Escaping Notice (12 page)

Symes face flushed burgundy but he managed to agree.

“Mr. Symes, what is the earl like? To work for?” He turned and
watched a series of emotions wrinkle Symes’ face; frustration,
annoyance and anger among them. “I wish to be prepared.”

“He’s an earl,” the butler replied stonily.

“Of course. But he appears quite placid. Doesn’t notice much.”
He patted the bed again. “Apparently.”

“You can judge for yourself when he returns.”

“No doubt. But it would help to understand how he prefers to
manage the estate. I’m sure you understand. You’ve been here for
many years, haven’t you? You understand better than anyone how the
earl likes his household organized.”

Symes caught the small sop Hugh threw to him. He clearly
realized that he would not last — no matter how long he had been
there — if he showed anything but co-operation. “He likes things
calm,” Symes said at last.

“Does he involve himself in the day-to-day affairs?”

“No. He’s left it to me — that is — he doesn’t try to insert
himself into household matters. Miss Leigh and I have managed —
until now, of course.”

“Ah … Miss Leigh. But Mr. Petre indicated she was preparing to
move.”

Symes eyes flickered. Hugh could have sworn he saw something
that looked like pity or concern on the butler’s face, but it was
erased so quickly he was not sure. “Yes. The earl thought it
best.”

“But?”

“If he feels it is for the best, then it must be so.” Symes
clearly disagreed.

Why? Puzzled, Hugh stared at him. Surely Aunt Eloise would
prefer her own house? He dismissed the thought. Symes wanted things
to stay the same. Any change clearly bothered him — even Aunt
Eloise’s proposed move to a cottage nearer town.

“Does he have many enemies?” When Hugh saw Symes’ expression
freeze, he added, “So I may be wary of them. I would not like to
make a mistake through ignorance.”

Symes stared at the narrow slit of a window behind Hugh. After a
minute of thought, he responded, stringing his words out carefully,
as if each were a gold coin he was loath to part with. “He is very
… good natured. He has no enemies that I’m aware of, though all
great men accumulate them.”

“So there is someone I should avoid?”

“No one that you’re likely to meet.”

That seemed to be that. Hugh had hoped Mr. Symes would be happy
to gossip about his employer, but he appeared too circumspect to
tell Hugh anything. However, Hugh did get the sense that Symes had
held information back.

Ormsby was not the happy fairy-tale castle it appeared to be
from the distance.

Somehow, he would unearth its secrets.

“
The grand foundation of your good character must be Industry
….” —
The Complete Servant

“You’re Miss Leigh’s new maid?” the footman asked, looking at
her over his narrow shoulder. His extreme thinness made him seem
much taller, like a regular maypole complete with a round knob of a
head on top.

“Yes,” Helen said.

“Don’t you worry, she’s fussy but not unfair.” He laughed. “Just
don’t let her see any gee-gaw you don’t want her to pick up. Like a
regular magpie, she is. Loves any shiny object.”

“Oh.” Helen did not want to talk about Miss Leigh. Her words
were sure to be reported back to her new employer, so she changed
the subject. “Are you having a house party?”

“The earl had a ball a few nights back. As usual, some of the
guests are still taking advantage of his hospitality even though
he’s gone away.”

“I understand he’s sailing?”

“Yes, both him and his brother. Left Miss Leigh to entertain the
hangers-on.”

“I see.”

“And Miss Leigh won’t be here, herself, for long.” The sly look
in his eyes told her he was probing for her reaction.

Unfortunately, she knew she should resist the bait he dangled.
“Is she leaving?”

“Here’s the attic.” He shouldered open the door and lurched into
the dusty domain, hands on hips. “Not much that ain’t broken, but
don’t worry, we’ll find something.”

“Thank you. But what did you mean, she’s not here for long? Is
she ill?”

He laughed. “Lord, no! The earl is setting her up in a little
cottage closer to town. He’s been thinking about getting married.
Fact is, we figured there’d be an announcement at the ball.” He
shook his head. “The earl’s slipped free again, though. You’d think
he’d be interested in setting up his nursery, though. Past
time.”

