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MargaretBennett.com
Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: KDP
Type: Fiction
Pages: 196
Copyright: Nov 12, 2022
Price: $3.99 (eBook)
She’s fleeing an abusive guardian.
He wants to escape London’s Marriage Mart. With a chance encounter on a lonely road, she becomes his maid.
So how hard can that be?
How hard can a maid’s job be?
Fleeing an abusive guardian, Thalia encounters an Earl on a lonely road, who offers her a position as a housemaid at his country estate. But Thalia’s the daughter of a wealthy Viscount and, having led a privileged life, finds the life of a servant more challenging than she expected.
Playing the role of a Good Samaritan, Simon, the Earl of Chedworth, takes up the rain drenched young woman on his way to his estate. When weather forces them to stop at an inn, he’s appalled to find she’s been beaten. Even though she’s secretive about her circumstances, it’s obvious she is a nobleman’s daughter. When he learns she’s seeking employment as a domestic servant, he offers her a position as a maid at Chedworth Hall.
But Thalia’s domestic incompetence soon turns the efficiently run Hall into chaos, even unsettling Simon’s heart. When her guardian shows up, Simon is determined to protect Thalia from harm. Only she has other plans.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
1812
Oxfordshire, England
Miss Thalia Catherine Eastington fought past the hurt and dried her eyes. Enough was enough. She was not some marionette or milk and water miss incapable of standing up for herself.
The beating she’d endured today was the worse yet. Next time, she feared her uncle’s anger might kill her—if there was a next time. For she was determined to leave before he made good his threat to imprison her in her room. He’d already dismissed her lady’s maid for smuggling food to her last week.
But tonight’s dinner tray suggested guilt had finally penetrated her guardian’s black heart, for it had a healthy slice of venison pie, a dish of plum pudding, and a poached pear. Or more likely, Cook had simply defied his orders.
Thalia forced down all of the pudding and fruit, not knowing when or where her next meal would be, and wrapped the meat pie in the linen napkin for later. Sipping on a cup of tea, she mentally reviewed her plan to escape the only home she’d ever known.
An hour later, after a maid retrieved the tray, she pulled out a portmanteau from the back of the armoire, wincing at the searing pain across her left shoulder, and stuffed it with a nightrail, stockings, two chemises, two of her plainest day gowns, and a pair of black leather slippers. The black mourning gowns she left behind, fearing they’d draw notice to her. Even still, when she hefted the portmanteau to hide under the bed, it felt as if it contained an anvil.
Afterwards, she pulled a slate blue woolen traveling dress from the wardrobe, a matching woolen pelisse and bonnet and a black cloak, and laid them on the bed. Then she sat in a chair before the small fire reading Sense and Sensibility by A Lady and watching the clock, until it was time for the servants to retire. Rising, she traded her slippers for a pair of sturdy, brown leather half boots.
Ever since her uncle, the new Viscount Eastington, ordered her to marry Baron Latymer, Thalia started preparing for this day. She had cousins on her mother’s side in Bath, sixty miles southwest of Wallingford. It was logical to assume her uncle would search for her there first. She, however, intended to go north to Wheatley where she could take the stage further north to Birmingham, a large industrial city. There, she hoped to find temporary work until she turned twenty-one.
Finally, the hall longcase clock chimed midnight. Because the night was bitter cold and snow was not unheard of in early January, Thalia put on both the spencer and cloak before tying the bonnet’s ribbons under her chin and tugging on her kid leather gloves. Picking up the portmanteau, she silently crept down the back staircase, unlocked the side door, and slipped out of the Manor. Keeping on the verge to muffle her steps and avoid detection, Thalia hurried down the gravel drive to the main road. Despite her frugal packing, with each step, the portmanteau seemed to gain weight.
At the end of East Manor’s long drive, she turned back for one last look at the sprawling Elizabethan house. A wave of memories of happier times spent with her beloved parents almost brought her to her knees before she resolutely stiffened her spine and set out for Wheatley.
A moonless sky impeded visibility, forcing her to slow her pace and stick to the main road. However, with luck, her absence wouldn’t be discovered before morning, and if she kept a steady gait, she’d be miles away from East Manor, even farther if she encountered a farmer heading to market and begged a ride.
