0062412949 (R) (6 page)

Piety waited, smiling gently at her old friend. After a beat, Tiny stepped forward. “I do not rightly know how old I am, marchioness.”

“We celebrate Tiny’s birthday on the eleventh of June, Lady Frinfrock,” Piety said, and she rushed to add, “but I hope you’ll respect my protectiveness of Tiny and her privacy. I am happy to share the details of my unconventional journey to your street, my lady, but Tiny’s experience is her own to tell or not tell. I believed this introduction was meant to—”

“This introduction,” interrupted Lady Frinfrock, “was meant to gauge the amount of calamity you may ultimately bring to the peace-loving residents of Henrietta Place.” She hobbled back behind the desk.

Piety watched her climb into her chair, hoping to God that openness had been the right play. The marchioness was shrewd and plain-spoken, but was she cold-hearted? Selfish to the bone? Piety had years of experience with petty domination, and she did not detect jealousy or control for controlling-sake.

Lady Frinfrock went on, “You cannot possibly conceive of calamity in a street, but I have passed a quiet, orderly life in Henrietta Place for some thirty happy years. The very last thing I wish to endure in the twilight of my life is a scandal-seeking, caution-to-the-wind
bohemian
setting up house next door.”

Miss Breedlowe gasped, and Piety opened her mouth to say more, but the marchioness raised a quelling hand. “I do not wish to hear it, if you please! I am not a gossip monger; I have no taste for your lack of convention or your arduous journey. My sole regard is for how you will comport yourself in my street.” She took a deep breath and snatched up the quill again, making notes as she spoke.

“To that end,” she said, “this is what I intend. Miss Breedlowe? I am temporarily relieving you of your duties as my paid companion and relocating you to the position of chaperone to my neighbor, Miss Piety Grey.”

“But, Lady Frinfrock.” Miss Breedlowe stepped forward in protest.

“Do not trouble yourself, Miss Breedlowe. The salary will remain the same, as will the references when you, thankfully, depart. You shall simply provide companionship for someone new, and I shall enjoy some blessed peace—and don’t pretend that this arrangement does not appeal to us both.”

“But, your ladyship,” asked Miss Breedlowe, “what of your health?”

“My health will remain unchanged with or without you—ill, fine, properly exercised or no. I can easily get along without you, as I did, happily, before my sodden lawyers insisted that you hound my ever step for an astronomical monthly fee. I believe we can both agree that I do not live or die by your hand. However punctual you may be, you are not a physician nor a worker of miracle healing.”

“Perhaps,” Miss Breedlowe said, sputtering, “but neither am I a chaperone. I have no idea how to adequately chaperone Miss Grey, nor do I believe she wishes to employ a chaperone.”

“I don’t care how adequate or inadequate you may be and, if you take the same stance, then I suppose Miss Grey can hardly object, can she? My concern is that she remains mostly out of sight. No more knocking on the earl’s front door, for God’s sake.

“What say you, Miss Grey?” The marchioness paused to assess Piety. “Would it be so awful to have a proper Englishwoman sharing your new home, helping you get settled into town, advising you on the customs, the geography, the climate? In time, you may search for your own companion, but what I propose is immediate protection and counsel. Beginning now. To tarry could jeopardize your entire future, make no mistake. Think of your future life as an outcast if you do not. Received nowhere and making the acquaintance of no one of quality or breeding? A pariah, very near.”

Her eyes wide, her face flushed, Miss Breedlowe said, “But, my lady, you—”

“I would
adore
her companionship, my lady!” Piety cut in quickly. “How thoughtful you are. But really, I insist on paying Miss Breedlowe’s salary myself.”

“We shall see about that, won’t we? I will believe the bank drafts conveyed from over the sea when I clap eyes on them. You don’t object, do you, Miss Breedlowe?”

“I suppose, if it’s really what you wish, my lady,” Miss Breedlowe finally said.

“Excellent. It is precisely what I wish. Since the day you first arrived, in fact. When we adjourn, you may proceed upstairs and begin to pack. Shouldn’t take long, considering you wear the same beige dress every day.”

“As for
you
,” she went on, turning her gaze to Tiny.

Good lord, what now?
Piety grabbed Tiny’s hand and held on.

“You,” the marchioness repeated, “I should like to invite to remain here. In my house. With me. As my guest.”

