The first time Drake entered Mabry House, it had been through the chimney flue. He’d been Peter Sykes that night. His father hoisted him up into a tree, and then as nimbly as a little monkey, he scrambled up the branches until he was able to leap onto the roof, where he made his way to the chimney, and down he went.
The duke, in residence at the time, had caught him. While he hadn’t managed to unlock the door to let in his father, he had enjoyed a feast of meat pies and been introduced to Frannie Darling. Because of her and the duke his life had taken an unexpected turn.
Now he walked boldly through the front door without knocking. He had a room within the residence, had grown up within these walls as well as at the duke’s numerous estates.
“Master Drake,” the butler said. “They’re already in the breakfast dining room.”
Of course they were. He was late for his weekly morning visit. “Thank you, Boyer.”
He wandered down the familiar hallways, stopping once to gaze on the portrait that featured the duke and duchess and all their children. Drake stood at the end, a head taller than the others. They had never differentiated between him and their true children, had never made him feel as though he wasn’t part of the family. They had given him a great gift; he understood that readily enough. They had embraced him. Yet when he studied the painting, he saw himself on the outer edge, included but holding himself separate.
He marched on. The doors to the breakfast dining room stood open. Only a few steps in after crossing the threshold, he was enveloped by the duchess, who had come out of her chair before anyone could assist her. For as long as he’d known her, she always greeted children—her own and every orphan who crossed her path—with a hug. Whether they were returning from a term at school or a jaunt to the park. Her arms wrapped tightly around him as though she wanted to hold him forever, but as always, she eventually let him go. Let them all go, even though he knew how difficult it was for her.
“I was beginning to worry,” she said, her blue eyes scanning his features, striving to determine if something was amiss.
“Just running a tad behind this morning.”
“Rexton said you left the club last night.”
Looking over her shoulder, he glared at the Greystone heir, who merely shrugged. “I went to see you after the game ended, and you weren’t about.”
“Just some business. Nothing to worry over.”
“Then prepare your plate,” the duchess insisted, “and join us at the table.”
If she wasn’t hugging them, she was stuffing food into them. Like him, she was not a stranger to hunger. The sideboard was laden with all sorts of offerings, the aromas wafting around him. Quite suddenly he realized he was famished. He refused to feel guilty because he’d left Ophelia with nothing more than creamed eggs and toast. Hadn’t she said it was what she preferred? No sense in giving her an assortment of choices when most would be discarded. Although he knew that whatever was left over here would be taken to a mission to be served to the poor.
After heaping an assortment of selections onto his plate, he took his usual chair beside the duchess. Andrew, the spare, sat across from him. The duke sat at the head of the table, with Rexton to his left, beside Drake. The chair to the duke’s right was Grace’s. It was odd to see it empty.
“Have you heard from Grace or Lovingdon?” Drake asked.
“No,” the duchess said, “and I doubt we will until they return in a fortnight, which is the way it should be.”
“They’re so disgustingly in love,” Andrew said.
“With any luck you will be as well one day,” the duke said.
“I don’t need an heir, so I’ll never marry. Drake and I are going to be bachelors until our dying days, aren’t we, Drake?” he asked.
“That’s the plan,” he admitted.
“We swore to it,” he said. At twenty-one he was young and full of himself. Drake couldn’t recall ever feeling that young. He’d always been older in experience as well as years.
“That’s a silly thing to swear to,” the duchess said. “You can’t control your hearts.”
“Your mother has the right of it there,” the duke said, smiling softly. “Love will have its way.”
In the beginning, Drake had marveled at the kindness the duke had shown his wife. He never yelled at her, never raised his fist to her, never strove to intimidate her. They discussed issues; her opinion was as important as his. For no reason at all, he plucked flowers to give to her, bought her gifts, and spent an amazing amount of time kissing her. Drake appreciated the softness that lit her eyes whenever the duke walked into a room, the sweetness of her laughter. He had no memory of his own mother’s laughter. He knew her tears, her pleading, her screams. Under the duke’s influence, it hadn’t taken him long to come to the realization that his father had been a brute. And that a man treated his wife better than he himself wanted to be treated.
