Drumming her fingers on the table in the kitchen, Phee could not have been more bored if she were lying in a coffin. What did she do with herself all day?
The hours dragged by. She considered going for a walk, but she didn’t trust her memory. Drake had the right of it. She couldn’t guarantee that she would recall how to make her way back here. Earlier she stood on the front stoop and nothing beyond looked familiar. Oh, the horses and the wagons, the occasional dog—she knew what they were. She could name objects. But the street itself, the buildings that lined it were as foreign as preparing pheasant for dinner.
And there were so many more eyes, staring at her, knowing things she didn’t. So she retreated back into the house, wandered aimlessly, striving to unlock the secrets of her life, wondering why the thought of secrets unsettled her. Maybe there was indeed a reason that she wasn’t remembering, that her past seemed to have vanished.
It would be a couple of more hours before Darling awoke. She tried not to think of him lying upstairs in the same bed in which she’d slept. Thank goodness she had her own bed as she didn’t want his scent permeating her dreams. He smelled delicious, so masculine, so earthy. And he was naked. She should be appalled, but she wasn’t. She was curious more than anything. Had she ever seen a naked man?
She expected Drake Darling was quite gorgeous.
How did she address him? Drake? Darling? Mr. Darling? Master Darling? The last was too formal, the first too personal. Darling. Just Darling. That seemed right. She would of course confirm it when he awoke. Meanwhile, she decided that the house could use some flowers to brighten it up. But when she went through the back door, she discovered no gardens. Only tall grass and weeds that pulled at her skirt as she walked through them. No orderly flowers lined up to reveal a rainbow of colors, nothing that emitted comforting fragrances. Nothing to pluck. Nothing to bring delight. Everything was so drab and boring. How did he not go completely mad?
How did she not? Perhaps she was in the beginning stages of madness. Perhaps that was the reason that she remembered none of this. Why would anyone want to remember it?
She heard a smack, something hitting something else. Again. Again. Coming from the other side of the brick wall. Was someone engaged in a fight? Should she fetch Darling, have him put a stop to it? She had no doubt that he could, if not with his very presence, then with his fists. She sensed leashed violence in him. She could see him prowling . . .
Yes, he could handle whatever was happening on the other side of the wall, but it really wasn’t her business, now was it? People should be left to handle their own affairs. Still, she couldn’t deny her curiosity. And what if someone was being hurt? Didn’t she have an obligation to step in?
Glancing around, she spotted a wrought-iron chair in the corner of the terrace. Surely Darling didn’t sit there to gaze out on his weeds. Where would be the pleasure in that? She decided that she must have a rather inquisitive mind as questions bombarded her, and she seemed to constantly want to ferret out the answers, especially where her employer was concerned. But the answers remained elusive so she grabbed on to the back of the chair and dragged it over the ground until she reached the wall, where she set it against the brick. With careful balancing, she stepped up onto the seat, grabbed the edge of the wall to steady herself, rose up on her toes, and peered over.
The gardens weren’t particularly showy but they were well manicured, with shorn grass, hedgerows, roses, and absolutely no weeds. Off to the side, a rug was draped over rope strung between two poles. A woman in a black dress, full apron, and white mobcap covering her brown hair was slapping a broom against the carpet. With each whack dust floated upward.
Suddenly Phee was quite relieved that Darling had no carpeting.
The woman ceased her movements, hunched her shoulders slightly, and sneezed. Taking a handkerchief from her apron pocket, she wiped at her nose before putting the linen back. Then she raised the broom again, glanced back, and squeaked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Phee called out. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Pressing her hand to her chest, the woman laughed. “It’s all right.”
Phee could see now that the servant was more girl than woman, close in age to herself perhaps. Still holding the broom, the girl walked over and stared up at her with wide blue eyes. She smiled broadly, revealing teeth that were slightly askew. “Are you the lady of the house?”
Now it was Phee’s turn to be taken off guard. “Why would you think that?”
“There’s a fanciness to your speech.”
One that was lacking in the girl’s Phee realized. Darling had the same sort of fanciness when he spoke. It was odd, but it did sound rather elegant, more so than the girl’s, which seemed to have harsher sounds. “You don’t know me then?” she asked, suddenly realizing that what had prompted her curiosity was the hope that someone on the other side of the wall might be able to help her remember.
The girl shook her head. “No, haven’t met anyone from over there. Knew someone was in residence, a’course, but it all seemed rather mysterious, comin’s and goin’s all hours of the night.”
“There’s really no one to meet except for me and Drake Darling. He owns the residence. I’m his housekeeper.”
Once again, the girl appeared astonished. “Oh, yes, I suppose I can see that, you being so tall. I wager you have no trouble at all reaching the top shelf in the linen cupboard.”