“As what?”
Tiny and Piety said in unison.

The marchioness eyed Piety and then turned a softer expression to Tiny. “If Miss Baker is truly a free woman, then I would like to give her the opportunity to stay here, with me. In my comfortable home. With a suite of her own, and a servant to attend to her.”

“You would?” Piety could not conceal her surprise. “Forgive me, your ladyship, but why?”

“To be interviewed, that’s why. On behalf of my late husband, may God rest his sainted soul. He was a life scholar, devoted tirelessly to the plight of African slaves in the American colonies. For years, he studied the slaving ships, the auctions, the plantations, the inhumanity of the whole beastly business. It was his life’s work, really, outside of the duties of his title and estate, of course. Alas, he never had the opportunity to meet an actual American Negro. Not once. How absolutely thrilled he would be that you, Miss Baker, are standing right here in his library.

“You will be without a lady’s maid, of course,” she said to Piety. “But surely this dear woman deserves a holiday after what she’s endured in service to you, being dragged across an ocean and God knows what else. I employ an abundance of maids. You may take one of mine until you hire your own.”

For several long, heavy moments, no one said a word; then Piety cleared her throat and asked to speak with Tiny alone. Hands clasped, the two shuffled outside the library and shut the door behind them.

“You should do this,” Piety whispered immediately.

“What? Now I know you’ve gone crazy, Missy Pie! I won’t leave you.”

“The house is unfit, and you know it. You said so yourself. You called it a death trap, among a million other names.”

“It
is
a death trap! But it won’t get any safer with me staying over here, while you go back alone! What would your father say? I swear, this journey just gets more wrong-headed by the day.”

“No, don’t you see, Tiny? This,” she said, peeking back through the door at the marchioness, “may be the only thing that has gone precisely right. We need this woman to like us. To support us. To
lie for us
if Idelle turns up.”

Tiny looked away.

“She likes you,” continued Piety. “She’s a little batty, perhaps overbearing. But she seems respectful to you, and she has promised you far more comforts than I can provide for quite some time.”

“What about your hair?” Tiny asked. “I won’t have you taking up with another maid.”

“If my hair needs tending, I will march across the street, and you shall tend it. There will never be anyone to look after me but you, and you know it. You also know I am wholly self-sufficient. You were never meant to serve as my maid when we reached England anyway. You were meant to be my chaperone.” She shrugged. “I suppose I hadn’t thought it through.”

“And who is going to protect you from Sir High-and-Mighty, the sour gentleman who can’t be bothered to help you, but who won’t stop staring at you?”

“Who? The earl? You sound worse than the marchioness. The last thing I need is protection from him. He’d do better to show me a little more generosity and less restraint. Besides, Miss Breedlowe will be with me.”

“It is mighty nice here,” Tiny said, looking around. “Warm. Dry. But where will you sleep until that house gets fixed?”

“I will sleep in the new house. I don’t mind the dust—truly! I’ve come too far and invested too much not to get in there and make it my own from the ground up.”

“You’ll send for me if you need me? Even if it’s the middle of the night?”

Piety grabbed her up and hugged her. “Even in the middle of the night.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Y
ou wanted this
, thought Jocelyn Breedlowe the next morning as she stepped heavily onto the marchioness’s front stoop.

You wanted newness. You wanted purpose.

You wanted if not precisely this, then something akin to this.

Her thoughts were punctuated by the
whack
of Lady Frinfrock’s front door slamming behind her. She squared her shoulders, embarking upon a slow and steady march to the four-story townhome mansion across the street. In each hand, she clutched a carpet bag that contained every material possession she owned.

Not an hour before, Miss Baker, the American girl’s African maid, had settled into the marchioness’s house.

Marissa, the housemaid on loan from Lady Frinfrock had dashed to the American’s house at first light.

Everyone who was meant to come or go had done so, except Jocelyn, who could put it off no longer. It was true, she had no great wish to remain in the employ of the marchioness, but still. Her heart beat triple-time, her legs felt wobbly, and she was perspiring. She was afraid.

Chaperoning a young woman? She hadn’t the slightest idea how to serve as a proper chaperone. And this wasn’t just any young miss. Miss Grey was, for all practical purposes, a grown woman.