A niggle of guilt regarding Ophelia pricked his conscience but he ignored it. Unlike the duchess, she didn’t treat people kindly, she didn’t engage in good works, she didn’t put others before herself. He’d caught her berating servants, knew she was easily displeased. Patience and appreciation of others were strangers to her. She cared only for her own wants, comfort, and pleasure.
She cried out in her sleep.
“So how goes business at Dodger’s?” the duchess asked, interrupting his thoughts, thank God.
“Profits are up ten percent this month,” he said, digging into his eggs Benedict. “I approved the membership of an American.”
“American?” Rexton repeated. “Good God, does Dodger know?”
“I didn’t seek his permission before making my decision, if that’s what you’re asking,” Drake said. “The American is embarrassingly wealthy, enjoys gambling now and again, and increases our profits. From what I understand, more Americans are beginning to spend their time in London as they strive to marry their daughters off to the peerage.” He gave Rexton a pointed look. “Perhaps you’ll even marry one. I hear they rather like dukes.”
“It’ll be a good many years before I’m a duke. Besides, I’m sure they will have grown bored with us by the time I’m ready to take a wife. By the by, in the future don’t invite Somerdale to join us for a private game. He trounced us rather badly.”
Conversation moved on to the orphanages. It was odd not to have Grace there inserting her opinions, sharing gossip, talking about her various plans with the ladies. Drake never realized how much he depended on her for information. She was insightful and gave him an edge when it came to little wagers regarding the various happenings in Society—who was courting whom, who was likely to marry whom. Although few had suspected she would wed the Duke of Lovingdon. The man had been an unrepentant rake, but also wise enough to fall in love with Grace.
Following breakfast, Drake took a stroll through the garden with the duchess, her hand nestled in the crook of her elbow.
“Are you happy?” she asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“You seem troubled.”
She would notice that his mood seemed a bit off. She noticed everything, but then most thieves did. It was the key to survival. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“Lady Ophelia, perhaps.”
He nearly stumbled on the cobblestones. “Why would you think that?”
She gave him a sly look. “It didn’t escape my notice that you disappeared into an alcove with her at the ball.”
He cursed soundly. He’d been so angry with her that he’d not taken precautions to protect her reputation. The last thing he wanted was to find himself permanently tied to the harridan. Although the woman in his bed last night . . . He mentally shook his head. They were one and the same. He needed to remember that. “Did anyone else notice?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve heard no rumors.”
He needed Grace. She would know with certainty. Ironically, so would Ophelia if she possessed her memories.
“I’ve long thought she fancied you,” the duchess said.
Drake barked out his laughter. “Lady Ophelia Lyttleton? No. I’m the last person on earth she would ever fancy. And I most certainly do not fancy her.”
“Something about her always struck me as tragic.”
He stopped walking and faced her. “A woman who walks with her nose so high in the air it’s a wonder sparrows don’t perch on it? A woman who can give a cut direct to a fellow without anyone else noticing? A woman who harangues her lady’s maid if a hair falls out of her coiffure? Are we talking about the same woman?”
“For being a woman you don’t fancy, she certainly doesn’t seem to have escaped your notice or scrutiny.”
“She’s been underfoot, a friend to Grace since she was old enough to walk. I could scarcely not notice her.”
Her lips curled up. “Oh, I suspect you could have if you tried.” She placed her hand on his elbow and began guiding him back toward the residence. “It’s her eyes. They’re haunted.”
“Haunted by what?”
“I wouldn’t know. That’s the thing of it. We can never know everything about another person, and sometimes actions are a defense.” She squeezed his arm. “I know she has slighted you on occasion, but I think perhaps you frighten her.”
“How the bloody hell did I frighten her? Because she is Grace’s friend, I’ve been remarkably cordial whenever our paths cross.”
She chuckled faintly, as though amused by something he could neither see nor hear. “The duke terrified me when I met him.”
He couldn’t imagine it. Even when the man had caught Drake trying to steal from him, he’d merely fed him. “What monstrous thing did he do?”
“He drew me to him in ways no other man ever had.”
Lady Ophelia Lyttleton was not drawn to him. The thought was ludicrous. The duchess was getting up in years, fancied herself a matchmaker for her sons, but she had atrocious taste when it came to who would suit and who would not. Still, Drake loved her, knew she meant well, and it took all his self-control not to laugh until his belly hurt. Ophelia. Drawn to him. When pigs flew.
