A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal (12 page)

To
wait
on her!

She straightened too quickly. Not amazing if she felt dizzy. Through the open door to the left she could see the
sitting room
, where a person went if she wanted to sit. Apparently the armchair in here was just for show or something. Beyond it lay a proper, mechanized water closet as well as the
dressing room
—because this great bedroom, with its hulking wardrobe and toilet table, didn’t contain enough space for a body to dress.

A laugh bubbled out of her. She covered her mouth with her hand—then frowned and lifted her fingers to her nose. A light trace of perfume lingered on them.

She looked down in amazement. They perfumed the carpets!

The door opened. She spun in time to see a girl enter from the hall—that sour-faced maid who’d taken her knife yesterday. The girl carried a basket in her arms, a heap of clothing folded atop aught else; she
kept her eyes downcast and her balance perfect as she paused in the doorway to curtsy.

She certainly hadn’t curtsied last night.

Nell eyed her, then the basket. She didn’t feel too charitable. “What’s that for?”

Light brown eyes flashed briefly up at her. “Night rail and wrapper; fresh clothes and the things for your bath, miss.”

Oh ho, so she was
miss
today, was she? “So what’s your name, then?”

“Polly.”

“Well, Polly, maybe I don’t want a bath.”

The girl shifted her weight. “His lordship instructed me to draw one for you.”

For all Nell knew, his lordship wanted her to strip naked so he could bound in and kiss her again. He’d try it in vain. She’d resolved with Hannah not to allow any nonsense until he made good on his promise of marriage. The fastest road to ruin would be to get herself with child. “I’m too tired for it. Is there a washbasin here?” Generally she made do with a pitcher of water and a cloth.

“His lordship called for a bath,” Polly said.

Nell hesitated. Judging by the smoothness of Polly’s blond bun, the girl hadn’t been doing much hard labor. “You going to haul the buckets?”

A small, disbelieving noise escaped the girl. “We’ve plumbing, miss.”

“Bully for you,” said Nell. But a great many stairs stood between this room and the ground floor, and fatigue was catching up to her. “I’m in no mood to wait. The washbasin will serve.”

The girl gave her a peculiar look, then proceeded briskly past Nell into the boudoir. There she paused
to lay down the fresh clothing before slipping out of sight.

Curious, Nell trailed after her and discovered that yet another room existed, its door having been cleverly concealed by a cover of wallpaper. White tile paved the floor inside, and a layer of varnish glistened over the pale blue paper on the walls. In the center of the room, beneath a small skylight of stained glass, two wooden steps led up to a handsome, mahogany surround that enclosed a large enamel tub, into which was aimed a bunch of copper pipes. The water came up
here
?

The maid had set her basket atop a small brass trolley, and now knelt to take hold of one of the knobs. “It—sticks,” she said on a grunt, and then the knob gave way and she fell back onto her bum. A hollow knocking sounded, and then a bang like a hammer clanging.

“That’s an ungodly racket,” Nell said. “And I’ve no interest in an ice bath, mind you!”

“Only another moment.” Polly righted her cap and climbed back onto her feet.

Suddenly water gushed out of one of the pipes, splashing into the tub.

Nell found herself gripping the door frame so hard that her knuckles protested. The water was
steaming
.

“It’s
warm
?” she asked.

“Aye,” the maid said with a sigh. “Too warm, at that. Once there’s enough of it, I’ve to shut off the pipe and spill in some cold for you.” She darted Nell a glance that said some people weren’t worth such fuss, then smoothed her hand across the towel in the basket. “His lordship is very modern,” she said stiffly.

“I can see that.” Magical would have been the word
Nell chose. She couldn’t remove her eyes from the gushing tap. It flowed like a river! The standpipe in the yard outside her flat in Bethnal Green carried water only twice or thrice a week, and not on any predictable schedule. What water it yielded came in a weak brown stream. If a body wanted to bathe, it meant hours lost to labor—collecting the pails; hauling them up the stairs; heating a bucket over the fire lest one freeze to death in the wetting.

Here, all you needed to do was turn a knob.

When the hot water was about three inches deep, the maid shut it off and switched on the cold. “You can start unrobing, miss.”

