white-gloved hands folded in laps, and expressions hopeful. To Muriel’s relief, at least a couple of the applicants appeared young, well-groomed, and intelligent looking. Thus she was stunned when, presently, Mrs. Burles accompanied a plain-faced woman of about forty into the sitting room.
“Your Ladyship, may I introduce Leah Prescott?”
Muriel took in the small, raisin-colored eyes and barely existent chin line, the mousy brown hair coiled at the collar of a faded black gown. What was Mrs. Burles trying to do? Frighten Georgiana?
“She’s brought a letter of recommendation, your Ladyship,” the housekeeper said with hurried voice, as if anticipating Muriel’s misgivings. She stepped over to the sofa to hand Muriel an envelope. “From Mrs. Godfrey.”
Harriet Godfrey, Sidney’s mother, had moved to the Northamptonshire estate with her husband and son Edgar seventeen months ago, after Edgar was diagnosed with something called multiple sclerosis. Muriel charged them no rent, because after all, they were her late husband’s family. And the situation worked to her advantage, for Henry Godfrey managed the property quite nicely.
But how could they have known she was in need of a nursemaid, Muriel wondered, with Nanny Tucker gone less than twenty-four hours?
She motioned toward the writing table. Mrs. Burles hastened to take the silver letter opener and bring it to her. As she unfolded the page, Muriel marveled again at how someonewith such uneven penmanship had ever become a successful author of children’s books. Sidney’s mother had never learned to type and surely frustrated her editors to no end.
Dear Muriel, it read, with a blot causing the u to resemble an a.
I hope this finds you keeping well. Thank you for sending the photographs. Georgiana is losing her infant looks and becoming quite the little lady. Please give her a kiss from her grandparents.
Edgar’s situation is the same, though we are encouraged that his appetite has improved since we hired a cook skilled in cooking for invalids. He spends much of his time sketching, in spite of the tremors, and shows the same talent our dear Sidney had.
The had was smudged. Muriel could not tell if poor penmanship or maternal sentiment had caused it. She read on as the two women stood waiting.
If you possibly have any vacancy in your household, please consider Leah Prescott, the bearer of this letter. Her father, a pig farmer and one of your tenants, passed on a fortnight ago, and she is hoping to find employment in London. Miss Prescott is highly spoken of by the tenants on the estate for her years of selfless devotion to the eight younger siblings she reared to adulthood when their mother died in childbirth. While she did not have the advantage of formal education beyond grammar school, she has read every book in theBrigstock library, according to Miss Cook, the vicar’s daughter.
Brigstock was the nearest village to the estate. Muriel lowered the page. “You weren’t aware we had a vacancy?” she asked.
“I was not, your Ladyship.”
While the woman’s soft voice was not refined by Belgravian standards, she had not replaced the was with were in the Northamptonshire common vernacular that used to grate against Muriel’s ears whenever she and Sidney visited the estate. The word not, however, came past her lips as two syllables.
“What would you have done, had we turned you away?”
Leah Prescott nodded. “Mrs. Godfrey kindly supplied me a general letter, should it be necessary.”
The answer barely registered, for Muriel’s mind was racing ahead to a novel concept. While she attended St. Peter’s only on the obligatory high days, she did believe in God. She even prayed on occasion, such as when the lift stopped between floors at Harrod’s last summer, holding her and other shoppers entombed for a quarter of an hour. But she had not thought to pray for a nanny for Georgiana. Had God, who knew everything, decided to set events in
“Your Ladyship, may I introduce Leah Prescott?”
Muriel took in the small, raisin-colored eyes and barely existent chin line, the mousy brown hair coiled at the collar of a faded black gown. What was Mrs. Burles trying to do? Frighten Georgiana?
“She’s brought a letter of recommendation, your Ladyship,” the housekeeper said with hurried voice, as if anticipating Muriel’s misgivings. She stepped over to the sofa to hand Muriel an envelope. “From Mrs. Godfrey.”
Harriet Godfrey, Sidney’s mother, had moved to the Northamptonshire estate with her husband and son Edgar seventeen months ago, after Edgar was diagnosed with something called multiple sclerosis. Muriel charged them no rent, because after all, they were her late husband’s family. And the situation worked to her advantage, for Henry Godfrey managed the property quite nicely.
But how could they have known she was in need of a nursemaid, Muriel wondered, with Nanny Tucker gone less than twenty-four hours?
She motioned toward the writing table. Mrs. Burles hastened to take the silver letter opener and bring it to her. As she unfolded the page, Muriel marveled again at how someonewith such uneven penmanship had ever become a successful author of children’s books. Sidney’s mother had never learned to type and surely frustrated her editors to no end.
Dear Muriel, it read, with a blot causing the u to resemble an a.
I hope this finds you keeping well. Thank you for sending the photographs. Georgiana is losing her infant looks and becoming quite the little lady. Please give her a kiss from her grandparents.
Edgar’s situation is the same, though we are encouraged that his appetite has improved since we hired a cook skilled in cooking for invalids. He spends much of his time sketching, in spite of the tremors, and shows the same talent our dear Sidney had.
The had was smudged. Muriel could not tell if poor penmanship or maternal sentiment had caused it. She read on as the two women stood waiting.
If you possibly have any vacancy in your household, please consider Leah Prescott, the bearer of this letter. Her father, a pig farmer and one of your tenants, passed on a fortnight ago, and she is hoping to find employment in London. Miss Prescott is highly spoken of by the tenants on the estate for her years of selfless devotion to the eight younger siblings she reared to adulthood when their mother died in childbirth. While she did not have the advantage of formal education beyond grammar school, she has read every book in theBrigstock library, according to Miss Cook, the vicar’s daughter.
Brigstock was the nearest village to the estate. Muriel lowered the page. “You weren’t aware we had a vacancy?” she asked.
“I was not, your Ladyship.”
While the woman’s soft voice was not refined by Belgravian standards, she had not replaced the was with were in the Northamptonshire common vernacular that used to grate against Muriel’s ears whenever she and Sidney visited the estate. The word not, however, came past her lips as two syllables.
“What would you have done, had we turned you away?”
Leah Prescott nodded. “Mrs. Godfrey kindly supplied me a general letter, should it be necessary.”
The answer barely registered, for Muriel’s mind was racing ahead to a novel concept. While she attended St. Peter’s only on the obligatory high days, she did believe in God. She even prayed on occasion, such as when the lift stopped between floors at Harrod’s last summer, holding her and other shoppers entombed for a quarter of an hour. But she had not thought to pray for a nanny for Georgiana. Had God, who knew everything, decided to set events in
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