Mademoiselle told me that the maid told her that the woman thinks she can hire a valet for him. As if my husband would be gentleman enough to use the services of a valet. He’s bog-Irish and always will be, and I was a fool to marry him.”
“Bog-Irish or not, he’s got a gift for making great pots of money, darling. Yes, I know, money isn’t everything but it does solve a multitude of problems. And pays for all that lovely jewelry you like to adorn yourself with.” He leaned down and pinched her willful little chin. “Leave it to me, my precious. I’ll take care of things.”
Bryony woke early, the gray sunlight coming in her newly cleaned windows, and she groaned. The tiny space under the eaves wasn’t that bad, considering the state of the household. The bed was small and narrow butthere was a comfortable chair, a desk, a washstand with decent china. The cupboard held her two cheap mourning gowns as well as one dress she’d managed to hold on to when they had left the house they’d grown up in.
There was even a rug beneath her feet, a rug she’d had to hold out one of the windows and shake fiercely. And the windows were wonderful, now that they were clean, letting in a view of the rooftops of Mayfair. She was like a bird, she thought, perching high overhead, looking down on everything.
The bed had seen better days, but it wasn’t any worse than their previous accommodations. That made her think of her sisters, and for a moment she felt such longing, such worry. They would be fine, of course. Nanny Gruen would look after them, and sooner or later some nice young man would show up and fall in love with Maddy. A rich young man would be perfect—he could see to Sophie as well—but if she had to choose she’d prefer kindness.
Not that her sisters would be amenable to her choosing their husbands. They were both strong-minded, though Sophie was more interested in playing prospective suitors one against the other. In her first season she’d evinced not the slightest interest in any of the young men flocking around her.
Maddy was different, more sober, sensible beneath her pretty exterior. Tarkington had been on the verge of offering when the news of their father’s disgrace came, and he’d beat a hasty retreat. So had everybody else. No one had any interest in associating with the impoverished daughters of a dead thief who’d almost brought the financial structure of a nation to a standstill.
Of course, it could simply be a matter of the very strict rules governing mourning periods. In six months’ time, with their fortune restored and their father’s name cleared, the girls could begin to emerge from the shroud propriety demanded of them. Within a year they could reenter society and even entertain offers, though some might frown at the haste.
She needed her sisters taken care of. She needed not to lie awake in this narrow, uncomfortable bed and worry about them, as she worried about so many things.
It would be about five in the morning, she guessed. Something had woken her—voices, perhaps, though she couldn’t imagine who else might be awake at such an ungodly hour. She might as well get up. Perhaps when this household was better ordered she could sleep in one slothful hour later, but right now she had work to do. The sooner she got this household running properly the sooner she could start concentrating on finding out the truth about her employer. He was hiding something, she just knew it. But was it something evil, or simply the normal secrets that seem to creep into one’s life?
The kitchen was a bustle of activity, and the wide table was spotless. Mrs. Harkins was in the midst of kneading dough, and she looked up when Bryony came in.
“I sent a message to one of the girls who used to work here,” she said. “Begging your pardon for being so forward, but since Becky knows this kitchen and my work habits, and she was in need of a job I thought…”
“Very resourceful, Mrs. Harkins,”
“Bog-Irish or not, he’s got a gift for making great pots of money, darling. Yes, I know, money isn’t everything but it does solve a multitude of problems. And pays for all that lovely jewelry you like to adorn yourself with.” He leaned down and pinched her willful little chin. “Leave it to me, my precious. I’ll take care of things.”
Bryony woke early, the gray sunlight coming in her newly cleaned windows, and she groaned. The tiny space under the eaves wasn’t that bad, considering the state of the household. The bed was small and narrow butthere was a comfortable chair, a desk, a washstand with decent china. The cupboard held her two cheap mourning gowns as well as one dress she’d managed to hold on to when they had left the house they’d grown up in.
There was even a rug beneath her feet, a rug she’d had to hold out one of the windows and shake fiercely. And the windows were wonderful, now that they were clean, letting in a view of the rooftops of Mayfair. She was like a bird, she thought, perching high overhead, looking down on everything.
The bed had seen better days, but it wasn’t any worse than their previous accommodations. That made her think of her sisters, and for a moment she felt such longing, such worry. They would be fine, of course. Nanny Gruen would look after them, and sooner or later some nice young man would show up and fall in love with Maddy. A rich young man would be perfect—he could see to Sophie as well—but if she had to choose she’d prefer kindness.
Not that her sisters would be amenable to her choosing their husbands. They were both strong-minded, though Sophie was more interested in playing prospective suitors one against the other. In her first season she’d evinced not the slightest interest in any of the young men flocking around her.
Maddy was different, more sober, sensible beneath her pretty exterior. Tarkington had been on the verge of offering when the news of their father’s disgrace came, and he’d beat a hasty retreat. So had everybody else. No one had any interest in associating with the impoverished daughters of a dead thief who’d almost brought the financial structure of a nation to a standstill.
Of course, it could simply be a matter of the very strict rules governing mourning periods. In six months’ time, with their fortune restored and their father’s name cleared, the girls could begin to emerge from the shroud propriety demanded of them. Within a year they could reenter society and even entertain offers, though some might frown at the haste.
She needed her sisters taken care of. She needed not to lie awake in this narrow, uncomfortable bed and worry about them, as she worried about so many things.
It would be about five in the morning, she guessed. Something had woken her—voices, perhaps, though she couldn’t imagine who else might be awake at such an ungodly hour. She might as well get up. Perhaps when this household was better ordered she could sleep in one slothful hour later, but right now she had work to do. The sooner she got this household running properly the sooner she could start concentrating on finding out the truth about her employer. He was hiding something, she just knew it. But was it something evil, or simply the normal secrets that seem to creep into one’s life?
The kitchen was a bustle of activity, and the wide table was spotless. Mrs. Harkins was in the midst of kneading dough, and she looked up when Bryony came in.
“I sent a message to one of the girls who used to work here,” she said. “Begging your pardon for being so forward, but since Becky knows this kitchen and my work habits, and she was in need of a job I thought…”
“Very resourceful, Mrs. Harkins,”
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