Nell cleared her throat. “In front of you?”

“Aye, and who else?” the girl asked tartly. “I’m here to draw your bath, am I not?”

“I reckon I can wash myself,” Nell shot back.

The maid turned, hands on hips. “That’s not how you’re meant to do it. There’s soaps and lotions and the whatnot that I’m meant to apply.”

Nell gaped at her. “Stars above, girl, have you no self-regard? I knew girls in service would do just about anything, but you mean to tell me you’ll even scrub a lady’s bits for her?”

The girl’s jaw dropped. “I do beg your pardon!”

“You can beg whatever you like—and I’m sure you do, at that! But elsewhere, if you please, for I can bathe myself!”

“Sure and you don’t smell like you can,” the girl retorted.

“Oh, that’s rich! I’d rather smell like onions than be a rich man’s sukey. Haven’t you any pride? What took you into service, anyway? Slaving for your keep—that can’t be your idea of living!”

The girl sucked in a breath. “You’ll note,
miss
, that
I
am not the one who reeks of onions and sausage!”

Nell paused. She couldn’t argue with that. “Bit feisty, aren’t you?” The revelation had her feeling a bit more warmly disposed to the girl. “Pity you’re not allowed a mind of your own in this line. Best keep that sharp tongue hidden lest they cut it out for you.”

The maid’s laugh sounded incredulous. “Right-o. Don’t think I don’t know what you sort say about girls in service. Think we’re dogs, don’t you? While you sleep eight to a room in your dirty little hovels, scraping together pennies to spend on gin so the cold don’t bother you! Aye, it’s well and good to congratulate yourself on your
liberty
when you’ve holes in your clothes and live as dirty as rats in a warren!”

What a sad lot of misinformation. “You’ve been listening too hard to rich people’s sermons, love. It ain’t so bad as that.”

The girl reached into the basket and snatched up one of the bottles. When she uncorked it and tipped a bit of the clear liquid into the water, a wave of heavenly scent wafted into the air—some sweet, cunning flower that brought to mind moonlight and a warm summer breeze. “At least you’ll smell sweeter the next time I have to
slave
for you,” she muttered. But when she turned, her eyes moved slowly down Nell’s figure, and she got a frown on her face that Nell didn’t like at all. “I’ll wager I could count your ribs.”

Nell fought the urge to fold her arms over her waist. “What of it?”

“So, you’ve not a spare ounce of flesh on your bones. If that’s liberty, I’ll take my lot instead. I eat better and I sleep better, and I never worry that tomorrow will bring a turn for the worse. Say what you like about me, but
don’t pretend you and your friends wouldn’t wish for my comforts.”

She hiked her chin and strode past Nell out the door. But she didn’t slam it as would a proper woman in a temper. Being trained to
service
, she shut it nice and gentle.

That quiet click was somewhat lowering, though Nell had no idea why it should bother her. She didn’t give tuppence for what some groveling girl in service had to say.

The tap was still running. She turned it off on the first try, which made her feel better. Sure and she didn’t need a maid to do such things for her.

A quick touch proved that the water’s temperature was toastier than a summer’s night. Torn, she looked from the tub to the door and back again. Wasteful not to use this water for fear that St. Maur might appear. Cowardly, even.

Heart drumming, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the water.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The heat melted straight into her bones. As she sat, she felt muscles start to unwind that she hadn’t even known she possessed. The tub was large enough for her to stretch out her legs and lean back, deep enough almost to float.

The ceiling was tiled, too. Each square looked to be painted with a different design, scrolling dark blue curlicues against a periwinkle background.

That right there was the color of heaven.

She stared up, her brain as quiet and pleased as her body. What had that girl dumped into the water? If there was a flower that smelled like this, she wanted to know the name.

After an absentminded while, she sat up and
reached for the basket. The little bottles had different colored liquids in them, and each smelled better than the next—this one of almonds, that one of strawberries, the next of roses. She tipped some of the rose-scented stuff into her hands and rubbed it up into a lather, then smoothed it down her arms and chest, scrubbing at the darker spots.

