The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1) (6 page)

“Wot ‘ave ya done, Miss?”

“I told him that he is my servant.”

“Ya told ‘im wot?”

There was nothing for it but to tell Georgina the complete truth and pray the sweet girl could help her set everything right again.

“Colin Cavendish is not Mr. Cavendish. He is the fifth or sixth or something Earl of Drayson,” Lucy said.

Georgina gasped, covering her open mouth with the palm of her hand. Then she slowly lowered it, frowning in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why does ’e fink ’e’s your servant if ’e’s an earl?”

“Because he does not remember who he is or anything about himself. His memory has vanished for the time being, and . . . oh, Georgy, he said the most insulting things to me. I am afraid I quite lost my temper and told the most monstrous of tales.”

Georgina gaped at her. “Oh, Miss, ya didn’t.”

Lucy dropped her head into her hands again. “How could I have behaved so foolishly? What is to be done?”

“I’ll tell ya what’s ter be done,” said Georgina. “Ya must march back in there and tell ’im the truf. Say you was only jestin’ before and didn’t mean anythin’ by it.”

“Georgy, you don’t understand. If I tell him the truth now, we’ll be out on our ears before dark.”

The maid’s eyes widened. “Out on our ears? ’A can ’e do that?”

Lucy sighed, deciding it was past time to explain. In a pained voice, she told Georgina all about the earl’s visit, about the distressing news he’d imparted, about the way she had yelled at him and slammed the door on him.

“That is why I think him so odious,” she finished. “Though his horse really is called Darling, so that was not a fib—not that it matters anymore.” The weight of the day suddenly felt too heavy to bear any longer, and what was left of Lucy’s nerves began to unravel. “I broke my promise, Georgy. I told myself I would never lie again, and today I have spun the most abominable tale ever. Papa would be so disappointed. That is the worst bit in all of this.”

Georgina sank down next to Lucy and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “After all ya ’ave been through, it’s nah wonder. Your papa would understand.”

Lucy chuckled mirthlessly. “No. I do not think he would, sweet Georgy. But I thank you just the same.”

Georgina rubbed Lucy’s arm absentmindedly as she chewed on her lower lip, her brow puckered in worry. When she glanced at Lucy again it was to ask, “Am I ter be out of a job two months then?”

“Possibly.” Lucy nodded sadly. “Or sooner. Possibly whenever his lordship comes to his senses.”

“Oh, Miss Lucy, this is sad news for sure. I could never find another family loike yours.”

Lucy clasped the maid’s hand in her own and gave it a soft squeeze. “You are a dear, Georgy. I think of you more as a friend than a servant, you must know. You are all that is sweet and good and—”

Lucy stopped talking as the words echoed through her mind. Her thoughts began to spin and churn, calling to mind all the kind people she had known in her life. Her father. Mother. Mr. Shepherd. So many friends from town. The shopkeepers. Mr. Shepherd’s servants. Georgina. Especially Georgina.

Every single one of them had one thing in common—they cared for others more than themselves. For some it was by choice. Others, necessity. But still they cared, and it made them a better person in the end.

“Georgy,” said Lucy slowly, thinking out loud now. “Why are you so fond of Mother and me?”

Georgina thought a moment before responding. “Ya ’ave never treated me like a servant, Miss Lucy, and Mrs. Beresford neighter. It is me ’oo ’as ter remind ya of our differences in station.”

“Exactly,” said Lucy. “We care for each other because we respect each other—not as servants or mistresses, but as people. I have learned to respect you because I have worked at your side and have seen firsthand what you do for us and your own family every day.”

A blush appeared on Georgina’s cheeks, and she was quick to wave aside the praise. “Miss, ya ’re too kind.”

“Do you not think, Georgy, that Lord Drayson might benefit from being a servant for a day or—”

“Oh, Miss, nah. Ya cannot be thinkin’ that,” blurted Georgina.

“Only for a few days,” said Lucy. “Perhaps, if we are lucky, the experience will serve to change his outlook on life and on people.”

