Page 12 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess
There was a gentle rap on the door, and all three of the girls flinched. Sitting upright, they all turned towards the door, waiting.
The butler stepped inside, looking more sombre than ever.
“Ladies,” he said, a trifle hesitant, “I am sent to fetch Miss Marshville.”
“Which Miss Marshville?” Agnes demanded, voice a little strained. “We’re allMiss Marshville.”
The butler drew in a breath. “Miss Patrina Marshville.”
Gillian gave a strained yelp, pressing her hand over her mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, Patrina saw Agnes sink in relief, just a little.
“I see,” Patrina said aloud, secretly pleased with how steady her voice was. “I’ll be there directly.
***
Lucy would have much preferred to stay in the house that morning. That strange, mad Marquess was coming to visit, and Miss Patrina had privately confided in her that he wanted to marry one of the girls.
It was a wretched business, in Lucy’s opinion. Oh, to be sure, marrying a Marquess would be a great thing for any of the girls, and if the man was willing to help out with Lord Marshville’s debts, they might well be saved. Lucy was owed close to four months’ back wages, and some of the other servants were owed more. They liked their jobs, and Lady Marshville was a fine mistress, but money was money, and they were all growing more desperate. However, if they left now, there was a fair choice that they would never get their wages at all, so most of them hung on.
The young ladies were obliged to enter into matrimony; such was the crux of the matter. Yet, the gentlemen of Society proved too obtuse to appreciate Patrina’s many admirable qualities. Or Agnes’, for that matter. Lucy bit back a sigh, shaking her head. She couldn’t see a way out of it. No doubt the mad Marquess would choose the youngest of the girls, Gillian, and whisk her away. They’d be saved, likely, but at what cost? Wouldn’t the guilt weigh them all down?
Enough of that, Lucy,she warned herself.You shall fret yourself into a state of disarray with such incessant worrying.
Her errand that morning was to return some assorted fabrics, ribbons, and trimmings to the modiste’s, and get themoney back. There wasn’t much they could return, but whatcouldbe returnedwasto be returned. Lucy hated doing returns. It was well known that ladies who gave things back to the shop and requested their money back weremiserly. Poor, in other words.
Rich ladies didn’t need to care what sort of money they spent on clothes and trinkets.
Lost in thought, Lucy stepped out of the servant’s side entrance and hurried on towards the front of the house. The Marquess’ carriage was there, a bulky, square thing, blocking out all the light. She considered delivering a swift jab to the fine lacquer as she went by.
And then, as if fate had taken note of her uncharitable thoughts and chosen to teach her a lesson for it, a cobblestone turned under her foot, without warning. Lucy’s ankle twisted to one side, and she lurched forward, off-balance.
She would have gone crashing neatly into a filthy, stinking puddle by the side of the road, were it not for a strong pair of hands grabbing her arms, hauling her upright.
The basket flew out of her grasp, rolling over and turning the ribbons and trinkets out of the basket and onto the road. As soon as she steadied herself, Lucy gave a yelp of dismay and flew down to pick the ribbons up again. The modiste wouldn’t take back mud-soaked items.
She’d almost forgotten about her saviour already, until a male voice spoke somewhere above.
“Let me help you, miss.”
She blinked, squinting up at a man silhouetted against a bright, grey sky.
He knelt gracefully beside her, squatting so as not to put his trouser knees in the dirt, and began to nimbly pick up the spilled goods.
“Thank you,” Lucy said abruptly, a little too late. “For saving me. I’d have gone face-first into that puddle.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad to have saved you the humiliation.”
She inspected him a little closer, now that his attention was fixed downwards on the floor. He was a pale young man, with curling red hair, and the most marvellous greenish-gold eyes she’d ever seen. She estimated that he was around her age, or perhaps a year or two older, and dressed in sombre black. It wasn’t a servant’s clothing, so she found herself struggling to work out who, exactly, he was, and what his role was.
He glanced up at her, and Lucy felt her heart flutter. She cleared her throat, wordlessly holding out the basket. Hands cupped to hold the rescued trinkets, he spilled them into the basket.
“One or two of the ribbons are ruined, I think,” he stated, handing over the soiled items. “I am sorry.”
“No need to be sorry,” she managed, smiling faintly. “I am sorry to have seemed ungrateful, by the way. It’s just that these are my mistress’ things.”
He nodded understandingly. “Of course. Who is your mistress? Is it one of the Marshville ladies?”
“Well, I wait on them all, but I consider myself as Miss Patrina Marshville’s maid.”