After they returned to the house, he excused himself to talk with the housekeeper as he had some questions regarding his new residence. The duchess had seen it, of course, when he purchased it, but he hadn’t invited any of the family back over for a visit. He wanted to wait until he had things in order. So she wasn’t surprised by his desire to speak with Mrs. Garrett.
“Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management,” the elderly housekeeper told him now as they stood in her office below stairs. “The very best resource for learning how to manage a house properly. Mrs. Beeton believed that an untidy house led to marital discord. Her guidance has saved many a marriage, I assure you.”
He had no interest in saving any marriage. He didn’t even know why he was seeking her counsel. Ophelia would no doubt be returning to her residence tomorrow morning. But he would soon be hiring a proper housekeeper, and it seemed he needed to have an idea regarding the knowledge she should possess.
Leaving Mrs. Garrett, he went in search of a sweet little maid who had come to work here a few years before. He found Anna making the duke’s bed.
Blushing, she curtsied. “Master Drake.”
He had told her numerous times that she need not curtsy for him, but still she did the little bob. Taking a moment, he outlined details of her form as discreetly as possible. She was perfect for his needs. “Anna, I was wondering if you might be able to help me.”
“If I can, sir, anything at all. You need only ask.”
“I know a woman who has fallen on hard times. She is approximately your size. I was wondering if you might have any clothing you were considering disposing of. I would gladly pay you a hundred pounds for it.”
Her blue eyes widened. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir. I’m more than happy to help those in need.”
“I insist on recompense. She requires quite a bit, actually. A uniform, an apron. Some unmentionables.” He grinned. “Which I just mentioned, didn’t I?”
She laughed. “You’re such a tease, sir.”
She made him smile, and he thought she was the sort to whom he should be drawn, a commoner like himself. Yet she was too sweet for the darkness that resided inside him.
“A nightdress if you have it.” He had to get Ophelia out of his shirts, because he would never be able to put them on without thinking of the linen touching her skin. “Perhaps an old dress that you’d wear when you have time off?”
“I believe I have some things. Won’t take me but a minute to fetch them.”
It actually took her a good half hour, not that he was going to complain. She met him at the back door, large bundle in her arms. He handed over the coins he’d promised, knowing she’d gotten the better end of the bargain, but then he’d been raised to be generous. If one possessed fortune, one shared it.
Then because he had a few more errands to see to, he decided to make use of one of the duke’s carriages. It would hasten his return to his townhome. Not that he was anxious to again be in Ophelia’s company, but he didn’t want to leave her alone for too long. And it was long past the hour when he normally went to bed. It was practicality that had him having a carriage readied.
Not any desire for haste so he could sooner look into her green eyes and see if they were indeed haunted.
Phee washed the dishes. Simple enough task. She’d dusted somewhat yesterday so she didn’t think she needed to attend to that chore again. Trying to recall what other duties Drake had told her to manage, she wandered through the residence. He really needed to acquire a very comfortable chair in which she could curl. As housekeeper was it her responsibility to inform him regarding what was needed? Yes, she believed so, as it seemed he hadn’t really a clue.
Walking into the front parlor, she tried to envision what all it should contain. Chairs, a sofa. Brightly colored fabrics, yellow and green. No, not for him. Something darker. Burgundy, perhaps. He was a dark wine with a bitter edge that dried the mouth.
How did she know wine? Because she enjoyed its flavor. She needed to search the kitchen for some bottles. It was strange, the things she recalled, the things she didn’t.
She’d heard him laugh, but it didn’t seem to contain any joy. She didn’t think he was particularly content with life, and while she knew she needed to be striving to remember her duties, she was more interested in remembering what she knew of him.
Perching her hip on the wide windowsill, she gazed out on the street and wondered if it was possible to move forward without a history. Did she truly need to recall her past? Obviously it wasn’t anything special or she wouldn’t now be a domestic.
Recalling Drake, though, had the possibility to be much more interesting. While she instinctively knew it was wicked, she could hardly wait for his evening bath, to once more have the opportunity to trail her fingers over his firm back. Not an ounce of fat resided on his person. His body was all sinewy muscle.