“But if’n it don’t, ’e’ll be so angry.” Georgina was wringing her hands.

“No angrier than he will be if I tell him the truth now.”

“Oh, I fink ’e’ll be a mite bit angrier, Miss.”

Georgina was probably right, Lucy conceded, but it did not sway her. “Either way, we will be evicted the moment he does learn the truth, so why not do everything in our power to bring him around before then?”

Georgina was shaking her head again, her eyes wide and frightened. “I don’t kna, Miss. Wot if ’is memory don’t come back? I fink we should tell ’im the truf and fetch the leech, then pray ’e ’as a forgivin’ nature.”

Lucy scoffed at the notion of the earl having a forgiving nature. Her brief acquaintance with the man had already shown her that he had nothing of the sort. “I’ll wager you my first rose in bloom that he doesn’t,” she said. This would seem like an insignificant wager to most, but Lucy considered her first rose of the season the most special of them all. It showed more stamina and fortitude, clawing its way to life before all the others, thus proving its mettle. It always had a special spot on her fireplace mantle next to the picture of her father.

“Oh, nah, I could never take your first rose,” said Georgina.

“Of course you couldn’t,” answered Lucy. “Which shows you how confident I am that we will be out on our backsides by sundown if we tell Lord Drayson the truth now.”

This had a sobering effect on Georgina. She fretted over her lower lip and twisted the fabric of her apron before finally nodding slowly. “Only a few days?”

“A week at most, assuming his lapse in memory lasts that long,” promised Lucy, not that her promises held much weight any longer, she thought sullenly.

Georgina pushed herself up from the chair. “Wot sort of servant is ’e ter be?”

“A butler, footman, and coachman,” answered Lucy. “And cook’s assistant, if needed.”

“Oh, Miss, ya can’t be serious,” protested Georgina.

“I am quite serious,” said Lucy. “Beginning tomorrow, we will teach Lord Drayson—er, I mean Collins—how wonderful it feels to think of another’s needs ahead of his own.”

“But ‘a can ya pay ’im, Miss? Ya cannot expect ’im to work for nah wages.”

Lucy’s lips lifted into a mischievous grin, having already come up with a plan. “In that, we need not worry, Georgy. For I have already thought up a past that will suit him nicely.”

Georgina looked more concerned than intrigued. “Past?”

“Yes,” said Lucy. “Collins appeared on our doorstep a fortnight ago with naught but the clothes on his back. He had no references, nothing to recommend him, and was willing to do any sort of labor for shelter and food. Although hesitant, I recalled the tale of the Samaritan and did what any proper vicar’s daughter would do. I took pity on the man and agreed to let him stay on for a short time. He has been a most dreadful servant, however, always putting on airs, but instead of giving him the boot, we have decided to give him one last chance for redemption. So you see, it isn’t all bad.”

Georgina immediately looked to the heavens, drew a cross over her chest, and muttered something under her breath. Lucy took the opportunity to escape the kitchen and grudgingly ascended the stairs again to the attic, where she had the unhappy task of finding the ugliest clothes amongst her father’s old things. She would also need to locate some other necessary items—like boots (which she prayed would fit), a shaving kit, a brush, and of course some unmentionables. If Lord Drayson was to be a servant in this house, he would need a room outfitted to look as though he had been an occupant for a time.

Collins looked around the sterile room, feeling like he had awakened from a bad dream, only to discover that it was not a dream at all. He was still lying on an uncomfortable bed in a white, sterile room with only a single painting on the wall—a rocky landscape with a forlorn-looking tree growing out of a crack and bending almost in half from the wind. Why would someone choose such a painting to adorn a wall? It only added to his discomfort, reminding him of his own pathetic state.

He furrowed his brow in an effort to recall something of his former life, but his head felt so cloudy and irregular. How much laudanum had the woman given him? What had she called herself again? Lucy? Yes, that was it. Lucy . . . Beresford. At least he could remember that. He furrowed his brows and blinked a few times, attempting to find additional clarity.

