Leading Lady (6 page)

“And . . . ?” Muriel said, holding her breath.

“He sent me passage money to join him.” She hesitated. “I’ll be giving notice to Mrs. Burles today. I can stay another fortnight, and then—”

“New York?” Muriel interrupted while her thoughts raced for a way to repair the situation, make the girl change her mind. “Why on earth would you want to go there?”

The nursemaid took in a deep breath. “Because our family’s been in service for as far back as I can recall, Lady Holt. We never had the money for higher schooling, so that’s practically all that’s available to us here. There’s a position for me at the sweets factory where he’s been working, as soon as I can get there.”

“And you consider factory work a notch above service?”

Raising her chin, Nanny Tucker replied, “Robert’s been made manager. And Mr. Hirshfield—the owner—gives his employees a share of the profits, above wages. Robert says there’s a real future in this. He says the sweet they make has caught on so big in New York that they’re making plans to market it in other states by spring.”

“Well, what kind of sweet?” Muriel asked, stalling for time.

“I’m not sure, m’Lady,” the nursemaid confessed. Her eyes shifted downward self-consciously. “Robert says it’s called Tootsie Roll.”

With great restraint Muriel held back a smile. One thing she had gleaned from her late husband’s absorption with the stock exchange was that products with silly names were usually a flash in the pan and rarely stayed on the market once the novelty wore out. But she could not afford to offend Tucker. There had to be a way to convince her to stay. Muriel chose the method she deemed most effective.

“I’ll raise your wages if you’ll reconsider.”

The nursemaid’s eyebrows quirked, but any temptation that may have entered her head did not stay long enough to take root. “I miss my brother, Lady Holt. His wife, Nell, my nieces and nephews . . .”

“I’ll
double
them. With whole Sundays off.”

“They’re all the family I’ve got.”

“Triple! That’s more than Mrs. Burles makes!”

“I’m sorry.”

Muriel studied the girl’s face, bemused. All her life she had assumed that the chief desire of those with little money was to acquire more. And all her life she had known that, by pleading and bargaining, she could make anyone do just about anything. To have both notions challenged was so unsettling she had to struggle to maintain composure.

Another strategy popped into her mind. She seized it with great relief.

“Have you given no thought to Georgiana? How abandoned she’ll feel? She already has no father.”

In truth, Muriel doubted that Georgiana, who would be three in February, even realized what a father was, much less that she had lost one. But it was an effective argument, for the nanny’s eyes lustered.

Muriel pressed while she had the advantage. “Just stay until she’s off to school, Tucker. Four years—perhaps only three. Then you could go off to the States with a nice little nest egg and the knowledge that you did what was best for a child who loves you.”

Identical tears quivered in Valarie Tucker’s bottom lashes as she drew in a deep breath. “I love Miss Georgiana,” she whispered.

Muriel could smell victory but again restrained a smile. “Of course you do.”

The nursemaid drew in another breath, sniffed. “And that’s why I came to you first, m’Lady. I’ve already thought about
what this will do to Miss Georgiana, but . . . begging your pardon, there’s something you can do to ease the pain.”

The stupid girl’s still going through with it?
Muriel thought, teeth clinched. She relaxed her jaw and said with forced calmness, “I beg you . . . Valarie . . .”

“If you would only take more time with her, m’Lady,” Tucker barreled on as if determined to get the words out before she could be silenced. “Surely you’ve noticed how her little face brightens every time you visit the—”

“That’s hardly any of your—”

“A stroll now and again, perhaps if you read to her at . . .”

White-hot anger flashed in Muriel’s head. It was bad enough that this servant would refuse her heartfelt pleas, but then to presume to lecture her on how to rear her own daughter?

“ . . . would gain more than you can—”

“That’ll be quite enough,” Muriel said tightly.

The nursemaid’s face clouded. “I only want what’s best for her.”

“Obviously not, if you’re deserting her.”