She couldn’t decide if she preferred him in his carefree attire of only shirt and trousers or in his proper dress with waistcoat, jacket, and perfectly knotted neck cloth. As he had no valet, he was quite masterful at dressing himself. Why didn’t he have a valet? Funds, she supposed. No doubt the reason he had only one servant. It was costly to have domestics.
Of course with a residence that echoed its emptiness, she didn’t have a great deal to manage just yet. She had it quite easy, shouldn’t really complain. Still, she would like to see some furniture in here. The room had such potential. She imagined the paintings that would go on the walls, daisies and landscapes—
No, they should be storms. Gray and untamed and brutal. The art should reflect her employer. It was more than his black hair and eyes that made him appear dark. It was his swagger, the intensity of his gaze, the past that he reluctantly revealed, one comprised of shadows that haunted him, because even in sleep he didn’t seem at peace.
She wanted to explore those shadows, explore him, inside and out. He intrigued her. Or perhaps she was simply trying to limit her boredom with thoughts of him. Because presently she missed him. For some minutes she had stood in the kitchen doorway watching as he prepared her breakfast. Efficiency marked his brisk movements. Confidence rolled off him. She couldn’t imagine there was anything he couldn’t conquer.
Including her.
The thought tumbled through her mind, but before she could examine it more closely, a very fine carriage rattled to a stop in front of the residence. As with everything of late she didn’t know how she knew what she knew—why she didn’t know what she didn’t know—but she knew without question that it was a very fine carriage indeed. With a liveried driver and footman, the latter hopping down to the street and quickly opening the door.
Drake stepped out in one fluid movement that belied the fact he was holding an assortment of parcels. The footman made a motion to relieve Drake of his burdens, but her employer simply shook his head, uttered something, and the footman let him be, clambering back onto the carriage, and off it went.
Rushing to the door, she threw it open and couldn’t contain her smile. “You’re home.”
He staggered to a stop, appearing at once confused and disconcerted, as though he hadn’t expected her to be here. Then his features settled into a mask of disgruntlement as though he weren’t at all happy to see her. “A servant should open the door with a bit more decorum.”
She was stung by the words, by his displeasure when it had so delighted her to see that he’d returned. Giving a quick bob of a curtsy, she said, “My apologies. What have you there?”
He edged by her. “A servant doesn’t question her employer.”
“I wasn’t questioning you.”
“A sentence beginning with what and ending on an elevated note generally implies question.”
“Fine.” She slammed the door, jerked up her chin. “I suppose a servant doesn’t close doors with a bang either.”
“Quite right. They shouldn’t be heard at all and seldom seen.”
“I suppose they shouldn’t be overjoyed to have their master return.” She couldn’t keep the pique from her voice, which she supposed was another failing. Servants no doubt talked in modulated tones so no one ever knew precisely what they were thinking.
He didn’t seem to have an answer for that, but studied her for a moment before jerking his head to the side and saying, “Come to the kitchen.”
She didn’t like being ordered about, didn’t like it at all. It didn’t sit well, and a small seed of rebellion deep inside her wanted to rise up and protest. But she tamped it down and followed docilely behind. Maybe not quite so docile. Her hands were fisted, and she was half tempted to plant one in the center of his back, right in the dragon’s heart.
The silence stretching between them was awkward, but everything she thought to say was a question. How was your morning? What all did you do while you were away? Did you see anything interesting, hear any juicy gossip? She was craving gossip.
But she bit her tongue and kept from speaking. When they reached the kitchen, she thought he might praise her for her restraint, but he merely set the packages down and waved a hand over them.
“Open them.”
“They’re for me?” She growled at the words that had escaped without thought. “I know. I’m not supposed to ask questions.”
She caught the barest twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll overlook that one.”
She had the oddest desire to see him overjoyed, happy, laughing. At ease. Not in the way he was comfortable with his surroundings, but deeper, at ease with himself, at ease with her. He must have liked her. He’d hired her. She couldn’t blame him for his impatience with the recent turn of events. She had to relearn everything. He’d not bargained for that. “You should release me.”
She didn’t think his eyes could have grown any wider if she’d punched him in his flat stomach. “Pardon?”