Phee couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “I’m standing on a chair.”
The girl turned as red as beet. “Cor! Course you are. I wasn’t really thinking it out, ’cuz I know employers like their maids to be tall so they can reach things.” She scowled. “I’ll never work in a fancy house or climb to a high position. Never grew into my height. So here I am beating rugs.” Angling her head to the side, she studied Phee for several long moments. Finally she said, “You don’t strike me as a housekeeper.”
“Yes, well, apparently I am. I took a bit of a tumble and am having difficulty remembering things.”
“Sorry to hear that. What sorts of things?”
“Almost everything, it seems, except my name. I’m Phee.”
“Marla.” She puffed out her chest. “The housemaid.”
“Are there other servants?”
She nodded. “The cook’s in charge. Mrs. Pratt. Then there’s the footman, Rob.”
“Is it possible they might have met me?”
“Not likely or they would have said.” She blushed prettily. “We was always gossiping about who might be living there. Caught sight of the gent a time or two. Ever so easy on the eyes.”
“Is he?” Yes, of course he was. She didn’t know why she’d asked, but she didn’t like the notion of others ogling him, finding him interesting.
Marla nodded enthusiastically. “He is rather.”
Phee didn’t want to discuss Darling and his appeal. So she changed the topic by asking, “For whom do you work?”
“Mrs. Turner. She’s a widow. Gets lonely. Shame you’re not the lady of the house. You could come visit her.”
“I could visit her anyway.”
Marla shook her head. “Oh no, that wouldn’t be right. Domestics don’t socialize with the lady of the house.”
“Why ever not? I have plenty of time. There’s nothing to do over here.”
Appearing skeptical, Marla said, “I suspect you’re just not remembering all you need to do. Perhaps I could come over tomorrow and help you get a bit more situated. Don’t want you to lose your post.”
She wasn’t certain that would be such a tragedy but if she lost it, where would she go? How would she eat? “That would be lovely, thank you.”
Marla looked apologetic. “Sorry. I’ve got to finish up with the rugs before Mrs. Pratt comes to scold me for dawdling. Ever so nice to meet ya.”
Then she was gone, back to beating on the rug. Phee thought she could take some delight in that chore, after all. Beating out her frustrations. Surely she had met someone around here, someone who could tell her more than Darling could. It was inconceivable that they were so isolated from their neighbors. On the other hand, he didn’t seem to be very social, and his hours seemed incredibly long. Out all night, sleeping all day. When did he have time for fun, the theater—
She loved the theater. Stage, opera, concerts. She relished them all. She was rather sure of it. How could she afford to go? Obviously she spent little on her clothing so she could spend her coins on entertainment. What plays had she seen? Shakespeare? Midsummer—
“What the devil are you doing?”
The deep voice boomed behind her, startling her, causing her to jump back, lose her balance—
The chair toppled—
She was falling—
Landed more gently than she’d expected, caught in those powerful arms that had rescued her the night before. Her own were entwined around his neck like some clinging vine that would never be ripped from its purchase. Her heart raced like a mad thing, her lungs fought for air. She could feel the warmth of his skin radiating through his loose linen shirt. The buttons were undone at collar and cuff, and the untidiness made him appear more masculine, more dangerous.
“You’re not spying on our neighbors, are you?” he asked, one thick dark brow arched.
Angling her chin, she refused to be chastised for her actions. “I was meeting the housemaid, Marla.”
“Marla?”
She nodded.
“What did she have to say?”
She didn’t know why he appeared so displeased. Surely she was misreading him. She could hardly think, clasped so tightly against him as she was. “Would you mind putting me down?”
Very slowly, he released her, her body sliding down his as though it were striving to interlock with his, as though it belonged nestled within the planes and hollows. Her mouth suddenly dry, she stepped back, aware of his studying her as though he didn’t quite know her, but then speaking with the neighbors, meeting the servants was obviously not something she’d done before.
“Marla mentioned that my speech is one of refinement. Although even without the mention, I would have noticed. She seems to have misplaced her G’s and H’s. Her vowels contain a coarseness that is lacking in mine. She rather thought I was the mistress of the household. And I must confess that I can more readily see myself in that role than in the role of servant.”
A corner of his mouth curled up and the tiniest dimple appeared in the folds. She almost reached out to touch it. It was familiar, so very familiar. Had she skimmed her fingers over it before or merely contemplated doing so? “Can you?” he asked.
Could she? Could she touch it? Yes, she rather thought she could. But before she took the action, she regained rational thought and realized he was referring to her comment about her roles.
“Yes. Yes, I can. Quite well in fact. And don’t say it’s wishful thinking or daydreams.” She began to pace. “I can’t explain it, but I don’t belong here. I know that with every fiber of my being.”
