Page 13 of Refining the Debutante
Miranda would have teased him for asking such an obvious question. He might have laughed with her. But Miss Withers was not the laughing type. She was sedate in both behavior and expression. Such an opposite nature to Miranda’s made her a prudent choice for him. He only wanted his intentions toward Miss Withers to be clear before she left his house.
Chapter 6
“I am not a servant.”Miranda folded her arms across her chest, defiance burning behind her eyes. She had not slept well in her new bed, but had she anticipated such a rude reception from Mrs. Guttridge, the housekeeper of Gray House, she would have stayed put.
Mrs. Guttridge had the physique of a burly man. Her wiry gray hair was pinned tightly beneath her mobcap, and her neck and cheeks bulged, whereas her eyes were tiny slits. She stood to her full height and drew her face very near to Miranda’s. “If ye want to eat or have a roof over yer head, ye’d better mind me. Yer to contribute to the upkeep of the house to earn yer meals. Lord Aldington said there’s to be no special favors for ye.”
Her voice boomed, and a fleck of spit landed on Miranda’s cheek, causing her to cower and step backward into the passage and away from the kitchen. This woman was not someone Miranda wanted for an enemy; that much was clear.
“Is this some sort of test?” Miranda reached up and wiped the spit from her face. “I do what you ask, and then my uncle lets bygones be bygones?”
A sharp bellow of a laugh burst from Mrs. Guttridge’s mouth, revealing several missing teeth. “There ain’t no end for the rest of us.”
A sinking sensation started in Miranda’s chest and moved to her stomach. “I am not suited for such tasks.”
Mrs. Guttridge smirked. “It ain’t proper-like, but ye’ll be appreciating the hands that serve ye by the time yer done.”
The pit inside Miranda began to swirl, and she clutched her stomach. She barely managed to move her hand before Mrs. Guttridge shoved a mop bucket into her gut. Miranda clasped the handle of the rusted, dented bucket and cringed at the very feel of such filth. It smelled of feet and lye. This was the furthest thing from what she had dreamed for herself. How could her uncle subject her to this?
Mrs. Guttridge rattled off a list of chores, each one a nail in Miranda’s social coffin. She looked around for a savior, but the deserted corridor reflected the past twenty-four hours of her new life. With reluctant steps, she began to mop the passage, only to spill the dirty water all over the floor as soon as she finished. Later, she broke a vase while dusting, and Mrs. Guttridge shrieked for several long minutes about it being Lord Aldington’s favorite. When she stood over several dark-green rows in the garden, Miranda had no idea where to begin. She examined each plant and pulled the ones that seemed offending in shape and size. How was she supposed to know she had pulled up all the vegetables and left the weeds behind?
“Ye ain’t got a lick of sense in ye,” Mrs. Guttridge said, analyzing the pitiful basket of fruit Miranda had collected on her way back from the garden. The woman placed her hands on her wide hips. “Let’s see if ye can handle the kitchen.”
The cook, a tall and wiry woman, glared when they entered the warm room. Several kitchen maids were scattered about the place, and they all rushed to look busier than they likely were. Sarah was there too, but she hesitated in her sweeping, and her soft eyes met Miranda’s.
“Ye there!” Mrs. Guttridge said to Sarah. “Teach this sad creature to boil a kettle.” The housekeeper was apparently so used to being obeyed that she left without further instruction.
Boil water first, eat second.Surely this was a task Miranda could handle.
Sarah walked her through the steps while the other girls laughed behind their hands and whispered rude remarks.
In the firelight, Miranda noticed bright-red blisters on Sarah’s overworked hands. She was no longer a prestigious lady’s maid but a maid of all work—left to complete the tasks the other maids were too busy to accomplish, until the housekeeper could find a specific place for her. Her normally tidy bun was coming undone, and her dress was smudged. Miranda looked down to see that her own dress, which only this morning was a pretty day gown of yellow, was far worse. Tears pricked her eyes. How had she fallen so low? No one would marry her after this.
“Now, watch the spit, mind you.” Sarah pointed to the roasting goose. “His Lordship won’t like his food dirtied.”
Miranda managed without incident. Finally, she could eat. She leaned against the fireplace’s stone encasement and sighed.
“Well, that was not too hard, now, was it?” As soon as she said it, a thin wisp of smoke trailed up the side of her. She looked toward its source and gasped. The hem of her dress was on fire! She screamed and started dancing to keep the small flame from reaching her skin.
Sarah was smarter than Miranda and grabbed the barely warm pot on the hearth and dumped it on Miranda’s dress. The small flame disappeared, leaving behind wet, charred fabric.
“You were never this clumsy in London,” Sarah said, melting against the table in relief. Several kitchen maids burst into laughter. Their humiliating cackles echoed around the room.
Miranda threw up her hands. “I’m cursed. I’m doomed to live the rest of my life as a miserable lout.”
The door banged open, and Mrs. Guttridge gasped. “What now? I swear, if ye burned the dinner—”
“The dinner is well. It’s the lady who’s burnt,” a young kitchen maid with plaited hair said. She snorted, and the others dissolved into peals of laughter once more.
Tears teased Miranda’s eyelids, but she blinked them back. She stuck her chin in the air proudly. “I refuse to help in the kitchen, the garden, or anywhere else. I am not doing any more work. I demand to speak with my uncle immediately.”
Mrs. Guttridge surprised Miranda by nodding in agreement. Miranda followed her up the servants’ stairs into the corridor and toward Lord Aldington’s study.
After a knock and a request to enter, Miranda found herself facing her uncle far sooner than she’d hoped. He sat behind his desk with his pen held to a ledger. A wine bottle and a nearly emptied glass lay next to his work. The whole room seemed to carry a fruity odor from the drink. Her courage waned. She knew she was more outspoken than most, but her intimidation by her uncle had only grown since their first meeting.
“Go on now, say your piece. I do not have all day,” he growled. He looked tired and his skin more yellow than white.
“Yer Lordship,” Mrs. Guttridge began, “the miss don’t have any notion of work. She’s caused a heap of trouble, and I don’t have time for the likes of her.”
