Page 5 of The Marchioness Who Tempted Fate
“She was a lovely lady, the Marchioness,” Michaels said soothingly, “She is sorely missed.”
Apparently somewhat mollified by this statement, Mrs. Twitchel again peered through the glasses that were attached to a long stem and looked Tiffany up and down.
Tiffany stared back, knowing what the housekeeper saw: a heart-shaped face, slender to the point of emaciation; large green eyes framed with long dark eyelashes, faintly tipped with gold highlights; a bush of dark brown hair that had been chopped off with a belt knife then allowed to grow to about chin length. Dressed in trousers and a disreputable old coat, she could pass for a boy if not examined too closely. Her face was smeared with dirt to disguise her lack of whiskers.
She had to look up at Mrs. Twitchel, who was a tall, raw-boned woman, with faded red hair and a dusting of freckles over a florid skin. The housekeeper glared at her with disapproval.
“One thing is for sure, she cannot be seen in that. There are some spare uniforms in the laundry room, and there is a tub of hot water. Come right through here, young woman.”
Tiffany glanced at Michaels, but he made shooing motions with his hands, so she went with the housekeeper.
The laundry room was quite a fine one. Clearly, the Marquess spared no expense providing for his servants’ convenience. Or perhaps he merely valued truly clean shirts.
There were three great fireplaces, each with a wash boiler on a crane. A row of wooden tubs stood against one wall, along with a rocker tub for the truly dirty items. In the center of the room was a box clothes press, and two or three ironing boards were set up on trestles, with smoothing irons on the hearths, basking in the glow of the coals.
“Hearth one and two have linens soaking in them,” the housekeeper said, “but number three is just coming up to temperature. There is a bucket there, and a ladle. You can get yourself some hot water. The pump there at the corner brings cold water up from the cistern.”
“Thank you,” Tiffany said. “It has been far too long since I dared take a full wash.”
Mrs. Twitchel’s expression softened just a little. “It is a hard life when you have no protector. Make no mistake now, the Marquess will do well by you if you do well by him. Honest work, for honest wages.” Her mouth firmed up again into a disapproving line. “There’s a jar of soft soap in that corner, and a crock of ointment for rough skin next to it. I will leave you now, but mind you do not think to slip out the back with the Marquess’ fine handkerchiefs.”
“No, Ma’am, I will not,” Tiffany said.
“Oh, and one more thing. That rack over there has extra under-maid uniforms. Find one that comes close to fitting. You will find an extra chemise or two, as well. If you’ve no objection to it, there is even a cot in here by the fire. We’ll find someplace more permanent for you in the morning.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Twitchel. You are most kind.”
“Don’t thank me, Bentley. Thank your lucky stars that it was the Marquess who caught you stealing, not one of the under-footmen. His Lordship is a most kind and gentle man, in every sense of the word.”
With that, Mrs. Twitchel swept out of the room, leaving Tiffany with the impression of a thin, unbending back above a cloud of black bombazine.
Tiffany lost no time following the housekeeper’s instructions. She mixed hot and cold water in one of the tubs and used a generous amount of the soft soap to scrub herself all over. She discovered a stack of soft towels and cloths that were just the right size for scrubbing.
When she had finished, she pulled on a chemise and a uniform that seemed to be near her size. It was a little large, but by doing up the laces snuggly and tying the apron strings tightly, she was able to manage a decent fit.A maid’s cap helped make her scandalously short hair into something presentable.
Respectably clad, she dunked the clothing she had been wearing into the water, and gave them a thorough washing before hanging them up before the fire.
“Might as well begin as I mean to go on,” she muttered, then lugged cold water from the cistern to refill the nearly empty boiler.
With that done, she went back into the kitchen to look for Michaels. She found him basting a haunch of something, while turning it on a spit over the kitchen fire. “Michaels . . .”
He jumped. “Good heavens, Girlie, you nearly scared me out of my skin. Why are you not abed?”
“Because if I am to have good bread for dinner, I need to begin on it now. Do you have a sponge already set?”
“The day cook keeps starter on the far hob where it will not get too hot. I’m forbidden to touch it, I am. The last time I did, the loaves all fell as if they were the walls of Troy.”
“Trojan horse, are you?”
“I don’t know about that,” Michaels said, a little bemused. “But my bread always falls.”
“Mine usually does not. Show me the sponge.”
Tiffany opened the crock where the yeast mixture was kept. The scent of hops and grain rose from it with a sharp, sour tang. “That will make sourdough,” she said, “but it will be no good for sweet dough. Is there anyone nearby who makes beer? Or, better yet, a winery?”
Michaels looked puzzled. “Why do you want to know? Won’t do no good to come up three sheets in the wind on your first day.”
“I want some of the mother, you old pirate. I’d go ask for it myself, but His Lordship has said that I’m under house arrest.”
