allotted at the top of the house, her opinion rose further. But still she had to say, “Odd sort of pet for a young lady.”
Susan laughed. Stocky, blond, and talkative, she had an infectious laugh. “Miss Lizzy took that cat in off the street, and a right argy-bargy it’s been, I can tell you.”
“I wonder she was allowed.” Lucy did more than wonder, after months in a house where it seemed nothing was allowed. She’d been braced for an explosion of masculine wrath in the entry hall and was surprised when it didn’t come.
“Miss Lizzy has a way of getting what she wants. That child can wheedle the birds from the trees. Do you want to unpack? Or come along down and meet everyone?”
“I’ll come.” Lucy had had more than her fill of solitude.
As was proper, Susan took her first to the housekeeper. In the tall, correct, cordial Mrs. Wright, Lucy recognized the sort of authority and experience she’d admired in the senior staff of the Rutherford house. Cook had it, too, in a more approachable way. She was plying the bitten manservant, who turned out to be the master’s valet, Ames, with tea and cake at the kitchen table. The sticking plaster on his hand seemed no hindrance to his appetite, though Ames moaned artistically now and then round a mouthful. From the amused glances exchanged, Lucy gathered that he had a taste for drama. When he held out his cup for a refill, his tragic expression set the kitchen maid—Agnes, Lucy reminded herself—giggling. She didn’t stop chopping carrots, though.
Something deep inside Lucy eased. The rich scent of simmering broth filled the air. The fire crackled in the hearth. The whitewashed walls and brick floor were spotless. The Wylde servants chatted easily with each other, clearly on good terms. She was settled with her own cup and plate during a round of welcomes. Another part of her relaxed, and then another. This was how it was meant to be. Every detail showed the rhythms of a well-run household, and to her that meant safety, respect, companionship, and a sense of possibility.
She’d been horridly alone even before all Miss Charlotte’s servants left, she understood now. No one in that house had given her credit for her skills, or advice about her difficulties, or a laugh to lighten a hard day. They hadn’t offered those things to each other, either. Bleak; it had been purely bleak. Back in a place full of life and energy, she knew she never wanted to be in such a situation again.
The footman who’d been at the front door earlier came in—Ethan, they named him. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, listening with a lazy smile and exhibiting his fine broad-shouldered figure. Lucy ignored him. She knew his type—the kind they warned you about—full of himself, with his well-turned leg and handsome face. Expecting every female he met to fall at his feet, and most likely deep as a puddle. Footmen were hired more for looks than brains. One of his sort—the servant of a visitor in Hampshire—had broken the heart of Lucy’s best friend, and nearly cost her her place. Lucy wasn’t about to be taken in.
That jet-black hair and those warm brown eyes did draw the eye, though, much as she wanted to deny it. Lucy found hers straying, and he managed to catch her gaze. “The cat bit me too,” he told her, raising one shapely leg in a smooth white stocking that showed no sign of a bite. Then he smiled at her. It was a flat-out beautiful smile. Lucy felt it all the way to her toes, felt her own lips automatically start to curve in response. She looked away.
“And haven’t you made the most of it,” Cook replied.
“A bit more gravy, Mrs. Wright, I’m wounded. Best have James lift the keg, Agnes—my leg, you know.”
“You scamp.”
It was said with affection, and everyone laughed, Ethan included. It seemed he was well liked. But that didn’t mean he could be trusted, Lucy told herself. She wouldn’t make that mistake. Hadn’t she just spent
Susan laughed. Stocky, blond, and talkative, she had an infectious laugh. “Miss Lizzy took that cat in off the street, and a right argy-bargy it’s been, I can tell you.”
“I wonder she was allowed.” Lucy did more than wonder, after months in a house where it seemed nothing was allowed. She’d been braced for an explosion of masculine wrath in the entry hall and was surprised when it didn’t come.
“Miss Lizzy has a way of getting what she wants. That child can wheedle the birds from the trees. Do you want to unpack? Or come along down and meet everyone?”
“I’ll come.” Lucy had had more than her fill of solitude.
As was proper, Susan took her first to the housekeeper. In the tall, correct, cordial Mrs. Wright, Lucy recognized the sort of authority and experience she’d admired in the senior staff of the Rutherford house. Cook had it, too, in a more approachable way. She was plying the bitten manservant, who turned out to be the master’s valet, Ames, with tea and cake at the kitchen table. The sticking plaster on his hand seemed no hindrance to his appetite, though Ames moaned artistically now and then round a mouthful. From the amused glances exchanged, Lucy gathered that he had a taste for drama. When he held out his cup for a refill, his tragic expression set the kitchen maid—Agnes, Lucy reminded herself—giggling. She didn’t stop chopping carrots, though.
Something deep inside Lucy eased. The rich scent of simmering broth filled the air. The fire crackled in the hearth. The whitewashed walls and brick floor were spotless. The Wylde servants chatted easily with each other, clearly on good terms. She was settled with her own cup and plate during a round of welcomes. Another part of her relaxed, and then another. This was how it was meant to be. Every detail showed the rhythms of a well-run household, and to her that meant safety, respect, companionship, and a sense of possibility.
She’d been horridly alone even before all Miss Charlotte’s servants left, she understood now. No one in that house had given her credit for her skills, or advice about her difficulties, or a laugh to lighten a hard day. They hadn’t offered those things to each other, either. Bleak; it had been purely bleak. Back in a place full of life and energy, she knew she never wanted to be in such a situation again.
The footman who’d been at the front door earlier came in—Ethan, they named him. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, listening with a lazy smile and exhibiting his fine broad-shouldered figure. Lucy ignored him. She knew his type—the kind they warned you about—full of himself, with his well-turned leg and handsome face. Expecting every female he met to fall at his feet, and most likely deep as a puddle. Footmen were hired more for looks than brains. One of his sort—the servant of a visitor in Hampshire—had broken the heart of Lucy’s best friend, and nearly cost her her place. Lucy wasn’t about to be taken in.
That jet-black hair and those warm brown eyes did draw the eye, though, much as she wanted to deny it. Lucy found hers straying, and he managed to catch her gaze. “The cat bit me too,” he told her, raising one shapely leg in a smooth white stocking that showed no sign of a bite. Then he smiled at her. It was a flat-out beautiful smile. Lucy felt it all the way to her toes, felt her own lips automatically start to curve in response. She looked away.
“And haven’t you made the most of it,” Cook replied.
“A bit more gravy, Mrs. Wright, I’m wounded. Best have James lift the keg, Agnes—my leg, you know.”
“You scamp.”
It was said with affection, and everyone laughed, Ethan included. It seemed he was well liked. But that didn’t mean he could be trusted, Lucy told herself. She wouldn’t make that mistake. Hadn’t she just spent
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