Leading Lady (7 page)

“What would you have done, had we turned you away?”

Leah Prescott nodded. “Mrs. Godfrey kindly supplied me a general letter, should it be necessary.”

The answer barely registered, for Muriel’s mind was racing ahead to a novel concept. While she attended St. Peter’s only on the obligatory high days, she did believe in God. She even prayed on occasion, such as when the lift stopped between floors at Harrod’s last summer, holding her and other shoppers entombed for a quarter of an hour. But she had not thought to pray for a nanny for Georgiana. Had God, who knew everything, decided to set events in motion to fill this need before she became even aware that there
was
a need?

This was too radical to grasp in one sitting. But it brought on a sense of being special, almost privileged, and she resolved quietly to attend church more often.

Her mind returning to the task of interviewing, she asked, “Why did you come here first?”

“Mrs. Godfrey advised that I should.” The woman opened her mouth again as if to say more, but then closed it, the small eyes measuring Muriel as if wondering how much was safe to confide.

This sparked a flicker of annoyance in Muriel. “Well, go on.”

Again the hesitancy in the dark eyes. “I am glad yours was first, your Ladyship, for I prayed on the train that I would find a nursemaid position, as I’m very fond of children.”

Muriel’s warm sense of entitlement evaporated, leaving an aftertaste of resentment. Was God instead answering the prayer of this pig farmer’s daughter?
But only if I hire her,
she reminded herself. She was tempted to dismiss her forthright, until the notion occurred to her that it may not be wise to defy God so directly. She had gotten away with a lot in her life, she realized, with no punishment. What if this was the final straw, in God’s eyes?

Just wait,
she said to herself. With a motion of the hand to include both women, she said, “Mrs. Burles has others to interview. If you wish, you may wait downstairs until she’s finished.”

An hour and a half later, Mrs. Burles knocked softly on the sitting room door. Muriel put aside the October issue of
Gardener’s Magazine
she had been trying to read.

“Are you finished?”

“Yes, your Ladyship,” the housekeeper said.

“And?”

“Miss Prescott seems the most qualified, what with the recommendation from Mrs. Godfrey and all. While she’s had no experience as a nursemaid for hire, well, rearing all those children . . .”

Muriel pursed her lips for a fraction. “She’s old. And homely.”

“She’s but forty, your Ladyship,” Mrs. Burles said respectfully. “And aren’t those things in your favor? She’s not likely to go running off chasing some dream or to have suitors calling. And she doesn’t have to serve notice to another employer.”

Those arguments made sense, and combined with the punishment-from-God factor, disposed Muriel to consider Leah Prescott more seriously. “Well, bring her up here again.”

This time the applicant proved her homespun education by reading eloquently from an article on fertilizers in Muriel’s
magazine and multiplying a pair of six-digit numbers in half the time it took Muriel to check the answer with pencil and paper.

“You’ll be expected to wear uniforms,” Muriel said, just in case the woman planned to wear that rag of a gown every day. Mourning her father or not, this was a household where things were done certain ways.

Leah Prescott blushed but did not lower her small dark eyes. “My father had debts, Lady Holt. I spent most of what was left to me on train fare.”

Muriel looked at Mrs. Burles, wondering what that possibly would have to do with the uniform requirement.

The housekeeper nodded knowingly. “
Lady Holt
supplies the uniforms, Miss Prescott.”

“Measure her and have Fenton’s send some over,” Muriel instructed. Fenton’s was where the servants’ uniforms had been purchased while Sidney was alive and pinching pennies to invest in the stock exchange. Now that he was gone, Muriel had one of her own dressmaker’s assistants sew their uniforms, for she was particular about even the most minute details of her house, and servants were as noticed as the furnishings. But this was an emergency. “And have Doctor Lear over to examine her before you send her up to the nursery.”

Leah Prescott was staring at her with a bewildered expression.

“Well . . ?” Muriel said, more than ready to get out to her garden.

“I’ve been hired, then?”

Muriel could not help but smile at the woman’s taut posture, a thin hand up to her prominent collarbones as if all the hope in the world rested upon the reply.

