Page 44 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“My welfare is…quite well, thank you.” She marched inside, followed by her maid and then the postilions carrying a trunk. Benjamin stifled a laugh when the maid’s hand reached out, seemingly involuntarily, to her mistress’s untamable hair.

In her bedchamber, Jean waited until the postilions had put down their burden and departed for the second trunk. Then she flattened out the crumpled note and read it again. “Do you know what Mrs. Phillipson wrote?” she asked Sarah.

“No, miss.”

“She commends me for my cleverness in becomingso closeto Lord Furness. She thinks he would make a fine husband for me, and I a consoling wife for him.Consoling!She says I mustn’t imagine they would have any objections. In fact, they would be very pleased at the match.” Jean gritted her teeth. She hated the notion of a bridge burned by somebody else.

“Well, it is only her opinion,” replied Sarah calmly. She took a key from her reticule and unlocked the trunk.

“Yes, but it makes it awkward—impossible, really—to go back there. And I’d planned to spend the season at the Phillipsons’.”

“As you’d said, miss. Yet you’ve stayed here a goodly while and sent no word about returning to London.”

The appearance of the postilions with her second trunk spared Jean the necessity of replying to this irrefutable fact.

And so Jean said nothing as she watched Sarah deal efficiently with the luggage. She’d hired Sarah herself, after her mother’s death, and gotten just the attendant she wanted—a skilled, calm, older woman, who knew nothing about her family history. Sarah was nearly forty and very good at her work. She didn’t stand on ceremony like some superior lady’s maids, and yet had more dignity than many, Jean thought. She was also an acute observer of society. They’d formed a cordial bond in the last few years, and Jean was glad to have her here despite her uncomfortably sharp observations a moment ago.

The kitten emerged from under the bed to survey the additions to his realm.

“You’ve gotten a cat,” said Sarah.

“Yes, his name is Tab. I hope you like cats.”

“I’m very fond of them, miss.” Sarah held out a hand. Tab went closer, sniffed, and accepted a pat on the head.

“Why do I have so many things?” Jean asked. The trunks took up a large portion of the bedchamber’s floor. Their contents would never fit into the wardrobe. This was a disadvantage of having no settled home. She carried much of her life with her.

“I’ll unpack what you’re likely to need here in the country,” said Sarah. “They’ll store the rest in the box room, as usual. But first, if you wouldn’t mind.” She eyed Jean. “May I do something about your hair, miss?”

“Oh yes, please.” Jean sighed with sheepish relief. “It’s gone quite…feral without you.”

Her curls set to rights by Sarah’s skillful fingers, Jean put on her bonnet and shawl and headed outside. Geoffrey could be found at the stables every afternoon at this time. Probably other times as well, given his delight in his pony, but his official riding lesson would be in progress now. Jean had felt on a poor footing with the boy since his stilted apology. She wanted to be…Reconciledseemed an odd word, but it was the one that occurred to her. She was determined to show him she wasn’t an ogre.

Also, Lord Furness might be observing the lesson, and she wanted to speak to him. She could still hear him asking if she had nowhere to go. There might, perhaps, have been pity in his voice, which shewould nothave. Her departure also gave Sarah room to arrange things as she liked. Her bedchamber was a small space for two people, two trunks, and a lively kitten.

Sarah managed the unpacking with practiced ease. When she finished, she went downstairs to find someone to take the trunks away, which was more difficult than one might have expected in a nobleman’s country residence. It seemed there were no footmen at all.

She introduced herself to the housekeeper and the cook and was offered a cup of tea and a chat at the servants’ dining table. Mrs. McGinnis presented various lower servants as they came in and out in the course of their work, and Sarah busily gathered impressions. She was interested to find that there was no butler at Furness Hall, and that Lord Furness kept no valet. The latter omission was the subject of some mild levity. Sarah gathered that Lord Macklin’s valet was attempting to set the master of the house to rights, against his inclination, if not his will. Lord Furness’s evasive actions amused his staff, particularly over the matter of an unwanted haircut. There was no malice in the laughter, however. What servants there were seemed to like the place well enough.

By the time Sarah headed back upstairs, she’d concluded that although Mrs. McGinnis was competent, this was a haphazard house with a master who paid no heed to the necessaries. It needed attention, a mistress who cared about everyone’s welfare as well as the state of the carpets. Sarah gave no sign of this opinion, of course.

Due to her employer’s style of living, Sarah was adept at creating a place for herself in different kinds of households. The process had its disadvantages. Unlike some other lady’s maids of her acquaintance, she had no settled community, with friends made over years and a settled hierarchy. However, there were advantages to being a guest. She had no stake in long-standing rivalries, and she offered the allure of new stories to tell, a fresh voice in a group that might be bored with one another.

Fortunately, Sarah enjoyed seeing new places and meeting new people. She wouldn’t have stayed on in her position if she didn’t. Her efforts to please added to her own comfort and that of her employer, which gratified Sarah. Over the five years of their association she’d come to admire Miss Saunders’s determination to make a life on her own terms. She’d also observed a deeply hidden vulnerability in the younger woman—some legacy of her early history, Sarah concluded. She’d learned, from snippets of talk gleaned here and there, that Miss Saunders’s parents had lived apart. Some said they’d hated each other. These hints had brought out what Sarah supposed were her maternal instincts. She enjoyed smoothing the way for her charge—a step beyond keeping her luxuriant hair in check. Walking along the corridor on the upper floor, Sarah allowed herself a small smile.

At a turn in the hall, she encountered a stocky, black-haired man carrying a small pile of laundry.

“Good day,” he said. “I’m Henry Clayton, Lord Macklin’s valet.”

Of the disputed haircut, Sarah thought. But she said only, “How do you do, Mr. Clayton. My name is Sarah Dennison. Miss Saunders’s lady’s maid.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dennison.”

He paused to look her over, and Sarah returned the favor. Mr. Clayton seemed about her own age, so he probably had more than twenty years of service under his belt, as she did. He had a round face, with wide cheeks and a snub nose. His brown eyes were as sharp as Sarah knew her blue ones to be.

He would be finding her angular and buttoned up, Sarah knew, an impression she’d cultivated for years. Since her youth, when she’d been middling attractive and noticed that a beautiful lady’s maid was not a long-lived creature. Mr. Clayton was very well turned out, as he should be. Nobody wanted a slipshod valet. Except for one small oddity beside his left lapel. “Do you always carry a pair of scissors?” she asked.

Mr. Clayton so far forgot himself as to glance down at the pointed blades peeking out of his upper pocket. He looked up at once, meeting her gaze. A wealth of information silently passed between them. “Have you heard about that already?” he asked.

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