“You should dismiss me. Hire someone who remembers how to tend to her duties, how to open the door properly—”
“At this precise moment all I require is that you open packages properly.”
His impatience was tempered this time, and she was glad he wasn’t letting her go. How would she even begin to make it on her own when only a chasm of emptiness existed where knowledge should be?
She tugged on the bow of the string that held the brown paper around a large package that seemed to contain something soft and malleable. Parting the wrapping, she uncovered clothing. She grabbed the dress by the shoulders, lifted it up, shook it to unfold it, and held it out for inspection. A plain frock of dark blue with buttons up to the starched white collar. Long sleeves. She peered over it at him.
“Your uniform,” he stated succinctly. “You were mistaken with your assumption that you had packed your clothes into a valise. You arrived with few possessions. I should have made arrangements for you to purchase things.”
Nodding, she set it aside and unfolded a white frilly apron. Tears stung her eyes.
“You’ll no doubt be more pleased with this package,” he said, shoving another toward her.
“I’m not displeased. I’ve never had such a thoughtful gift.”
“You’ve had lots of gifts.”
Cocking her head to the side, she studied him. “Have I?”
“I can’t know for sure, of course, but I’m certain you have. One does not grow up without receiving any gifts.”
“I can’t recall a single one. It’s truly like starting my life all over.”
“Some would consider the chance to start over a blessing.”
“But that’s the thing of it. I don’t know if I should or not.” She didn’t want to focus on the troubling notion that maybe she should be grateful so she turned to the next parcel. It contained a gray dress, again with buttons to the collar, but the skirt contained several short ruffles on the backside.
“Another uniform?”
“No, I just thought you might have a need for regular clothing.”
“Do I get a day off?”
“From time to time.”
How grand! “When is the next one?” she asked enthusiastically.
“The next what?”
“Day off, silly. I should like to go to a bookshop. And gardens. I like to walk through gardens. Speaking of gardens, you really should hire a gardener.”
He appeared completely flummoxed. “Did you call me silly?”
Of all she’d said, he was going back to that? “I meant no insult. I suppose I shouldn’t be so informal with my employer.”
“No, you should not.”
“I’m only to tend to your residence?”
“Precisely. And the packages I brought you.”
She considered prodding him about the gardener but perhaps she would have more success if she brought it up another time. She would so love to have flowers to brighten up the rooms. But as he seemed most anxious for her to examine the contents of the packages, she returned her attention to them.
Setting aside the frock, she lifted other items, realizing they were underthings, much finer and softer than what she was presently wearing. The heat scorching her face, she shoved them beneath the dress.
“No need to blush,” he said. “I’m well acquainted with women’s undergarments.”
She had no doubt there, but she didn’t much like the cockiness in his words or the satisfaction in his smile. She didn’t want to think about women draped over him, stroking his dragon, his chest, any part of him. “Do you bring your ladies here?”
“No.”
Taking some comfort in his not parading them past her, she wondered why it mattered. She was his servant, nothing more. Yet it seemed there should be more.
With the undergarments stuffed aside, one more item remained. A nightdress. She would no longer have to sleep in his shirt. The thought didn’t bring as much joy as it should, but she didn’t want to examine the reasons either, because they were mocking her, reminding her that she didn’t want to be here, and yet she did.
He then nudged what appeared to be a box toward her. But when she untied the string and folded back the paper, she discovered The Book of Household Management. If the uniform hadn’t succeeded in reminding her of his expectations, the book did, glaringly so.
“The housekeeper of the woman who raised me assures me that Mrs. Beeton, the author, is the authority when it comes to proper management of a household,” he said.
“I see.”
“It also includes recipes so you’ll have more success at preparing my dinners.”
Flipping through the pages, she couldn’t imagine anything that would be less joyous to read. After setting it aside, she reached for one of the two remaining packages.
“No, this one first.”
Inside were four more books, but these . . . Reverently, she trailed her fingers over two leather-bound works by Austen and two by Dickens.
“Thought I might as well give you something to dust on the shelves,” he said.
She peered up at him. “So these are yours, not mine.”
He shrugged. “You’re welcome to read them while you’re here.”
“You say that as though you don’t expect me to be here for long.”
“No, it’s just that—”
“I can’t blame you. I’m not what you thought when you hired me.”