“Yes. Providing Doctor Lear says you’ve no infectious diseases.”

“Oh, I’m as healthy as a horse, Lady Holt. You’ll see.”

“If that’s so, your wages will start at two pounds monthly and includes your meals and bed. You may have every other
Sunday off, providing one of the others is available to mind Georgiana.”

That afternoon Mrs. Burles stepped out into the garden to inform Muriel that Doctor Lear had indeed pronounced Leah Prescott healthy, if a bit undernourished.

“Well, good. It’s settled,” Muriel said.

“Not quite, your Ladyship. Nanny Prescott asked about Miss Georgiana’s schedule.”

“Schedule?”

“Meals, bedtime, and such?” the housekeeper supplied. “Having never been employed as a nursemaid before . . .”

Muriel waved the trowel in her hand dismissively. “Well, surely she’s bright enough to figure something out herself. One doesn’t put a child to bed at midnight or feed her supper in the mornings.”

“Yes, your Ladyship. I’ll inform her so.” The housekeeper hesitated. “And . . .”

“What is it now, Mrs. Burles?”

“She wishes to know how often she should consult with your Ladyship.”

“Over what?”

“How best to rear Miss Georgiana, she says.”

The doubts Muriel entertained upon first meeting Leah Prescott returned. Was this how she reared her siblings, asking advice before every step? She thought back to her own nursemaids. None had seemed to struggle with the particulars of the position.

She blew out a long breath. This was a transition time, she reminded herself. Every newly employed servant in the house had probably needed a few days to adjust to the routine. Fortunately, Mrs. Burles shielded Muriel from most of those growing pains.

“Inform Prescott that she has full authority over the nursery, but if she ever strikes Georgiana she will be dismissed.”

That was everything in a nutshell, Muriel thought.

Wednesday afternoon Mrs. Burles reported to Muriel that
Georgiana already displayed signs of becoming somewhat attached to the new nanny, and that, given a few more days, surely the child would be just as fond of her as she was of Tucker.

Muriel received the news with relief, not even aware of how taut her nerves were over the situation until they began relaxing again. But just to be certain, she took to the staircase a half hour earlier than usual Thursday evening for the good-night kiss. On the third-storey landing, her ears detected faint strains of music intermingled with the rain pelting the roof and thunder rattling the windowpanes.

She was rather proud of the nursery, for it was a paradise of whimsy she had taken charge of decorating herself. Framed Kate Greenaway prints of children in quaint clothing hung from walls adorned with William Morris wallpaper of alternating pink, gold, and pale green stripes. The fireplace was surrounded by pretty tiles decorated with fairy-tale characters; a vast mauve and floral carpet covered most of the floor; four small bentwood chairs were arranged about a round table and child-sized dishes of a Royal Doulton tea set. A rocking horse dominated one corner, a three-storey doll house another, and white shelves displayed still more dolls and toys.

Muriel paused in the doorway. Nanny Prescott sat with her back to her on the low stool before the half-size pianoforte the Godfreys had given Georgiana on Christmas past. Muriel could see her daughter’s flaxen curls just above Prescott’s left shoulder. While the nanny’s right hand fingered the keys, she sang, her voice steady and reassuring against the storm outside.

It was exactly what the position called for, someone who would be tender toward her child, and Muriel congratulated herself upon making the right choice. So why the lump in the pit of her chest?

She decided the ordeal with Tucker and its aftermath had drained more energy from her than she had supposed. Some hot chocolate would revive her spirits. And the bedtime kiss would only disturb Georgiana if she happened to be asleep there against her nanny’s shoulder.

Down a flight into the morning room she went. It had been Sidney’s favorite refuge in the house, and now it was her favorite as well, since she had replaced the stuffy, heavy old furniture with the floral motifs, flowing swirls, and sensuous curves of Art Nouveau. Grandmother Pearce’s collection of blue-and-white dishes was arranged on the wall over the mantelpiece, and the childhood dolls, which had survived Muriel’s brothers, stared with glassy eyes from a tall mahogany case. Propped upon an easel in a corner was a canvas in oils, partially complete, of a bowl of fruit. The fruit that had served as her model had long ago grown soft and been discarded when Muriel’s interest transferred from painting to gardening. But she had vowed to finish one day, hence she would not allow the servants to put the easel away.