Her intent was to travel through the night and reach Wheatley by dawn. Looking up at the heavily overcast sky, she regretted not bringing an umbrella and sent a prayer heavenward that the rain would hold off until she reached Wheatley.
~~~~~
Having spent the holidays with friends in Mayfair’s Portman Square, Simon Nicholas Fortescue got a late start leaving London. As he headed west out of the city, he was in a pensive mood. He’d dutifully attended balls, fêtes, and lavish dinners with his friends, but despite the month of lavish festivities and heighten holiday spirit, he’d come away feeling deflated.
At every event, one insipid debutante after another paraded before him displaying her assets and talents. He knew he sounded like a boorish, arrogant aristocrat, but he was determined not to marry solely to sire an heir. His parents had done just that, and throughout their contentious marriage, Simon had walked a tightrope to avoid their daily spats that all too often escalated into acrimonious wrangles.
At eight and twenty, he knew what was expected of him as the eighth Earl of Chedworth, but he’d yet to find a young lady whose primarily interests weren’t the clothes on her back, her station in society, seeking to wed a man with a title and plump pockets.
He wanted a friend, someone he could talk to, someone shared his interests.
A twinge of guilt accompanied this thought as a vision of the beautiful and talented Lady Rosemary Crichton came to mind. A viscount’s daughter and sister to his best friend, Charles Crichton, Viscount Ashbrooke, Lady Rosemary had attended many of the same parties and had hinted on several occasions at wanting more than his friendship.
With her father’s estate, now her brother’s, so close to Chedworth Hall, they’d known each other most of their lives. Maybe a harmonious relationship was enough to base a marriage on. It certainly was more than most society couples had to start. She would make him a comfortable wife, and perhaps love could grow thereafter.
Lost in his remunerations, the afternoon rolled by, and as a weak January sun dipped below the tree line, Simon decided not to push his high-spirited thoroughbreds too far. So upon reaching High Wycombe, he pulled in to a coaching inn to spend the night.
Anxious to get home, the next day he started out at dawn with a wary eye on the charcoal clouds rolling in from the northwest. Thirty minutes later, the inky sky unleashed a torrential downpour and quickly made road conditions hazardous, and icy rain slapped his face even with the curricle’s raised hood. When cold water seeped under his collar and trickled down his back, he decided to put up at the next posting inn to wait out the storm. It was too bad he’d sent his valet ahead with the luggage the day before, though George had provided Simon with a saddle bag for just such an emergency.
Through the curtain of rain, a dark figure up ahead caught his eye. Unfortunately, this lonely stretch of the road ran through a forested area, and with nary a cottage or soul in sight, Simon decided on caution over valor. Reaching under his seat, he pulled out a double-barrel flintlock pistol and laid it on the seat beside him under his greatcoat. As he drew near, he saw a woman wrapped in a black cloak trudging along with a portmanteau. As his curricle drew next to her, she raised startled eyes to his.
“Where are you headed?” he called down to her. She appeared young, though the cloak’s wet hood drooped about her face shadowing her features.
Her eyes grew larger. “T-To Wheatley.”
“I’m headed that way but plan to stop at the next posting inn.” He smiled to put her at ease. “You’re welcome to ride with me.” When she hesitated, he added, “Ma’am, I can’t keep my team standing in this deluge. It’s slow going as it is.”
She nodded and stepped toward the curricle, and as he reached down to help her alight, he pushed the pistol behind his back. She plopped wearily on the seat, and he noted the fine quality of the cut and cloth of her black wool cloak, and wondered again what would possess anyone to tramp about this lonely road in a storm. A very attractive young woman, at that.
If she were gentry, it fleeting occurred to him that she might try to entrap him. He was not conceited, but understood his title and wealth made him a sought-after eligible parti. Yet observing her wan complexion out of the corner of his eye, he concluded otherwise. Her cautious demeanor and wary glances suggested a young woman who was fleeing. From what, he couldn’t guess, but she appeared in dire need of assistance.
“Simon Fortescue,” he said by way of introduction as he set the horses to a fast walk, keeping a sharp eye on the muddy road for deep puddles.