“Your position is secure,” he said impatiently, shoving the last package into her hands.
Discarding the string and paper, she revealed a sturdy leather box. Setting it on the table, she lifted the hinged lid. Inside, nestled in velvet, were a silver hairbrush, comb, and hand mirror. Flowers were intricately carved into the back of the brush and mirror. “They’re beautiful.” And costly, a little voice in the back of her mind whispered. She didn’t know how she knew but she knew. “I hardly know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say. I noticed you used mine and that won’t do.”
Of course it wouldn’t do. She was his servant. She should have used her fingers or simply let the tangles have their way. “You can take these out of my salary if you like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re a gift.”
“I can’t accept it.”
“You most certainly can.”
“When you take no delight in giving it? When you’re being so curmudgeonly?”
He sighed heavily. “I want you to have it. It will please me immensely if you take it, and keeping your employer pleased is what you should want above all else.”
To what extent did he expect her to keep him pleased? He hadn’t made any unwanted overtures, certainly didn’t appear to be interested in anything other than her cleaning skills. But would accepting such a lavish gift make her beholden to him? If she discovered it did, she could always give it back. Besides, she wanted the silver set. It made her feel elegant, above her station.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“You’re most welcome. Now it is time for me to retire. You remember when to wake me?”
“Yes, at five for your bath.”
He tapped Mrs. Beeton’s book. “Spend the afternoon relearning how to care effectively for my residence.”
“You said the housekeeper of the woman who raised you recommended it.”
“Yes. She’s an exceptional housekeeper, been with the family for years.”
“So you were with your family this morning.”
He seemed to hesitate, to weigh his words. Nodded. “We have breakfast together once a week.”
“Have I a family?”
She didn’t know it was possible for a person to go so completely still. Not a blink. Not a breath taken. She wondered if his heart continued to beat. He slowly shook his head. “No, you’re an orphan.”
She marveled at the relief she felt, curious as to what prompted it.
“They’ve been gone a long while I believe,” he said somberly.
She smiled at him. “You needn’t worry that I’m going to go into uncontrollable sobbing. They could have all died horribly two days ago, and it wouldn’t matter. I don’t remember them. I suppose I should mourn the not remembering. It seems people in our lives should always be remembered.”
“I’m certain they cared deeply for you.”
Narrowing her eyes, she scrutinized him. “I didn’t think you knew anything about my past.”
“I don’t, but I can’t imagine you not being loved by someone.”
“High praise indeed. Yet you are so often put out with me.”
He sighed heavily once more. “A servant should not argue or point out when her employer is not acting himself.” He again tapped the book. “Hopefully within these pages you will find a list of rules for proper housekeeper comportment. I’ll see you at five.”
Drake marched into his bedchamber, slammed the door, and paced. He’d told her the truth: she was an orphan. Her mother had died ten years earlier, her father two. She did have a family, her brother, but he hadn’t wanted her to seek out her family, not that she would have known where to begin, but she might have asked him again for her employment papers. It was simply easier to omit that little detail. It didn’t sit well with him, but then this whole affair was beginning to gnaw at his conscience.
He shouldn’t have purchased her the blasted silver grooming set, spent a small fortune on it when she would be leaving in the morning. But the long blond strands of her hair mixed in with his darker ones had been unnerving, as though they belonged interwoven into his brush like that. He couldn’t have her using his things. He wished she hadn’t looked so damned grateful for everything in the packages. Well, except for the book on housekeeping. She’d obviously not been delighted with the reminder of her place in his life.
Grinning, he sat in the chair and tugged off his boots. He should deliberately step in horse manure and trample it through the house, make her clean his boots. That would lessen her gratitude.
He didn’t know why he was so out of sorts. It was the manner in which she’d flung open the door and greeted him as though she were truly happy to see him. Her broad smile, the sparkle in her eyes had hit him like a solid blow to the chest and nearly had him staggering back. He’d wanted her, with a fierce longing that had nearly unmanned him. He’d wanted to take her in his arms and carry her up the stairs to his bed. He’d wanted to explore a body that he had bared only two nights ago but to which he’d given little attention. He’d wanted to settle into her velvety heat and watch the warmth in her eyes smolder with passion.
