Love by Deception (Age of Innocence)

LOVE BY DECEPTION

Book 2, Age of
Innocence

Debra Elizabeth

2013 Copyright ©
by Debra Elizabeth

Image by Hot
Damn Designs

ISBN-13:
978-1-934342-21-3  

ISBN 10: 1-934342-21-1

This book is a
work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of
the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events,
locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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Bath, England

1798

“Push
harder,” the midwife said. “You’re doing fine. The child is almost here.”

The
young woman fell back against the pillows, sweat plastering her hair to her
head. “I cannot.”

Her
friend wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. “Yes, you can. When the next pain
comes, push with all your might. Can you do that?”

“Yes,”
she whispered. As another pain wracked her body, she screamed in agony and
pushed the child into the world.

The
midwife caught the baby and began to wipe it clean. “A daughter. You have a
fine daughter.”

The
young woman sighed in relief. “Please, let me hold her.”

The
midwife wrapped the child in a clean blanket and handed the infant to her
mother.

The
young woman stared at the tiny face. She had a full head of dark hair and a
good set of lungs that she didn’t mind using. “Hush now, little one. No need to
fret,” she cooed as the child quieted.

Mary
smiled at her friend. “You did it.”

“Oh,
Mary, isn’t she the most beautiful child?”

Mary
squeezed her hand. “Indeed she is.”

Tears
welled in the young woman’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “Whatever am I
going to do?”

Mary
had no solution to her friend’s dilemma. “I don’t know.”

Small village in Essex County, England,
December,
1816

Eighteen-year-old
Isabel Knott pressed the cool
cloth
on the young
woman’s brow. She pushed wisps of brown hair drenched in sweat off her
mistress’s face. “There, there. This should help with the fever.”

The
cold winds of December howled outside and a loose shutter banged against the
house, but Isabel had lit a fire in the bedchamber and it gave off welcoming
heat.

There
was nothing more Isabel could do. Twenty-one-year-old Georgette Condiff tossed
and turned in the bed as if demons plagued her. It wasn’t the first time that
she’d fallen ill, but each previous occurrence had not lasted more than a day
or two. She’d been battling this fever for three days now. She was so weak,
Isabel feared for her life.

“Come
now, Georgette. You must fight. Please try.”

A
loud crash reverberated up the stairs, startling Isabel. She jumped off the bed
and flew down the stairs to investigate. She ran into the front parlor and what
she saw stopped her short.

“Mr.
Condiff, are you hurt, sir?” she asked.

The
master of the house was lying in a disheveled heap on the floor. He must have
hit his head on the side table because the cut over his eye was bleeding
profusely and running down the side of his face. Isabel rushed to his side,
yanked off her apron and pressed it against the wound. “Mr. Condiff, can you
hear me?”

The
man moaned and rolled over on his back. The smell of brandy on his breath was
powerful and Isabel tried not to breathe too deeply while she tended to him.

There
was no mistaking that George Condiff loved his brandy. He’d lost control over
his addiction and had been drinking all hours of the day and night for the past
several months. There was no one to reason with him about his excessive
drinking. Georgette had tried, but he ignored her pleas to stop. If his
daughter couldn’t get through to him, how could she be expected to bring about
any change in his behavior? She was a nobody -- certainly not someone a
gentleman would listen to -- but it didn’t stop her from feeling terrible about
what he was doing to himself. He was a sad and broken man who cared little for
his physical health, and not even his beloved daughter’s fragile health stemmed
the amount of his drinking these days.

Isabel
put more pressure on the wound, but George swatted her hand away. “Mr. Condiff,
please. You’re bleeding, sir. Let me attend to you,” she pleaded.

“Get
away from me, girl. If you want to help, get me a drink,” he bellowed as he
pushed himself up and stood on shaky legs. He took a few steps and collapsed
into his leather chair.

“Yes,
of course, Mr. Condiff. I’ll get it for you as soon as you let me see to your
injury first.”

George
grunted, but did not object further.

Isabel
scooped up her bloody apron and ran to the kitchen for water and a clean cloth.
When she returned to the parlor, George was sleeping and already snoring. At
least that would make it easier for her to help him. She cleaned the blood from
his face before lifting his head and wrapping strips of linen around the cut.
She was relieved that the bleeding was slowing, but worried that today’s fall
was becoming a more commonplace occurrence. What if he fell when she had gone
into the village for supplies? Who would help him then?
Certainly
not Georgette, who could barely help herself.
It was a scenario Isabel
didn’t want to even think about.