“Miss East—er—by,” she stammered falteringly.
He’d noted her stutter and doubted it was due to the cold, wet weather. Rather he thought her hesitation was to invent a name, although the first part she uttered easily enough. Taking in her bedraggled appearance, the muddy hem of her cloak which she’d pulled tightly around her, the dark circles under pale blue eyes, he wondered again if she was a runaway. Had he erred in taking her up? Still, no gentleman would abandon a lone woman on a deserted road in such a tempest.
They rode in silence, and after the first mile or so, she relaxed against the seat—then suddenly pitched to the side. Tossing the reins in his left hand, he grabbed her cloak to keep her in the curricle. Still she slid down sideways, hanging half off the seat. He drew the team to a halt and gently pulled her toward him, observing her wan complexion. The young woman had fainted.
Under the cloak’s hood, wet blond curls poked from a water-soaked bonnet, her lips were blue with cold as her long wet eyelashes fluttered before flying open, and huge crystal blue eyes stared aghast at him as she struggled to push him away.
“Be easy, Miss Easterby,” he said, gently pushing her against the seat and partially behind his shoulder, keeping her upright. “You fainted.”
Her small chin came up. “I never faint.”
Though weak, he clearly heard the obstinate denial in her voice and chuckled. “Stokenchurch is just ahead. We’ll stop at the coaching house to dry out and get something warm to eat.”
Twenty minutes later, Simon pulled the thoroughbreds into the courtyard of the King’s Arms, a rambling, three-story red brick structure. After instructing the stable hand to rub down the two bays and feed them oats, he helped Miss Easterby alight, grasping her about the waist and setting her on her feet.
He frowned. Even with a sodden woolen cape, the woman weighed next to nothing. He retrieved her portmanteau, tucked his own leather saddlebag under his arm, and reached for her left arm. She flinched but allowed him to lead her into the long, blessedly dry and warm hallway with doors opening on both sides. The tavern room was on their left, most of its dark wood tables filled with other travelers from the look of it, and ahead on the right a set of stairs.
A large man with a bald head and red beard came toward them wiping his hands on a food-splattered apron about his ample waist. “How can I help yer?”
“We need—” He got no further, for the young woman suddenly leaned backwards and would have fallen had Simon not dropped both pieces of baggage and grabbed her other arm, pulling her to him.
“She ain’t sick?” The innkeeper eyed the young woman dubiously.
“A fainting spell, not used to my curricle in this weather,” Simon replied, lifting Miss Easterby in his arms. “Could you show us to a room?”
With suspicious, beady eyes scowling at the unconscious woman in Simon’s arms, he said, “Got but one. No one’s left yet from last night, what with the rain.”
“Please, lead the way,” Simon said, stepping aside to allow the innkeeper to pick up their bags and take the lead up the stairs as he followed behind.
They didn’t stop on the first floor, but continued to the second. The young woman stirred in his arms, and her eyes fluttered open.
“I can walk,” she said, struggling with him to release her.
They reached the top of the stairs and faced a dim, narrow hallway with the only light coming from a window at the far end. Simon slowly set her on her feet, and as she swayed, he took hold of her upper arm and said softly for her ears alone, “Are you unwell?”
“No, just . . . exhausted.”
They followed the innkeeper to the first door by the stairs. “Ain’t a big room,” the innkeeper said, throwing the door open. “But it’s clean.”
“Then it will do,” Simon answered as he ushered the young woman into a room set under the eaves with a single window overlooking the inn’s courtyard. It held a chest of drawers, a small table with two chairs and a bed that indeed had clean linen on it.
He guided Miss Easterby to one of two wooden chairs, and she groaned softly as she sat. Holding her shoulder to keep her from falling, he removed her soggy bonnet, then untied her cloak and started to push it off her shoulders when he saw blood staining the back of her dark blue pelisse. She grabbed his arm and gave a slight shake of her head.
“I-I can manage, thank you.” Her thready voice and her pale countenance put lie to her words.