When she got to her ribs, she took a breath. The maid was right. She was bonier than she’d been the last time she’d bathed. Beneath the shelf of her rib cage, her belly caved in like an old woman’s cheek. She ran her hand down the concave flesh, a queer little shock buzzing through her bones. It felt like the shakes she’d gotten after narrow escapes at the factory, during the old days when she’d still worked on the cutting machine that trimmed the cigars. The shock of realizing she’d nearly chopped off her finger had left her jittery for hours afterward.

“Well,” she said softly. She’d just have to eat, was all. She’d eat every bite put in front of her here, and maybe ask for more besides. No matter what happened with St. Maur’s plan, at least she’d have a fuller belly to show for her stay.

She swallowed the lump that was rising in her throat.

One bright spot here: no use worrying in how to fend off St. Maur’s advances. It seemed a safe bet that he’d manufactured an interest with the idea that she might be charmed by it. He couldn’t be wanting a woman whom even the maid called a bag of bones.

She slid down all the way under, submerging her face and her hair, giving her scalp a proper scrub. When she resurfaced, her deep breath made her grimace. There
was
a ripe stink in here.

She twisted around in the tub, sloshing water up over the edges, and then laughed when she realized what it was. Now that she was cleaner, she could finally smell her clothes.

That was how
she
smelled normally.

The laughter died. God in heaven. How could St. Maur hope to convince anybody that she was born to this world?

He was stupider than he seemed if he thought she’d ever manage to pass for a lady.

Simon gathered that most of his peers dreaded appointments with their stewards and men of business. Thirty years ago, when land had still been the staple of wealth, these meetings had probably carried a nice deal of pomp and circumstance. But since the collapse of crop prices, discussions of seeds and harvests and new machinery tended to the depressing side. How hard one needed to work to keep one’s head above water, even and perhaps especially with a hundred thousand acres to one’s name!

For all that, Simon looked forward to these conversations. Even the distraction of the guttersnipe above did not cause him to cancel the scheduled appointment. Talk of soil quality and rainfall gratified some obscure, old-fashioned corner of his soul. How good it was to own entire pieces of the world! He even liked to compose the solicitous letters that accompanied his stewards’ donations to tenant families fallen on hard times.

As he signed one of these now, five men looking silently on, he reflected that his predecessor, too, had gloried in being the earl. But old Rushden’s main joy had seemed to come from his ability to act without
justification and owe no explanations for it. For himself, Simon had discovered a different way. He did not flatter himself as to the cause for it: he simply liked to play the hero. It took a humbler man than he to abjure an opportunity to win the undying admiration of a family whose salvation lay in his gift of fifty pounds.

His secretary retrieved the letter, and one of his accountants, glancing over the secretary’s shoulder into the contents of the note, made a strangled sound. “My lord—we had agreed—such beneficence, while most noble—”

“I do recall that,” said Simon. Tempting to announce that his financial troubles would soon be at an end, but until he spoke to his solicitors, he knew better. “Send it anyway. It won’t be fifty pounds that puts us into the red.”

After seeing the men out, he made his way upstairs through a house more hushed than a tomb. The silence felt edged, anticipatory, like the hitch in a sharply drawn breath. A maid, crossing the corridor ten paces ahead, started at the sight of him and bobbed a quick curtsy before ducking into the servants’ passage.

It wouldn’t be silent down below. In the kitchens, in the scullery, speculation would be running rife as to his guest’s identity. His housekeeper had all but choked when he’d told her to put Nell in the countess’s quarters.

He found himself drawing to a halt outside the very chambers so soon to become a fixture of town gossip. The closed door seemed undeservedly interesting. Had she turned the dead bolt?

He did not like the idea that she might have chosen to erect a barrier between them. He laid a contemplative hand on the knob, tempted to test the possibility.

A noise from down the hall made him turn. One of the maids, Holly, Molly, something or other, was approaching with a tray. As she caught sight of him, her footsteps slowed and she bowed her head to make an examination of the floor.

He’d imagined timidity a quality born of social distance. Certainly it went hand in hand with deference. But it occurred to him now that he might be a more unkind master than he’d fancied himself. His staff crept around him like cringing mice, yet there was nothing timid in Nell.