Between
Mr. Condiff’s out of control drinking and Georgette’s frail health, Isabel ran
herself ragged each day and didn’t have time to dwell on her personal
circumstances, but they were never far from her mind. She didn’t mind being a
servant in the Condiff household, but what would she do if something happened
to Georgette? Would Mr. Condiff keep her on? No, it would be impossible. She
was a lady’s maid, not a butler, and it would not be proper for her to stay in
the house without a housekeeper. Most especially since Mr. Condiff was not her
father.

She
sighed as she pulled the blanket off the sofa and wrapped it around his
shoulders. She’d been through this before. It was becoming all too common these
days. He would not be in the mood to eat dinner, and it was best to let him
wake on his own.

She
picked up the basin of water and headed back to the kitchen where she scrubbed
her apron clean and hung it by the fireplace to dry. From the simmering pot of
soup, she scooped some broth into a bowl and grabbed a spoon. Trudging back up
the stairs, she hoped Georgette’s fever would break soon. She needed sustenance
if she was going to regain her strength.

Much
to Isabel’s surprise, Georgette was awake when she returned to the bedchamber.
“Oh Georgette, I’m so happy the fever has broken.” She put the bowl of broth on
the side table and took the cloth from the young woman’s brow. “How are you
feeling?”

Georgette
closed her eyes. “Still alive, I see.” She
struggled to sit up, but the effort was
too much and she slumped back into the pillows.

“Hush
now. Don’t talk like that,” Isabel said. She patted the young woman’s hand.
"I know
you don’t feel well, but you must try to eat. The fever has broken at last, and
I've brought some broth."

Georgette shook her head, but her maid
would not take no for an answer. Isabel fluffed up the pillows and helped
Georgette scoot back against them so she could take in a little nourishment. 
Isabel
picked up the bowl of broth and sat on
the edge of the bed. "Here, just a few spoonfuls to start. You'll feel
better, I promise." 

Georgette sighed, but managed three
spoonfuls of broth before she closed her eyes. "Isabel, enough please,"
she said in a hoarse whisper.

"All right for now. You did
well." She put the bowl back on the table and reached for the cloth. She
rinsed it in cool water and gently pressed it to Georgette's brow. "You
sleep now. I'll be back later to help change your nightdress."

Georgette managed a feeble nod before
sleep took her again.  

Isabel watched the gentle rising and
falling of Georgette's chest. She pulled the blankets up and tucked them under
her chin. It pained her to see her mistress so weak, but she was determined to
help her get well again. Georgette meant more to her than if she'd been her own
sister. She was kind and generous, and never made Isabel feel like she was a
servant. They had many fond memories together. If anything happened to
Georgette, she'd be forced to find another place of employment, and that was
the last thing she wanted to think about. There would never be another Georgette.
The thought of losing her mistress scared her more than she wanted to admit.
This was the only home she’d ever known, and she prayed that she would not have
to leave it.

With a sigh, she gathered up the bowl of
soup and left the bedroom. On her way to the kitchen, she peeked in the front
parlor. Mr. Condiff was sleeping in his chair and hadn’t moved at all since she
had tended to him. He'd be hungry when he woke, so she hurried into the
kitchen. She was late baking the bread today and didn't relish the tongue
lashing the master of the house would give her if it wasn't ready when he
awakened.

As Isabel puttered around the kitchen,
she wondered why she was the only servant in the Condiff household. With a
house this size, there should have been at least a cook, housekeeper, housemaid
and a butler, but for the past six years, it had been only her serving the
Condiff family.

She had grown up in this house and when
she was younger, had shared lessons from the governess with Georgette. All that
changed when Georgette turned fifteen and she had turned twelve. The governess
was sent away, followed a year later by the housekeeper, housemaid, and then
the butler. Last year the cook quit in a fit of anger over Mr. Condiff’s rude behavior
and irregular eating schedule. His drunken tirades had been too much for the
poor woman. Despite placing numerous ads, no cook had applied for the position.
Their village was small, and there was no doubt that everyone heard about Mr.
Condiff’s legendary bouts of anger. So it was up to Isabel, and she had no
choice but to take on the duties of cook as well. There was no time for
leisurely activities anymore. She was busy from morning until night and the
only time she got any fresh air was when she went to the village. She missed
the days gone by when she’d had time for a walk, to read a book or practice the
piano with Georgette.