Raking his hands through his hair, he stood and stormed to the window. Desiring her was the last thing he’d ever do. He couldn’t be fooled by her innocence. The woman in his kitchen was not Lady Ophelia, but that she-devil was lurking just below the surface, and at any moment she was going to burst forth with her memories intact and her icy façade that could burn him if he attempted to get close.
He needed to remember that. But gazing out on the street, he seemed capable of only remembering her smile that warmed, her tart voice and words that amused more than irritated, her clinging to him as she fought the demons of a nightmare.
“You haven’t much in the way of cleaning equipment, have you?” Marla asked.
Phee felt rather embarrassed by the pronouncement. She’d been thumbing through Mrs. Beeton’s book, striving to grasp more coherently what her responsibilities entailed, when Marla knocked on the door, ready to keep her promise from the day before to help her remember her chores.
“I must have just used up everything,” Phee said.
Marla smiled brightly. “It’s a good thing I brought what we’ll be needin’ then. What all have you seen to today?”
“I washed the dishes after breakfast.”
“That’s good. What else?”
Phee thought about it. Surely she’d done something. Marla widened her eyes as though she thought that would assist Phee with finding the answer. “I opened packages.”
Marla laughed lightly. “Did you now?”
“Drake brought me some things—books and clothes and a hairbrush.” She couldn’t stop her smile at the last.
“Drake?” Marla asked.
“Yes. Drake Darling. He lives here. I told you that yesterday.”
“You should refer to him as Mr. Darling.”
But he didn’t seem like a Mr. Darling to her. Drake or Darling seemed to fit better. Perhaps because she’d awoken in his bed. “All right, then, yes, Mr. Darling.”
“Why would he be bringing you a hairbrush?”
“Because I haven’t one.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I seem to be without a good many things. I think perhaps I was going somewhere when I fell into the river.”
“You fell into the river?”
“Yes, I told you that.”
“Nah, you said you hit your head.”
“Well, I fell into the river and now I can’t remember anything. Although I sense I’m being rude. Would you care for some tea?”
“We haven’t time for tea. Mrs. Pratt only gave me an hour to help you this morning, so we’d best get on with it. Have you swept the front walk?”
“No, why would I?”
“Because leaves and dirt and such are on it. You can’t expect Mr. Darling to walk through the muck.”
“It seems a waste of time. The wind will only blow the leaves and dirt and such back onto the path.”
Marla shrugged. “Which is why we do it every day.” Without asking, she opened the pantry door, peered inside, and removed a broom. Then picked up her bucket that was filled with rags, bottles, and tins. “Come on. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“I think I can manage sweeping.”
While Phee proved her skills in that regard, Marla went back into the residence and returned moments later with a bucket of water. Phee supposed she should have been a bit more cautious about Marla going into the residence but it wasn’t as though Darling possessed anything of value to be taken. Besides, Marla was a housekeeper and domestics were trusted. She had no reason to pilfer. She had a salary.
With her hands on her hips, Marla walked along the pathway from the door to the gate like someone inspecting troops. How did Phee know that? Had she seen troops being inspected?
“You did a fair job,” Marla said.
“Fair? I did an excellent job.”
“You missed a few bits here and there.”
“I didn’t miss them; the wind blew them back, just as I predicted it would.”
Marla glanced around, up and down the street where people were going about their day. “I don’t feel any wind.”
“Well, it’s not blowing now, but it was a moment ago.”
Marla’s smile, with her crooked teeth, made her look so young, too young to be doing all this. “You don’t like being told things, but if I don’t tell you how will you remember?”
“I said the same thing to Drake—” Marla’s eyes bugged out, which Phee took to be a reprimand. She supposed there were worse punishments. “—Mr. Darling, that he needed to tell me things but he said I needed to figure it out.”
Marla shrugged her shoulders. “He has his way, I have mine. I’ll scrub down the front step there while you polish the door. I’ve got what we need in my bucket.”
Looking at the dusty door, Phee could only think of one thing to say. “I’m not a very good housekeeper, am I?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s only you taking care of things.” She handed Phee a cloth, then opened a tin. “We can only do so much in a day. Here now, use the wax to polish the door.”
Marla went down to her knees, took what looked like a brick from her bucket, and began scraping the front step.
