Page 39 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
Chapter 13
“Who might you be?”
The under-butler at Lady Summervale’s capacious townhouse peered down the sharp slant of his nose at Antonia. It had been broken at least once and mended poorly. In the center was a knob below which the nostrils flared at uneven latitudes. The man must be self-conscious about his proboscis, for his mouth twisted up during the brief second Antonia failed to reply.
“Jenny. Th’ agency sent me. Are you the butler?” she asked in her best imitation of a maid. The deep calmness of full concentration settled over her. Antonia loved the moments when she sank into a new identity. In another life, she might have found success on the stage. But that was not the life she was living.
“Under-butler. Sundays is Pearson’s day off.”
Antonia nodded and opened her eyes wide in her best imitation of innocence and eagerness to please. “I’m supposed to fill in for Jane Willis.”
Under-Butler Proboscis waved her inside. “Fine. You’ll work alongside Sally. She’ll show you the house. We pay through the agency, not to you direct.”
“Yes, sir,” Antonia mumbled with as much shy reserve as she could muster. The few shillings she might have earned were a side note to the sunk expense of bribing Jane Willis a year of pay to take a day for herself. Whatever agency the Summervale household used to fill gaps in employment was about to be nicely surprised. It didn’t matter. All she needed was today. With a little luck and a lot of curiosity, this afternoon would reveal everything she needed to know about where the duchess kept her valuables.
Under-Butler Proboscis introduced her to a long-faced gray-haired woman, the housekeeper, who in turn handed her off to a pale girl with a pinch at the corners of her eyes named Sally. Antonia couldn’t see the color of her hair beneath the white cap she wore, but she would have guessed a limp shade of brown. Her own dark curls were tucked away under a similar covering. Antonia had gone to the trouble of using a fine paintbrush dipped in a mixture of coal ash from the cold grate mixed with a few drops of oil to thicken her eyebrows and add a small mole next to her nose. The tiny dot would draw the casual observer’s eye away from her distinctively full mouth, and her enhanced eyebrows made her large eyes look smaller in proportion. If she hadn’t achieved downright ugliness, she had subtly marred her beauty to the point of unrecognition.
“This here is the kitchen. We’re short-staffed on account of a flu going around. Lady Summervale hosts a cards game on Sundays. It’s mostly old ladies fleecing one another out of their dower portions over tea, but sometimes the gossip is juicy.”
“Mind your tongue, Sally,” the housekeeper chided. She appeared out of nowhere, a silent shadow of disapproval. Judging from the way Sally’s face smoothed into impassive compliance this had not been her first bid to tattle in exchange for friendship.
Antonia spotted an opportunity to exploit. She raised one eyebrow. “Bet she’s a charmer,” she confided in a near whisper.
Sally bit her lip. “Mrs. Klopp is a good mistress. Runs this place like clockwork.” Her voice dropped to a barely-audible whisper. “Mr. James, the butler, drinks in the pantry. He thinks the duchess don’t notice, but I think she looks the other way. Her dower’s portion isn’t what it used to be.”
“Oh?” Interesting. Antonia followed Sally into the kitchen where they set to washing up the morning’s china. A scullery maid bent over a tub of hot water and scrubbed a pot.
“She likes to play cards,” Sally mumbled. “The other ladies fleece her something fierce, but she won’t give it up. Lady Summervale says no one comes to visit her for her conversation, and she must offer them some inducement.”
So, the duchess was lonely. Just like her grandson, she had walled herself away in a great pile of fancy bricks. What a sad turn of events with everyone isolated and alone. Antonia’s heart ached uncomfortably. A prime example of how caring about people was nothing but a recipe for pain.
After all, hadn’t she loved being Mrs. Beckwith’s pet as a child? Her mother had known in a way she could not that once she was old enough, Antonia wouldn’t have a choice in whether to give in to Mr. Beckwith. Her mother had cared enough to save Antonia from history’s rhyme of powerful men exploiting young, vulnerable women in their employ—not that Antonia had shown a shred of appreciation. Work, her mother liked to declare, was the path to freedom. Then and now, Antonia did not find scullery work freeing. It reddened the skin and made her joints ache. Her mother’s decision to engage in prostitution for a time, rather than let the family starve, had been a defensible choice, in hindsight. One Antonia could never quite bring herself to follow.
These were the thoughts that haunted Antonia when she engaged in mundane busywork, like now, as she and Sally set about folding dry linens into neat square folds. Sally showed her where to stack them in a cupboard on the second floor. They set about putting fresh linens on guest beds which Antonia knew full well went unoccupied. According to Malcolm no one visited his caustic grandmother.
Sally had taken the housekeeper’s admonishment to heart. The hours passed mostly in silence. Antonia gave up trying to draw the girl out of her shell. The monotony of laundry, the labor of dusting and sweeping of invisible specks of dirt, all of it reminded her how much she appreciated the comforts of her life with Margaret. It wasn’t until her duster had made it halfway around the carved gilt edging of yet another portrait that Antonia noticed a significant detail. She had seen the woman’s white cuffs and graceful pose before. But where?
“The miniature,” she whispered beneath her breath. Antonia stepped backward to get a better view. A beautiful woman with pale features delineated in precise brushstrokes. Her cheeks were tinted pink, and her luminous blue eyes danced with mischief. At the base of her throat lay a large red gem in a gold setting. “Sally. Who is this woman?”
“Lady Summervale’s late daughter. It’s the only portrait of Lady Havencrest left. She died tragically.” Sally leaned close to whisper, “Some say it was by her own hand.”
“How awful,” Antonia muttered. Did Malcolm know about its existence? Undoubtedly, he would like to see it. “Is that why it’s hidden here in the side hall?”
Sally shrugged. “I suppose. I know her ladyship doesn’t like to look at it, but she won’t part with the picture, either.”
“If I had as nice a portrait of my mother, I wouldn’t part with it either,” Antonia said. “No matter how she passed.”
“Is your mother alive?” Sally asked.
“Yes.”
“So’s mine, but she has eleven other children to care for. I suspect she’d forget all about me if I didn’t send half my wages every quarter.” Sally didn’t sound resentful, only resigned.
“My mum pretends she doesn’t want my money, but she always keeps most of it,” Antonia confided truthfully.
“That's better than my mum. She thinks I ought to send her every penny I earn. But a girl’s got to look to her own future, doesn't she? I don’t fancy being a housemaid for the of the rest of my life. I want a family. Babies of my own. I quite fancy Johnny.”
“Who is Johnny?” Based on Sally’s slim hips, Antonia thought babies unlikely, but then, Sally’s mother had twelve. Perhaps her slim hips weren’t indicative of an inability to bear children.