She wasn't complaining, because she'd
always been treated well and had more schooling than most maids, but some days
she dreamed that she had been born a lady and had a maid of her own. What would
her days be like? She would have time to pursue whatever pleased her instead of
working morning, noon and night. "Silly notions," she scolded
herself. "Be thankful you have a position at all."

It was another two hours before Mr.
Condiff awoke from his drunken stupor. He stumbled into the dining room and sat
heavily in the chair. "Girl, where's my meal?" he shouted.

In the kitchen, Isabel scurried to fill a
bowl of soup and sliced two generous portions of bread. She put everything on a
tray and made her way to the dining room. "Here you are, sir," she
said as she put the food in front of him. She went to the sideboard and
gathered a spoon and napkin for him. 

Mr. Condiff grunted, but tore into the
hot buttered bread with relish. He looked at Isabel. "What are you waiting
for? An invitation? Sit down and eat."

This was something new, and she was
startled by his strange behavior. Why would he want a servant to sit at the
table with him while he dined? It was unheard of, but she nodded and ran back
into the kitchen to pour a ladle of soup for
herself
.
She tore off a chunk of bread and hurried back into the dining room and took a
seat two chairs apart from him and began to eat. Not being sure when he'd rage
at her to get out, she ate her meal with all due haste. 

When she finished, she pushed back her
chair and stood. "Mr. Condiff, will there be anything else you
require?"

He looked at her as if seeing her for the
first time. "Where's my brandy? You know I want brandy with my
meals."

"Of course, sir. I'm getting it
now."

"Good servants are hard to find
these days," he mumbled between mouthfuls of soup. 

Before Isabel could put the large glass
of brandy in front of him, Mr. Condiff grabbed it out of her hand. "It's
about time," he bellowed. "Don't know how many times I have to tell
you the same things over and over. Are you slow in the head, girl?"

Isabel jumped back. "No, sir. I’m
sorry. It won't happen again." She should be used to his moods, but they
came upon him with such suddenness, that she never knew what to expect -- the
congenial Mr. Condiff or the raging beast of a man. She hurried back to the
kitchen with her empty soup bowl before she had to find out.

When she heard the scraping of the chair
legs on the hardwood floor and his heavy footsteps, she went back into the
dining room to gather up his dirty dishes. It didn’t take her long to figure
out why there was no cook on staff. Meals were served when Mr. Condiff demanded
them. No cook would be happy with that kind of a schedule. In a proper
household, meals were served at the same time every day. Not so in the Condiff
household. The irregular schedule made it difficult for Isabel to anticipate
what food needed to be prepared and cooked, but she'd found that soups, stews,
fresh bread and cheese worked best to accommodate the non-conventional meal
times.

No one complained about her cooking, so
she continued to prepare the same meals over and over again. It was also easier
to stay within the strict budget that Mr. Condiff allotted to food.

***

The next few weeks flew by. Georgette's
recovery was slow and it worried Isabel, but she was happy when Georgette
managed to come downstairs for meals more and more. Mr. Condiff continued to
sleep off his brandy-induced haze and ate when hunger pains woke him. Isabel continued
to manage the household as well as she could. As long as there was plenty of
food in the kitchen and wood in the fireplaces, no one complained about the dust
gathering on the furniture.

“I’m glad to see the color back in your
cheeks,” Isabel said as she finished pinning Georgette’s light brown hair in a
stylish bun at the nape of her neck.

“I have you to thank for that. Without
your loving attention to my health, I fear this last fever might have taken
me.”

Isabel knelt beside her mistress and took
her hand. “Please don’t say that. I would be lost without you. I cannot imagine
my life without you as a part of it.”

Georgette patted Isabel’s hand. “I know,
dearest. I feel the same, but we mustn’t overlook the fact that my health has
been frail since I was a child. You must be prepared if something were to
happen to me.”

“Nonsense, nothing will happen to you. I
won’t let it.”

Georgette smiled at her lady’s maid. “Of
course you won’t. I have absolute faith in your nursing skills, as well as
everything else you do around here.”