experience a serious boxing shortage without her valiant efforts.

She slipped out of her room and thudded down the stairs, feeling like a failure.

After breakfast, Eliza spent the morning scrubbing the front stonework with something called a holystone. It was, to her eye, a brick with a pretentious name. After she'd helped Mrs. Brown with lunch, her patient had dozed off, leaving her with a bit of spare time.

Eliza slipped into the library. She didn't have a good excuse to be there, she knew, but it was the room in which she felt most comfortable. As she strolled around, perusing book titles, she heard someone coming up the hall. She looked at the door hopefully, expecting William.

“Bessie?” Dora peeked around the door. “Mrs. MacLaughlin wanted me to let you know that we're off to the market. She said ‘If the missus is resting, tell Bessie to dust the parlor and dining room while we're away,' so I'm telling you.”

“Dora, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Of course I can!” The girl beamed.

“I was wondering if you could call me Eliza instead of Bessie.”

“But Bessie's your name, Bessie!”

“It's only a nickname for Elizabeth though. And to be honest, ‘Bessie' sounds like something you'd name a cow.”

Dora blinked and gave her a confused stare. “Are all Americans like you?”

Eliza only shrugged.

“Fine, Bess-liza. I'll call you whatever you like.”

“Thank you,” Eliza said as she gave the girl an apologetic smile.

The younger girl then darted downstairs to meet up with doubtlessly impatient Mrs. MacLaughlin.

With Mrs. Brown fast asleep and William not expected back until dinner, Eliza was alone in the house. The feeling was shockingly exhilarating. Around the staff and family she felt the constant and steady pressure of being out of her place and time, ever conscious of saying or doing something inappropriate. Though, for some odd reason, her guard consistently dropped in William's presence.

But now she had the entire house to herself. Now she had the luxury of being just exactly who she was. She grinned and dashed out of the library, taking the stairs, the main stairs, two at a time. Not because she was in any kind of hurry, but because she could.

Armed with a feather duster and a sudden infusion of enthusiasm, she finished dusting the dining room in record time. Upon entering the usually darkened parlor, she pulled the drapes open, allowing the sun to sneak a rare glimpse into the room. Smiling to herself, she whirled over to a corner table and began sweeping her duster across it in large strokes. What she could really use right now was some tuneage.

Unfortunately, she was living in a time that was light years from iPods. Probably light years from light years as well. No matter. No rock music in this era of repression? She'd make her own. Nothing helped housework quite so much as My Chemical Romance.

She broke into
I'm Not Okay.
As she sang, she whirled the duster in circular patterns over the fireplace mantle. She tossed her head enthusiastically and the pins holding her bun clattered to the floor like tired autumn leaves.

Spinning around the side table, she danced by a corner shelf and grabbed a candlestick that was frankly asking for it. Holding it out like a microphone, she tossed her head. Her hips swayed side to side, rock-star style.

As she finished a line about being worn out and repeating how very not okay she felt, she heard a rustling sound behind her.

“A-hem,” came a familiar voice from the door. William.

Oh,
not
okay. Not okay at all. Eliza closed her eyes in a wince, frozen. Slowly, she lowered the candlestick microphone to her side.

“Please, Eliza, I don't mean to intrude upon your, ehm, unique cleaning regimen. Undoubtedly this is all the rage in America?” William's voice broke with laughter.

She turned to see him leaning against the door frame, arms casually crossed, mouth wearing an impish grin.

“I can explain.” Eliza responded.

“Yes, you
can
explain. The question is, 
will
 you?”

“I need to go,” she blurted. “Your mother's linens need changing.”

She moved to leave the room, which unfortunately entailed walking right past him. He did not even have the good grace to step aside. Sweet William was showing a new, more provocative side. Something just beneath his surface crackled with raw energy. It was more than a little unnerving.

Just as she walked past, he leaned in. His lips were close enough that his breath tickled her ear when he spoke. “You really ought to tell me the truth, Eliza.”

She spent the next hour sorting through linens on the second floor and grumbling to herself about how people should be where they said they were going to be, and not creeping up on her in unexpected ways and saying things in low sexy voices and being general pains in the ass.

Her morning determination to keep distant from William was as forgotten as the hairpins on the parlor floor.