He managed to hide his shock with a frown as he turned back to the innkeeper who had dropped their bags inside the door and rattled off a set of commands. “Can you send someone up to start a fire and bring plenty of hot water, a pot of tea, a bottle of claret, and something warm for us to eat.”
Simon pulled out a guinea from his jacket pocket and furthered ordered, “Also, two more warm blankets.”
With a grunt and a nod of his bald head, the innkeeper accepted the gold coin and closed the door behind him as he stomped nosily down the stairs.
Picking her up, Simon ignored her feeble protest and sat her on the bed. “I’ll send for a doctor.”
“No,” she said forcefully. “There’s no need.”
“There’s every need, Miss Easterby, as you’re obviously hurt and bleeding.”
“No doctor.”
Simon heard the finality in her tone. “Will you allow me to physic your wound?” She shook her head, and he added, “It could fester if not properly looked after.”
She hesitated before giving him a brief nod.
“Lie down on your side, please,” he instructed.
Again she hesitated, then slowly lowered her right shoulder on the bed, laying her head down on the pillow with her feet dangling above the floor. Simon leaned down and removed her muddy half boots, then raised her sodden, stocking feet up on the coverlet. He took the tinderbox next to the candleholder on the bedstand and lit the taper and pulled it closer toward the bed to dispel the day’s gloomy light. All the while, wary pale blue eyes watched his every move.
He unbuttoned her pelisse, gently raised her up to remove it, noting the larger bloodstain on her blue woolen traveling gown. She lay back down as he draped the soggy cloak and pelisse over a chair by the empty fireplace. Returning to the bedside, he reached round her shoulder to unbutton her gown, and she stiffened.
“I need to expose your shoulder to get to the wound,” he explained. When she didn’t demur, he unbuttoned the gown and gently eased it down her arm, exposing a fine lawn chemise encrusted with dried and fresh blood.
Bloody hell. The girl was skin and bones. Even through her chemise he could count her ribs. Had someone been starving her?
A knock sounded on the door. He shrugged off his greatcoat, covered her with it, and answered the door. A big boned, redheaded girl with blankets tucked under one arm came in carrying a large wooden tray loaded with his requests, including two pitchers of hot water, and placed it on the small round table under the window. She glanced toward the bed, then moved to the fireplace and set about making a fire. Several minutes later, she stood and faced Simon, who’d moved over to the table and raised the lids of two covered bowls to reveal a hot, hearty mutton stew. Two thick slices of warm bread were wrapped in a serviette.
“Be that all, sir?” she asked in a broad country accent.
“Yes, thank you.” He handed her a shilling, and she smiled gratefully as she bobbed a curtsey and left, closing the door behind her.
Simon took the pitcher of warm water and poured it into the bowl on the washstand, then bought it and a hand towel over to the bed and placed them on the bedside table. He met her eyes. “If you don’t want a doctor, you’ll have to trust me.”
With a weary expression, she closed her eyes. After a long moment, she opened them and nodded.
He pulled the greatcoat away, exposing her bloody shoulder, and set to work, wetting the towel to clean the wounds. There were a half dozen angry stripes marring the porcelain skin, stretching down her back, most likely caused by a riding whip. His jaw clenched at the thought of someone taking a whip to this young woman as he reached for the edge of the coverlet and pulled it up to her chin. Before she could grab it or protest, he quickly ripped the back of the chemise and striped her of it down to her waist.
She gaped, clutching the coverlet in front of her. “Please,” she pleaded, her countenance one of sheer fright. In the candlelight, her eyes, wide with alarm, were a stunning crystal blue with silver flecks.
“I mean you no harm,” he said as he set about bathing her shoulder and cringed. The skin had been broken in four areas, and two wounds showed signs of infection with swelling and pus.
“You need a doctor.” He started to rise, and she grabbed his arm.
“No. No doctor.”
“These wounds need tending.”
Despite her previous distrust of him, she gave him a hard, long look. “Then tend to them.”
He heard the resolve in her voice and something else—a command. Deuce take it. Her cultured speech, the arrogant manner she’d ordered him not to send for a quack, all screamed a privileged upbringing. This young woman was of noble birth or a gently raised tradesman’s daughter.