Piety Grey did not require an internal review of what she did or did not want. She didn’t lose her voice in front of callous Lady Frinfrock or imposing Lord Falcondale. Her purpose seemed as much a part of her existence as her own two feet, which, in turn, had played their part by striding into the marchioness’s library to admit every manner of bizarre circumstance without flinching.

And now
, Jocelyn thought,
her preference and purpose is
me. There could be no mistaking it. When Lady Frinfrock had presented the opportunity, Miss Grey had all but begged her, however silently, to accept.

Jocelyn would now live in the rubble of a once grand house and watch it be made grand again. She was to . . . Well, it was impossible to say, really, but considering all that had happened, she knew it would be . . .

Precisely what I’ve wanted.

“Ah, here she is!” said Miss Grey, swinging the front door wide and heaving the grimy contents of a mop bucket onto the stoop. “Look out. Mind the water.”

“How do you do, Miss Grey?” Jocelyn managed to greet Piety, while dancing to keep her hem dry. “I do believe it is my appointed time to join your, well, to join you.”

“How ready we are.” Piety nodded and handed the bucket to Marissa, who was hovering behind her. “Has Tiny settled in with the marchioness? I thought it best to see her over first thing. She is not comfortable in this house, and truly, at her age, I can hardly ask her to endure these early days of reconstruction. What an unexpected gift it was that the marchioness has taken her in. If she had not, I dare say I would have had to find other lodging for the old dear.” She eyed Jocelyn. “But you are not afraid, are you, Miss Breedlowe? You have the look of someone with pioneering spirit.”

“I am at your service, miss,” said Jocelyn quietly, wondering what sort of woman provided for her maid’s comfort, but not her own. She moved again to avoid the wet, and Miss Grey wiped her hands on a crisp, white apron before gesturing her inside.

The front hall of the American’s house could best be described as the scene of a great disaster. Tattered wall coverings drooped to the floor in ribbons; cracked plaster pocked the walls and speckled the floor. The marble itself was dulled with grime and tracked with mud. A stale, mildewed odor hung in the air, and odds and ends of broken furniture leaned in doorways or at a hasty angles against the walls. The ceiling sagged yellow and gray.

Wishing to appear helpful—or “pioneering,” as Miss Grey had suggested—Jocelyn asked, “Are you . . . Might I . . . ? That is, shall I, er, mop?”

“Oh, mop, sweep, drag, pile rubbish in heaps,” Piety said enthusiastically, shoving a table out of the nearest doorway. “So far, we have limited supplies to see the job done properly, but I could not wait another moment to, at the very least, cut a swathe through the worst of the mess. Marissa has been quite alarmed by my enthusiasm, I daresay.”

No doubt
, Jocelyn thought, nodding to the maid. Marissa, formerly the marchioness’s youngest, laziest housemaid, had been plucked from Lady Frinfrock’s staff as an afterthought. Miss Grey had refused a stand-in for her own maid, but then she saw Marissa and changed her mind. The marchioness was delighted to be rid of the girl.

“We’ve actually made real progress on the ground floor, Marissa and I,” continued Miss Grey. “And now, on to the next! My goal is to clear a path through every room before the carpenters arrive and the real work begins.”

Piety took a deep breath. “Now am I dreaming, or did anyone else see my ill-tempered neighbor, Lord Falcondale, bolt off down the street on a stallion not five minutes ago?”

Jocelyn, caught off guard by the prospect of ascending the conspicuously
absent
stairwell in the rotunda, missed Piety’s meaning and said, “I believe I did see him, miss.” If nothing else, she could be helpful with details such as this.

“Ah-ha! I knew I was not mistaken.” Miss Grey let her mop handle fall and walked into the first small sitting room off the main hall. The drapes were drawn tightly, shrouding the room in cool, murky dark. Miss Grey circumvented furniture and trunks and grabbed a fistful of curtain and began to drag. Bright morning light spilled across the dusty floor. “What a box seat the marchioness’s parlor window provides,” she said. “Certainly, she got an eyeful when I knocked on the earl’s front door.”

“Would that I could save you the bother of having to deal with Lord Falcondale ever again,” said Jocelyn. “He was not what I would describe as cordial.” The room was sunny now, and Jocelyn tried not to stare at a mildew, gray water stain on an adjacent wall.