“Perhaps you didn’t once upon a time, but you do now. And I need my bath prepared. Come with me.” He headed for the house, his long legs eating up the ground. She hurried after him.
“But I have more that I wish to say.”
“Your wishes are not my concern.”
Good God, could she have found a more irascible employer? How desperate must she have been for work to have settled for being within his employ? Piqued beyond measure, she followed him into the kitchen and nearly rammed into his back when he came to an abrupt halt. “I’m not smelling the aroma of pheasant cooking.”
“It has eyes.”
With his own widened, he faced her, and for a moment it appeared he might choke. “I beg your pardon?”
She edged past him. “I can’t cook something that can watch me while I’m doing it.”
“It’s dead.”
“Well, yes, of course I know that,” she said sharply. “But there is accusation in those eyes.”
“Then chop off its head.”
She thought she might be ill. “No, I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t know how.”
“You pick up a cleaver—”
“No!” she cried, slicing her hand through the air, not wanting those images described in detail invading her mind. “I meant that I don’t know how to prepare the blasted thing for eating.”
He studied her as though she had said something of monumental importance. “Of course you don’t.”
“Yet I remember how to waltz. Do you not find that odd?”
“That you would prefer memories of fun over work? No.”
Plopping down onto the uncomfortable chair, she placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Am I not a satisfactory servant then? Why keep me on?”
“We’ll discuss all this later. I need to get to the club, and the journey there begins with a bath, which you failed to prepare. I’ll assist so it gets done quickly.”
He heated water, easily carted it upstairs, quickly dumped it into the tub, all the while insisting that she follow him and observe. As though she hadn’t the wherewithal to comprehend how one went about filling a copper vessel. She considered informing him of such, but she held her tongue because, quite honestly, she had no desire whatsoever to carry and pour. Besides, she rather liked walking behind him and watching the play of his muscles over his back and shoulders as he occasionally shifted the weight of the buckets. Still, she had no desire to perform the same service. Whatever had possessed her to seek this occupation?
She couldn’t have had a choice because there was absolutely nothing about it that appealed. She could read and write. She could tutor. She could hire herself out to write letters. She should have been able to find something better.
“Why would I choose a life of servitude?” she asked as they journeyed up the stairs for the third time.
“You didn’t have a choice.”
Just as she’d surmised. “Why? Was I poor? Never mind. Of course I was. Based on the smattering and quality of my belongings I’m still poor. Practically destitute.”
“You have a roof over your head.” He turned into the bathing room, set down one bucket, and upended the other. Steam rose up. Apparently he enjoyed his bath several shades past warm. “That’s more than many have.”
“What is my salary?”
“Twelve pounds,” he said distractedly, setting down one bucket, picking up the other to add its contents to the nearly full bath.
“A day?”
Laughing darkly, he turned to her. “Why am I not surprised you overvalue your worth? An annum.”
The bucket clanked on the tile as though to punctuate his answer. Then in a quick smooth movement that stole her breath, he dragged his shirt over his head, revealing the broad expanse of chest with the narrow sprinkling of hair that she’d caught sight of earlier.
Spinning around, she headed for the threshold. “I’ll leave you to your bath.”
“Not so fast, Phee.”
She paused, the words delivered in a tone that would brook no argument. And waited. Waited. Not breathing. Not certain her heart even beat. She heard the rasp of more cloth being discarded and her body responded with alertness, like a deer spying the hunter, frozen, yet ready to dart quickly away without further thought if needed.
“You wash my back,” he said.
She heard the distinct sound of water being disturbed, lapping against copper.
“You can’t be serious.” Her voice sounded tiny, uncertain, and it infuriated her because she recognized the tinny thread of fear. It had squeaked out before, in another place, another moment, and she had learned to hold it in check, to not reveal her terror.
“I can’t reach it myself,” he said. “Do close the door to keep the warmth in the room. I don’t wish to become chilled.”
She considered closing it with herself on the other side of it. But something inside her would not allow her to retreat. Somewhere, somehow she had learned that retreat equaled defeat. As long as she wasn’t defeated, she could carry on. She could survive.
Where were these thoughts coming from? But the knowledge was clear. It left no room for doubt. Lessons learned, but not in a classroom.
“Phee? Come along now. Don’t be shy of a sudden.”
Had he taught her the lessons? Should she conk him over the head and run for her life?
No, just as last night she hadn’t feared him upon awakening, so she didn’t fear him now. He was not a danger, and where was the harm in simply scrubbing his back?
Turning on her heel, she came up short at the gorgeous sight, the mixture of colors that greeted her. She’d have never imagined something so remarkable.
“Is that dragon painted on your back?”