Mrs. MacLaughlin and Dora returned from the market and Eliza spent the rest of the afternoon storing purchases in the larder and preparing dinner. The housekeeper was in an especially a foul mood, which inspired Eliza to keep her head down and her mouth shut.

Between barked orders, Mrs. MacLaughlin informed Eliza that dinner was to be early that evening because the mister was attending a ball at the home of the Rallings. A real ball with, Eliza presumed, real ball gowns, and gentlemen fetching glasses of punch, and ladies giving longing looks from behind demurely placed fans. The exact scene she'd longed for when she first—

“The roux!” Mrs. MacLaughlin barked in Eliza's ear. “Stir it, girl. It burns if you don't stir it.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Eliza mumbled, curtsying to the stove for good measure. She curbed the urge to sing a song from
Cinderella
and glumly stirred the gluey-looking paste.

Since Mrs. Brown had enjoyed a good day and “the mister” was leaving for the evening, dinner was to be served in the dining room—a rarity for the household.

Shortly before seven, Eliza was ordered to assist Mrs. Brown downstairs. As she settled the elderly woman in her chair, William entered the room. When she turned to greet him, she found herself at a loss for words.

This was not the William she was accustomed to. This was a striking figure, dressed in jet-black formal wear, set off with a crisp, white shirt. He'd transformed from the stuffy-looking man into another creature entirely, she had to admit. One who was startlingly handsome.

She inhaled a shaking breath.

Okay, so maybe he was a
little
like Darcy.

William nodded politely, and took a seat near his mother. Although black formal wear changed his exterior, in his demeanor he remained carefully controlled. The black tie was just a coat of paint for the proper mama's boy. The teasing man from earlier in the afternoon had been carefully tucked away.

Eliza's serving duties didn't require her to spend long in the dining room, but while there, she noticed that he ate little, nervously refolding his napkin and toying absently with the silverware. When Eliza entered the room with a water pitcher, she caught the tail end of William's conversation.

“…any number of reforms under Prime Minister Gladstone.”

Beatrix Brown gave her son a disparaging glance. “You will refrain from discussing such things at the ball, won't you? Even an American woman would abhor the topic of politics.”

“I won't speak of it, Mother.”

“And you must mingle. Don't spend the entire evening in the corner.”

William said nothing. The only sound in the room was the slosh of water as Eliza refilled their goblets.

“Lord Rallings is introducing an American cousin, or so I've heard. I should imagine there will be quite a few eligible American ladies at the gathering.”

He studied his goblet as though water held a deep mystery.

His mother continued, undaunted. “Why, after becoming accustomed to our Bessie here, I should expect that you would feel comfortable making the acquaintance of any number of young American women. I know you've a more timid nature, but I must insist upon it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as your departed father so often said.”

William pulled his eyes from the water goblet and looked at his mother. His expression was one of pure misery.

Having filled their glasses, Eliza could find no credible excuse to linger any longer. She thudded downstairs to the kitchen where Dora was scrubbing off the long kitchen table. Naturally, hearing talk of Americans led Eliza to the hope that William's attendance at the ball might have something to do with her mission. But since she was stuck at home behind a big pile of dishes, she couldn't imagine how she'd have a chance to do anything about it.

“Why the sour face?” Dora asked.

“I swear, sometimes William's mom treats him like a ten-year-old,” Eliza muttered. Dora gave her a scandalized expression.

Mrs. MacLaughlin handed Eliza a dessert tray holding two dishes containing a jiggly substance. Reentering the dining room, she was surprised to find William's chair empty.

“My son won't be requiring dessert at present,” Mrs. Brown said. “Leave it for him in the pantry, Bess. He despises rice pudding, but I insist he have it. It's so good for his complexion.”

Eliza knew her expected role in this “conversation.” Servants were to say nothing and nod. She said nothing. She nodded. She bit her tongue as the older woman continued.

“He's not due to leave for the Rallings until eight o'clock, but he had to retire to his room, dear boy. He has such a nervous stomach for these types of society engagements. I shudder to think of his social aspirations without my encouragement.”

Eliza bobbed a curtsy and returned to the safety of the kitchen.

“If you had a little faith in the guy,” Eliza mumbled to herself, “maybe he'd stop being so hopeless. In all other aspects you're swell, but when it comes to your son you can sometimes be such a—cow.”

“Are you goin' on about cows again, Eliza?” Dora interrupted. “I've already told you I'll stop calling you Bessie.”