Collins. Collins. Collins.

The name echoed in his mind. That is what she had called him. It had been laughable at first, thinking of himself as a servant, but he couldn’t deny the familiarity of the name. It sounded right and felt as though it fit. And there was no denying the conviction in those hazel eyes when she’d proclaimed, “I do
not
tell tales.” But everything else she had spoken made very little sense. It was quite vexing, and he cursed Miss Beresford for drugging him into this stupor. He hated laudanum. See? He knew that with certainty. Just like he knew he wasn’t fond of Askern, no matter how welcoming the morning sunlight felt through the small window adjacent to his bed.

And yet he was in Askern, and according to Miss Beresford, had lived here for a short while . . . as her servant. And that is where the doubts began. For at that point, the conviction in Miss Beresford’s eyes had been replaced with brilliant flashes of anger, flashes that had ignited her eyes and stirred another forgotten memory somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind.

Blast his forgotten memories! Collins despised being at Miss Beresford’s mercy, or anyone’s mercy for that matter.

The door swung open, and in breezed a small woman, not much older than Miss Beresford, carrying a tray. A worn, white apron was tied about her tiny waist, and her blonde hair, though held back, frizzed around her face as though she had been up long before the sun.

“Oh, you’re awake, m—I mean, Collins. Such a happy sight ter see.” She set the tray on the side table and clasped her fingers together in a nervous fashion.

Collins didn’t miss the fact that she had stumbled over his name, nor did he oversee the nervous twitches of her hands. He studied her, attempting to find something familiar about her, but . . . nothing. The woman was as foreign to him as this horrid room.

“I made ya some toast and . . . chocolate. I hope ya loike it.”

Collins finally found his voice. “Would you not already know what I like, er . . . my apologies. I cannot remember your name.”

Her hands detangled, re-clasping behind her back. “It’s Georgina, but most folks call me Georgy. And yer right. I kna that ya loike chocolate, Collins.” There was a tremor in her voice that bespoke uncertainty.

“Yes, I do,” he agreed, taking a sip. “I do not, however, like toast.”

Her answer came without hesitation. “Toast is easy on the stomach. Ya should see ’a it settles before ya try somethin’ more ter your loiking.”

“And what is more to my liking?” he quizzed.

She lifted her chin, but her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Anythin’ but toast, I would say. Ya ’ave a ’ealthy appetite.”

Collins hid a smile. She had neatly dodged his questions without giving anything away, and yet it was clear she was hiding something. What man didn’t have a healthy appetite, after all? He took a bite of the dry toast and another sip of chocolate to wash it down. “I thank you, Georgina. I must be famished because the toast tastes quite good.”

She blushed, either at the use of her full name or the compliment, he couldn’t tell. “Are ya feelin’ more loike yourself?”

“My head no longer aches, if that is what you are asking.”

She offered him a tentative smile. “Miss Lucy was hopin’ that would be the case. I’m ter show ya ter your room if’n ya loike.”

“And where is my room?” he asked.

“Below stairs.”

“Of course it is.” Collins sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the small window, needing one last look before he said goodbye. Then he brushed a few crumbs from his hands and leaned forward, sliding his legs over the side of the bed. The room spun for a moment then righted. He took that as a good sign and stood. Every muscle in his body ached as he followed the maid out of the room and down the stairs, to a damp and dreary floor that smelled of must. One door down on the right, Georgina pushed it open with a creak and lit a tallow candle on a small chest. Then she stood back to allow him entrance.

The room was tiny and drab. There were no windows and no forlorn paintings to adorn the gray walls, only a chest of drawers and a single bed. It was as unfriendly a place as it was chilly, and Collins could not imagine that he had ever called this place home.

On the chest sat a bowl, a pitcher, and a shaving kit, reminding him that he was probably in need of a shave. He scratched at the growth along his jaw, suddenly anxious to be rid of it. “I have no pictures? No mementos of my former life?” he asked.

“Ya didn’t come ’ere wif much,” said Georgina. “I don’t kna more than that.”