She didn’t’ move or flinch even once as he cleaned the festering wounds, though the whiteness of her knuckles as she grasped the coverlet under her clenched jaw spoke volumes. Fishing in a pocket of his greatcoat, he brought out a flask. “Whiskey,” he said. Unscrewing the flask, he met her eyes. “I’m sorry, this is going to hurt. You might want to turn your head into the pillow to cry out.”
She blinked several times before shaking her head.
Firmly gripping her shoulder, he poured the whiskey over the open wounds. With wide, pain filled eyes, she inhaled a deep breath and arched her back. Biting her lower lip, she whimpered, but uttered no other sound.
His arm circled her torso to calm her shivers, and he felt her ribs as his eyes took in the sharpness of her shoulder blades. Again, he wondered how had this gently bred, young woman come to be stranded on a lonely stretch of road in the rain? Who would be cruel enough to apply a whip to her? What calamity had befallen her that she’d trust the ministrations of a complete stranger over those of a competent physician?
A full minute passed before she closed her eyes and gradually relaxed her body. Her complexion was nearly as white as the sheets, and the wet strands of blonde hair escaping the coiled bun at the back of her head showed the tendency to curl. Long dark lashes rested upon high cheekbones that emphasized the sunken gauntness of her face. Still, there was no denying she was a very beautiful woman.
He rose and went to his bag and retrieved three clean linen squares. Opening one, he laid it across the open wounds. Then, letting her rest, Simon pulled a blanket over her and went about cleaning up.
Next, he opened her portmanteau and ruffled around two day gowns and undergarments until he found a night rail on the bottom. Though simple in design, the gowns and undergarments were all of quality fabrics and showed the workmanship of a talented needlewoman, suggesting wealth.
Simon wondered again what her story was. Looking at her slight figure lying on the bed, he doubted he’d get that out of her now. Besides, he had a bigger hurdle to overcome.
Walking over to the bed, he removed the blanket. Her eyes flew open, and he held the night rail out to her. “You need to get out of those wet clothes. Do you think you can manage getting into this?” She nodded, and he placed it on the bed. “I’ll keep my back to you.”
So saying, he walked over to the table and pulled a chair around so that it faced the window and sat. Though his back was to her, the lit candle on the bedstand reflected the scene behind him in the windowpanes. He watched her struggle to pull the nightrail over her head, then stand to remove her gown and the torn chemise, swaying several times and reaching for the bed to steady herself.
“If you’d like, pull a blanket around you and come join me at the table to eat.” Again, he watched her follow his directions before she appeared by him. He rose and pulled the chair on the other side of the table for her, then uncovered the two bowls of stew.
As they ate, she kept a leery eye on him.
“Why are you going to Wheatley?” he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
She slowly chewed a mouthful of stew and swallowed. “To catch the stage to Birmingham.”
“Have you relatives there?”
“No.” She hesitated again. “I am in need of employment.”
“I see.” But of course, he didn’t. “As a governess or companion?”
“As a maid.”
That was unlikely to happen, he thought. One look at her blond curls and unusual crystal blue eyes set in her comely countenance, and no mistress or housekeeper in a household with a male over the age of twelve with breath in his lungs would hire her.
With wind driven rain battering the window periodically, the dreary afternoon came to a close as they ate in silence. She consumed only half the bowl’s contents and left her bread untouched. When they finished, Simon asked if she’d like to sit by the fire with some wine or tea. She declined. “I know it’s still early, but I’d like to rest.”
“Of course,” Simon replied. “Depending on how you’re feeling, I’d like to resume our journey tomorrow morning, if the rain has stopped.”
“Thank you.” She seemed to be waiting for something as she looked at him expectantly.
Finally, it dawned on him, and he cleared his throat. “Ah, if you remember upon our arrival, this is the only room available. I will spend the afternoon and this evening in the tavern.” Her eyes grew wide as he gathered up their dishes and placed them on the tray, then placed it in the hall for the maid to collect. “I can sleep on the floor tonight and will try not to disturb you when I return.” When she didn’t reply, he nodded to her and took his leave.