“Really.” Helen was not interested in the earl’s matrimonial
plans. All she could think about was the necklace and avoiding Miss
Leigh.

“Here we are!” He dragged a dusty bed-frame from behind a
cracked cheval mirror. As the legs dragged over the wooden
floorboards, clouds of dust swirled up and enveloped them both.

Helen sneezed and stepped back, waving her hand in front of her
face.

Frank pounded and kicked the frame a few times to shake off the
rest of the dirt, while Helen retreated into the furthest corner.
“You’ve got the mattress. There.” He pointed to her left.

“Where?” She stared at the jumble of broken, grimy
furniture.

“On your left. There, my poppet.” His eyes gleamed, for all the
world like a stork eyeing a frog in a pond as he waited for her
reaction.

A thin mattress, rolled and tied with a rope, leaned against the
corner. The stained fabric was fuzzy with cobwebs. Helen pushed it
out, turning away at the gray swirls of musty filth that arose.

“Give it a good kick, my poppet.”

“My name is Miss Caswell,” she replied. “Not ‘poppet’.”

“Lord, you’re not going to be as twitchy as Miss Leigh, are
you?”

Not wanting to make an enemy, she choked back her first words
and finally replied, “No. I’m just not overly fond of pet names.
I’m sorry.”

“Fair enough, Miss Caswell.” He studied her before turning to
search for other useable items. “There’s a chest there under the
window; I’ll come back for it.” He hefted the bed-frame onto his
back and tottered toward the door. “You take the mattress,” he
wheezed.

After giving the mattress another good pounding, she rolled it
across the rough floor and stopped at the top of the stairs, her
hands pressed into the small of her back. Her inclination was to
let it bounce down the stairs to get the rest of the dust out of
it. However, she suspected the maids would not be happy if she did.
Not to mention the danger of bowling Frank over as he struggled
with the bed half-way down the steep stairs. Resignedly, she pushed
and pulled it one step at a time. When they reached the second
floor, she trudged after Frank to her assigned room.

The dressing room was indeed small, very small, and just as
airless as Miss Leigh had said.

“Sorry, Miss Caswell,” Frank grunted from under the bed-frame.
The wooden legs nearly decapitated her as he moved it up and down,
trying to get it to fit against the far wall. There was no window,
and one wall was lined with shelves and a series of hooks
supporting drooping muslin dresses in pale colors. A closer look
revealed that the paleness was due to age and frequent washings.
The fabric was nearly transparent from wear.

Sadness welled up, tightening her chest, as Helen stared at the
garments. These dresses were mere rags and should have been
disposed of years ago. Why would Miss Leigh hang on to them, unless
she simply did not have that many good dresses?

Even Helen’s maid had a better wardrobe. That fact was so
desperately telling that it made her want to weep for pity. No
wonder Miss Leigh’s appearance was so … unflattering. She did not
have the resources to make it better. The earl had obviously kept
his aunt on the edge of poverty, not caring a whit about her.

In fact, he seemed to care more for his castle than for his
aunt, given the opulence of the rooms she had seen during the ball.
Helen despised him. Thank goodness she had arrived at the ball too
late to meet him. She had never liked the arrogance of the lords
she had met in London, either. During her long Season, she had
dreamed of meeting some amiable farmer, someone who would not care
that she was not pretty and would never be the lovely ornament most
men preferred as a wife.

Too bad her family would never approve.

Her thoughts drifted back to Hugh. She stifled a sigh and moved
out of the way of the footman.

When Frank finally got the bed wedged in against the wall, there
was only an inch at the head and six inches between the foot of the
bed and the shelves. While she fussed with the mattress and
unrolled it, Frank escaped to the attic. He returned carrying a
small chest with three drawers, and a spindly rocking chair. As if
embarrassed by their condition, he pulled out his handkerchief and
flicked it over the top of the dresser, before nodding at her and
dashing out.

Helen rubbed her forehead in the crook of her elbow, and stepped
into Miss Leigh’s bedroom to catch her breath.