Ignoring the servant’s stammering protests, Muriel turned her face toward the far corner of the garden, where Mr. Watterson was pretending to be totally absorbed with his mulching. “Watterson!” she called, not caring if the neighbors heard. “Fetch Ham.”

“M’Lady, I—”

“You’ve said quite enough, Tucker,” Muriel said, holding up a silencing hand. “You’ll have your trunk packed in ten minutes or you can carry it downstairs yourself. And when your
Tootsie Roll
factory goes under, you can remember how you turned up your nose at good wages.”

Tears coursed down Tucker’s flaming cheeks, dropping onto the bodice of her white apron. “Money’s not everything, Lady Holt.”

“Yes? Funny how it’s those who haven’t any who always say that.”

With hands trembling she turned her back upon the nursemaid and resumed potting her geraniums, pausing only to bark out orders to coachman Ham Sherwin when he came hurrying over from the mews. “Help Tucker carry her trunk downstairs.”

“Yes, m’Lady,” said the coachman. “I’ll just bring the carriage around and—”

“No! Just leave it on the porch. The little twit can hire a cab.”

“Yes, m’Lady,” he said after a fraction of a second.

Mrs. Burles ventured into the garden shortly afterward. Muriel waved her trowel at her. “Not now!”

The housekeeper stared at her for a moment and turned for the house again. It was when Muriel heard the commotion of the trunk being carried out front, the parting rings of horse hooves against cobblestones, that her eyes began stinging. She wiped them on the hem of her smock, blew her nose. Even with no one to notice, for Watterson had resumed his humming and raking, she felt humiliated. She had not even wept at Sidney’s funeral, and yet a mere servant’s snooty remark could reduce her to tears.

Mother,
she thought, shoving her trowel into the dirt. She got up on one knee and then reconsidered. Mother’s consolations would be comforting, but then would soon shift into recriminations over Muriel and Georgiana having not come up to Sheffield to visit since Easter. Her mother was practically housebound with severe rheumatism, and had not visited London since she stayed with Muriel during the latter weeks of her pregnancy and the early weeks of Georgiana’s infancy.

It wasn’t that Muriel felt no pity for her, but she wished her mother could understand how difficult it was to travel with an infant child, nanny, and all the trappings. If only she would accept her assurance that they would visit often once Georgiana was old enough. The guilt every telephone call induced made the lapses between them longer and longer.

Work was the remedy, mindless attention to the task at
hand, allowing the cool October breezes to refresh her face and dry her tears. She lost all track of time, but looked up and noticed the shadow of the Acacia tree had swallowed much of the garden when Mrs. Burles stepped tentatively outdoors again.

“Lady Holt?” the housekeeper said, plump hands clasped. She was forty-seven years old, with grayish-brown eyes, and salmon-colored hair pulled into a topknot. “Miss Georgiana is weeping for Nanny Tucker and will not be consoled.”

Muriel pulled off her gloves, chiding herself.
What were you thinking, running her off without a replacement?

“Who’s tending her now?”

“Evelyn, your Ladyship.”

Evelyn was Muriel’s lady’s maid and as dull as shucked oysters. The only reason Muriel kept her on was that she soaked up magazines such as
World of Fashion
and
Godey’s Lady’s Book
like a sponge. Georgiana required a clever nanny, Muriel thought, such as Valarie Tucker, or she would grow up to be dull as well.

Brushing soil from her chin, Muriel said, “Well, send Joyce out for a new doll.”

“A doll, your Ladyship?”

“Or something that winds up and makes music. That will cheer her. And telephone the agency, have them send some suitable replacements as soon as possible.”

“Yes, your Ladyship.” The housekeeper hesitated. “Would your Ladyship care to interview them?”

Muriel shook her head and knelt down again to her geraniums. “I’ll speak with those you consider most promising, but there is no sense in my weeding through the whole lot when you’re perfectly capable.”