Since the two private parlors were already bespoken, Simon spent the rest of the day chatting with other stranded travelers in the taproom. Outside, the relentless rain and strong winds rattled the tavern’s windows, keeping everyone pinned inside. Darkness descended early, and wall sconces were lit. The proprietor’s redheaded daughter brought out trays laden with a hearty dinner of roast venison, potatoes, cabbage and a custard pudding.
Most of the inn’s guests had retired to their rooms for the night before Simon requested a tray be sent up for Miss Easterby along with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Then he climbed the stairs to the third floor. Except for a lone sconce’s light, the hallway was dark, and no light spilled out from under the first door.
He took a candleholder from a small hall table and put the taper to the sconce’s flame. When he opened the bedchamber’s door, he saw the young woman huddled under the covers and set the candleholder on the table. There was a bucket of coal on the hearth, so Simon put more coals on the smoldering fire.
Moments later, a knock sounded, and Simon opened the door to the proprietor’s daughter. Taking the tray from her and tipping her, he turned back to find Miss Easterby sitting up in bed, with blond curls freed from their bondage falling riotously about her shoulders, and staring at him in some surprise.
“What are you doing here?” she asked groggily.
“I’ve brought you some dinner.”
It took her a moment, but she seemed to recollect her surroundings. He put the tray on the table and pulled out his chair, his back to her once again. The bedcovers rustled as she rose, and she took the other chair with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He uncovered the dishes sliced venison, boiled potato and cabbage, custard pudding and bread, and remembering her small appetite, took the hunk of warm bread for himself.
“The storm has abated some,” he told her. She nodded, and he added, “Likely, the roads will be muddy bogs tomorrow, making it a slog to Wheatley.”
Again, she nodded, apparently uninterested in conversation, so he gave up and poured himself a brandy. She ate less than half the dinner before making her excuses and climbed back in the bed.
Refilling his glass with two fingers of brandy, Simon leaned back in the chair and let his eyes rest on the small figure huddled under the coverlet. What sort of monster would raise a hand to such a beautiful young woman? Or why?
It was obvious she was a runaway. Most debutantes of his acquaintance tended to be spoiled, vain, silly creatures who were more concerned about their next ball or a new gown and hair ribbons and had a shallow understanding of the world. So perhaps she was shrewish, or she’d misstepped and disgraced herself and thus her family. Though the fortitude she shown refusing a physician’s care and allowing him to clean the wounds on her back said otherwise. She’d certainly exhibited courage and strength of character—and fear.
He released a frustrated sigh. Maybe tomorrow would provide some answers.
Not relishing his hard bed on the floor in front of the fire, Simon reached for his satchel on the floor just inside the door and pulled out a copy of Sir Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake. Sometime later and well into the Highlanders’ tale of Fitz-James battling with evil Roderick Dhu, Simon became aware of the young woman thrashing about the bed and moaning, her cries getting progressively louder. He bounded out of his chair and clamped a hand over her mouth, gently shaking her right shoulder to wake her.
Startled, wide fearful eyes stared up at him. “You were crying out,” Simon said. “You’re safe, Miss Easterby. No one will harm you here. Do you understand?” She nodded, and he slowly pulled his hand away.
“A-A dream,” she offered as explanation.
“More like a nightmare,” he said with a raised eyebrow. If it occurred again, and Simon couldn’t quiet her soon enough, they’d be in the suds with the other guests. So thinking, he removed his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair, then went around to the other side of the bed.
“What are you doing?” She sat up and stretched out a hand to ward him off.
“Be easy, Miss Easterby. I mean you no harm,” he said reaching for a blanket from the foot of the bed.
“No.” Her eyes were the size of saucers.
He easily read her worry, her fear, and went over to his greatcoat where it hung on a peg in the wall. Pulling out a knife, he turned back and handed it to her. “Here.”
“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered timorously.
“You misunderstand. Take this,” he ordered. “It is for you to use to protect yourself. Now will you trust me?”
With a shaking hand, she reached for the knife and tucked in under her pillow, her eyes never leaving his face. “Yes.”
He chuckled even as he wondered if she’d turn the knife on him sometime during the night. Laying on top of the coverlet, hugging to the bed’s edge, he pulled a blanket over him and closed his eyes.
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