“You can just tell me what to do,” Phee told her. “You don’t have to actually do it.”
“I’m not a fancy lady to stand around doin’ nothing all day. Besides, friends help each other, don’t they?”
“I haven’t known you long enough to be your friend.”
Squinting up at her, Marla grinned her crooked toothed grin. “Friendship isn’t measured by time. It can happen in the blink of an eye when you meet someone you like.”
Phee felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar tightening in the center of her chest. “You like me?”
“Course I do. Wouldn’t be here otherwise. Haven’t you ever met someone and straightaway you knew you’d be friends?”
Had she? Did she have friends? Before she could answer, Marla carried on. “Then sometimes you meet someone and you immediately think, ‘Cor, blimey! Not if she was the last person on earth.’ And don’t you be worrying. I’m going to tell you plenty of things you can do after I leave.”
“Thank you, Marla. I truly appreciate your help. You’re very kind.”
“Doesn’t take any more effort to be kind.”
But it did. The girl was taking time from her own schedule to assist Phee, someone she hardly knew at all. Would Phee be as generous with her time and knowledge? She liked to think she would, but she didn’t know.
Marla nodded toward the door. “Start polishing.”
Turning back to the chore at hand, Phee thought about how surprised and pleased Darling—Mr. Darling—would be the next time he used this door. She did wish that she’d polished it up all nice and glistening for him this morning before he’d returned with the packages. As she ran the cloth repeatedly over the wood, she decided it wasn’t a completely unpleasant task and she liked watching the way her actions transformed the wood from something murky to something clean and pretty. She wished life could be cleaned so easily, but it was far too complicated. Even with no memories, she knew that.
“I’m assuming your Mr. Darling has a laundress,” Marla said.
“Why would you think that?”
“Your hands.” Marla held up her own. “Mine are all rough-looking.”
They were red, chapped. Phee thought they looked years older than the housemaid’s face. While her own were so white and soft.
“You might ask him about the laundress,” Marla said. “To get clothes really clean the water’s got to be hot. When I was first being trained for service, they made me stick my hands in near boiling water.”
Horrified, Phee stopped polishing and simply stared at Marla. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. She couldn’t think of any response, except “No.”
Marla nodded. “Yeah. You gotta get used to working with the hot water.”
“That’s barbaric. How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
Phee knew her eyes grew as round as saucers. “But you were a child.”
Marla shrugged in a way that made it appear she was rolling Phee’s words off her back. “Me mum had eight kids, another coming. I had to start earning my own way. How long have you been in service?”
Phee could hardly believe that Marla was so accepting of the treatment she’d endured, but obviously she wanted to move the conversation along, so Phee obliged her.
“I don’t know. Supposedly I’ve been here for a fortnight.” She studied the door. “Do you think I’ve polished this since I set foot in the house?”
“Doesn’t look like it, does it? Windows need washing, too.”
Oh God, that was going to be a chore. She’d have to get a ladder. Was she afraid of heights? “Maybe Mr. Darling doesn’t care about the windows and doors.”
“Of course he does. All the middles care about appearances. It’s why they hire servants.”
“The middles?”
Marla laughed. “You have forgotten a lot. You know, those who aren’t poor, but they’re not the upper swells either. Like Mrs. Turner. They hire at least one servant for appearances’ sake, so people know they have some money. Most have two or three domestics, whatever they can afford. We make them feel rich.”
Was that why Darling had hired her? For appearances? No, he didn’t strike her as giving a fig about what others thought of him. He was quick enough to put her in her place if he didn’t like what she said. “All right then. Windows. What other chores do I need to see to?”
“Oil lamps have to be cleaned and prepared every day. Some households have a gent and that’s his sole job. He’s in charge of the oil lamps.”
“Our furnishings are rather spartan at the moment so that chore shouldn’t take an inordinate amount of time. What else?”
Phee polished while Marla began listing all the things she needed to tend to. Oddly, she didn’t find it overwhelming. Instead, she thought her chores would make the day go rather quickly, but more she imagined how rewarding it would be when Drake Darling noticed her efforts. The next time a fancy carriage rolled to a stop in front of the residence, the driver and footman would see a gleaming door.
And just maybe Drake Darling would smile at her, revealing that intriguing little dimple.