While she struggled to find a place for the chair, a maid
entered with a small pile of linens, a thin woolen blanket and an
even thinner pillow, stained rusty-brown on one side. After one
last foray to the attic, Helen brought down a chipped pitcher, a
bowl and a tiny rack for a fraying linen towel which the maid had
given her. The broken cheval mirror yielded a small useable
fragment when propped up on her dresser. The small size also meant
it could be stored in her drawer, along with the meager contents of
her portmanteau.

As she unpacked, she hurriedly folded and stuffed her dresses
and shifts into the dresser. The heavy feel of her own garments
embarrassed her, given the thinness of Miss Leigh’s gowns hanging
behind her shoulder like a row of ghosts.

The room was so dreary that she was glad to finish and escape to
Miss Leigh’s bedroom. The gowns in the dressing room were beyond
anyone’s skills to repair and could not be worn, so Helen began to
search for other dresses.

A large wardrobe in the corner yielded an assortment of newer
gowns. Unfortunately, as Helen pulled them out, she realized they
were almost as unwearable as those in the dressing room. The
materials were wonderful, though. Lovely muslin prints, two rich
silk evening gowns and some work-a-day bombazine dresses were
attractive enough — for anyone except Miss Leigh. Apparently, her
employer had a preference for bronze and rust colors that looked
absolutely dreadful with her silvery brown hair and brown eyes.

She sighed and glanced at the clock, feeling overwhelmed.

Miss Leigh would be dressing for dinner soon, and Helen could
not send her downstairs dressed in either the bronze silk or the
red. Her very being revolted against the notion.

No. She could not do it.

What about the attic? Perhaps there was something there? Or a
fichu? Not the best solution, but better than nothing. After a last
quick search through the wardrobe in case she had missed something,
she dashed back up to the attics. Several trunks abutted the far
wall. She yanked and tugged to move them so she could lift the
heavy lids. Inside, layers of tissue separated dozens of dresses,
their silken folds glimmering in the dusk of the attic.

She pulled one out and shook it, thrilled at the heavy feel of
the silk. But when she smoothed the folds, she realized the
garments were not immediately useable. The dresses were panniered
monstrosities from the previous century, with outrageously wide
skirts and narrow bodices; however, the materials and colors were
extraordinary. She pulled out more gowns, running her hands over
them. Rich rose silks, deep blue, soft ocean-green and straw
yellow, cerulean, silver tissue and elegant lace spilled across the
trunk and onto floor around her.

Grabbing an armful of gowns in the best colors for Miss Leigh,
Helen carefully descended and returned to her employer’s room. She
selected a few fragments of lace and the silver tissue and worked
them over the bodice of the bronze silk evening gown, replacing the
black velvet trim and softening the neckline with an overlay of
lace.

Miss Leigh might not be so happy to have her best gown reworked,
but if she saw the results …. If Helen could only get her to don it
and see her reflection in the mirror hanging above her chest of
drawers, she would realize how it flattered her.

Assuming it would.

Biting off the thread, Helen shook out the dress and refolded
it, placing it back onto the top shelf of the wardrobe just as the
door opened.

“What are you doing in here?” Miss Leigh asked from the
doorway.

Helen took one look into her faded brown eyes and felt guilt
wash over her in a cold wave. She clasped her hands in front of her
and cast her eyes down in her best imitation of her maid when she
had done something silly.

Miss Leigh would adore the dress. She could not possibly have
thought its original design flattered her. Or could she?

“I beg your pardon, Miss Leigh. I was just tending to your
clothing —”

“Well, don’t! I don’t like prying.”

Curtseying, Helen took a step away from the open wardrobe. “I’m
terribly sorry.”

“Don’t let it happen again. If I wish your assistance, I will
ask for it.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Stalking into the room, Miss Leigh eyed the shelves behind
Helen. “Why is my best gown on the top shelf? I always keep it on
the second.” Not waiting for an answer, she pulled it down. “What
is this?” She shook it out. “What
is
this? What have you
done, you wretched girl?”

“It’s the latest fashion, Miss Leigh! I — I found the lace when
we were in the attic. I knew you had guests, and it is always so
important to present a fashionable appearance.”

“I don’t like lace!”

“It’s just a small piece around the neckline. It will look so
beautiful with your soft hair.” Helen stepped behind Miss Leigh and
gently turned her toward the mirror. “May I?”