The nursery situation preyed so heavily upon Muriel’s mind that she was snappish with the servants the rest of the day and scolded Evelyn for laying out a nightgown with the same broken button Muriel had brought to her attention days ago. As she lay in bed, Muriel wondered if the doll had
helped Georgiana cope with the loss of her nanny. Whoever had the house built sixty years ago, had ordered an extra layer of flooring between the bedchamber and nursery floors. It was convenient when Georgiana was an infant and would have disturbed Muriel’s sleep, but now Muriel had no idea if her daughter was still weeping inconsolably or fast asleep.

I should check,
she thought, reconsidering her decision not to go upstairs for the usual good-night kiss, for fear of upsetting Georgiana anew. After all, wouldn’t breaking the bedtime routine be just as disturbing? She wrestled with the dilemma awhile longer, then sat up and rang for Mrs. Burles. The housekeeper knocked and entered presently, graying hair in papers and the sash to her wrapper tied clumsily at her waist.

“You rang, your Ladyship?”

“Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Burles,” Muriel said with an apologetic little grimace to prove it.

“I was reading, your Ladyship.”

“Well, that’s good. Who’s with Georgiana?”

“Joyce, your Ladyship.”

Muriel gave her the little grimace again.

“Would your Ladyship wish for me to look in on Miss Georgiana?”

“Please, Mrs. Burles.”

She returned minutes later and reported that the child was sound asleep. That burden lifted from her mind, Muriel was able to lie back on her pillows and do the same. Hopefully by this time tomorrow, they would have hired a new nursemaid and her life would continue down its fairly unruffled path.

Five

In spite of not wishing to be involved in the bulk of the interview process, Muriel could not resist taking a peek in the corridor outside Mrs. Burles’s office the following morning. Applicants filled the seats brought in from the servants’ hall, their spines erect, white-gloved hands folded in laps, and expressions hopeful. To Muriel’s relief, at least a couple of the applicants appeared young, well-groomed, and intelligent looking. Thus she was stunned when, presently, Mrs. Burles accompanied a plain-faced woman of about forty into the sitting room.

“Your Ladyship, may I introduce Leah Prescott?”

Muriel took in the small, raisin-colored eyes and barely existent chin line, the mousy brown hair coiled at the collar of a faded black gown. What was Mrs. Burles trying to do? Frighten Georgiana?

“She’s brought a letter of recommendation, your Ladyship,” the housekeeper said with hurried voice, as if anticipating Muriel’s misgivings. She stepped over to the sofa to hand Muriel an envelope. “From Mrs. Godfrey.”

Harriet Godfrey, Sidney’s mother, had moved to the Northamptonshire estate with her husband and son Edgar seventeen months ago, after Edgar was diagnosed with something called multiple sclerosis. Muriel charged them no rent, because after all, they were her late husband’s family. And the situation worked to her advantage, for Henry Godfrey managed the property quite nicely.

But how could they have known she was in need of a nursemaid, Muriel wondered, with Nanny Tucker gone less than twenty-four hours?

She motioned toward the writing table. Mrs. Burles hastened to take the silver letter opener and bring it to her. As she unfolded the page, Muriel marveled again at how someone
with such uneven penmanship had ever become a successful author of children’s books. Sidney’s mother had never learned to type and surely frustrated her editors to no end.

Dear Muriel,
it read, with a blot causing the
u
to resemble an
a.

The
had
was smudged. Muriel could not tell if poor penmanship or maternal sentiment had caused it. She read on as the two women stood waiting.

Brigstock was the nearest village to the estate. Muriel lowered the page. “You weren’t aware we had a vacancy?” she asked.

“I was not, your Ladyship.”

While the woman’s soft voice was not refined by Belgravian standards, she had not replaced the
was
with
were
in the Northamptonshire common vernacular that used to grate against Muriel’s ears whenever she and Sidney visited the estate. The word
not,
however, came past her lips as two syllables.