The only older piece of furniture Muriel kept in the room was Sidney’s comfortable single-ended mahogany-framed sofa, but only after having the tobacco-smelling red brocade upholstery and padding removed and replaced with China-blue velvet. After ringing for hot chocolate, she settled herself at the end of that sofa with stocking feet tucked up beneath her skirt and opened Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
to where a ribbon bookmark rested in chapter four. Presently a draft of air from the corridor accompanied Joyce into the room. The parlourmaid placed the silver tray bearing cup and saucer and linen napkin on a tea table pushed close to Muriel.

“Will there be anything else, m’Lady?” Joyce asked after stoking the fire. She had coiled auburn hair, and seemed
shorter than her medium height because of shoulders rounded from years of scrubbing floors.

Muriel took a sip from the cup and returned it to the saucer with a click. “Nothing more.”

By the time Joyce returned to add a shuttle of coal to the fire and take the tray, the storm had ceased and only inky blackness was visible past the windowpanes. “Shall I close the curtains, m’Lady?”

“Yes,” Muriel replied with eyes still on the page. She was halfway through another sentence when the soft squeak of hinges and another draft of chill air gave her second thought. She looked over her shoulder at Joyce, halfway through the doorway. “Leave the door open.”

That meant the fire would not warm as efficiently, but Muriel was comfortable for the present, and a knitted afghan was folded within arm’s reach. The Gothic horrors she enjoyed, such as Stevenson’s
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
and Wells’s
The Island of Dr. Moreau
usually gave her no more than a delicious mild scare, which she could put into perspective by reminding herself that the stories were made up. But
Dracula
was a little too intense to be reading alone, even though she could no more bear to save it for a less gloomy morning than fly.

For a moment or two I could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured St. Mary’s Church and all around it. Then as the cloud passed I could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view. . . .

“Muriel, I—”

“Ahgh!” She jumped at the touch on her shoulder. The book flew from her lap to the carpet with a thump. By that time, Muriel’s mind had registered to whom the voice belonged.

“Douglas!” she exclaimed, twisting over the sofa back to slap his arm.

“Sorry,” he said, but grinning like an eight-year-old who had just pulled a chair from beneath a schoolmate.

Before she could slap him again, his smile dipped into a trembling frown, and his eyes filled. Muriel stared at him for a second then groaned. “For mercy’s sake, Douglas . . . not
her
again.”

Her brother went around the sofa, dropped onto the other end. “I got a letter from her today. She said she gave away the roses I sent her and that we can’t be anything more than friends.”

“Well then, you have your answer.” Muriel’s feet touched the carpet briefly as she leaned down for her book. “She’s proved she’s not worth a minute of your time. Why can’t you just forget her?”

“Forget her!” A sob tore from his throat. “Could you have stopped loving Sidney at will?”

“That’s different. Sidney loved me in return.” She drew in an exasperated breath. “Douglas, Mother always told us how Bethia’s Hampstead clan has this bizarre affinity for servants. Her father married a cook, her half sister a stable boy. They’re low-class people who happened to come into money and now think they’re better than the rest of us. Why would you wish to associate with anyone from that lot?”

“The heart doesn’t think about such things,” he said with all the pathos of a lovelorn poet. “It only knows that it loves.”

“Oh, spare me the sentimental rubbish,” Muriel groaned.

They had had variations of the same argument for the past three weeks. She knew how this one would end, even if she reasoned with him until blue in the face. Reaching for the bell cord, she said, “Some cake would make you feel—”

“I don’t want any cake! I’m older than you, in case you’ve forgotten, and you don’t have to treat me like a little boy!”

“Sorry,” she said, lowering her hand.

His hazel eyes filled with worry. “I shouldn’t have followed her to Cambridge.”

“You don’t say?”

The sarcasm in Muriel’s voice was lost on her brother, for he nodded thoughtfully and said, “I should have given her a little time. She would have begun to miss me . . . I just know it.”