A Heart Revealed Part 8

A bowl of stew was set before her, and she stared at the brown gravy mixed with chunks of meat and vegetables and thought of the four-course meals that had been standard at Hampton Grove and of the even finer meals the chef prepared for them at the London town house. Pheasant, creamed potatoes, asparagus with hollandaise sauce.

She had never sat in the kitchen for a meal in her life, and she had never eaten such rustic food as mutton stew, which was decidedly peasants' fare. She looked up from the bowl to see Mrs. Dariloo open a door off the kitchen that she showed to Suzanne. A single room for servant quarters? Where would the housekeeper stay? What about the chambermaid?

Amber's heart began to race as she realized how the life she'd known had slipped away during the miles they'd traveled. The plaster on the walls wasn't smooth and colored, but a thick rough white, with bits of straw forever stuck within it. She closed her eyes. This could not be right. There must be a mistake. But when she opened her eyes again, she still saw the atrocious stew in a lopsided wooden bowl.

"Yer mistress cun take off th' bonnet," Mrs. Dariloo said to Suzanne though she looked at Amber. She clasped her hands together below her ample bosom, which was covered in an ap.r.o.n no servant at Hampton Grove would see fit to wear for the stained dinginess of it. "No need t' go oot tonight."

The horrid accent grated upon Amber's sensibilities even further, and she came to her feet quick enough that the bench sc.r.a.ped against the floor. "Show me to my room," she said, her voice quivering as she attempted to contain the level of emotion rising within her.

"But, yer stew, Miss."

"Show me to my room!" she yelled, then clamped her mouth shut. Suzanne looked at her with a tight expression, and Amber narrowed her eyes defiantly. Suzanne was used to such poverty and could not possibly understand the feelings rus.h.i.+ng through Amber's head. She felt as though she had toppled from the top of a mountain peak and landed in a heap of broken bones. Perhaps that was exactly what had happened when she'd fallen down the stairs at Carlton House.

Suzanne whispered something to Mrs. Dariloo, who nodded and led them out of the kitchen corridor and up the narrow stairs Amber had seen when she first entered the cottage. She removed a candle from one of the foyer sconces before heading up the stairway, moving far too slowly for Amber's tastes and casting dark shadows on the narrow walls as they ascended. Amber dug her nails into the palm of her hand to keep from pus.h.i.+ng the woman to move faster.

At the top of the stairs, they entered a small alcove with a door straight back and two doors facing one another across the hallway. Mrs. Dariloo moved to the right-hand door, turned the k.n.o.b, and pushed open the heavy door. Amber followed her inside and let her eyes scan the room. It was long and narrow and very close in style to the horrid room at the inn she had barely survived the night before.

The ceiling pitched in line with the roof, leaving only s.p.a.ce enough for a dresser, a bed, and a chair. There was a single window at the far end. A washbasin was set on the dresser, and Amber could see the edge of a chamber pot beneath the bed. The fireplace set against the interior wall was shared with the next room. A row of hooks on the wall served in place of a wardrobe.

It was unlike anything Amber had ever seen before, and she closed her eyes as though she could forget the image of it entirely. "Leave me," she said curtly.

"Miss, doncha want-"

"Leave me!" Amber shouted at the top of her lungs. Her hands were balled into fists at her side. "This is my room and my house, and when I ask you to leave, you will do as I say!"

"Miss."

This time it was Suzanne's voice, and Amber opened her eyes to glare at the servant who would abandon her in a few days' time.

"If the servant's quarters are in line with what I have found here, you have reason to be as outraged as I. Leave me."

Mrs. Dariloo scurried through the doorway after lighting the candle in the lamp on the dresser.

Suzanne's expression was chastising, but Amber did not care.

"I shall help you undress," Suzanne said.

"There is nothing for you to attend to," Amber said. She pointed to the door. "Leave me alone."

Suzanne's expression did not soften, but she nodded once, then bobbed a curtsy and backed out of the door, pulling it closed behind her.

Amber stood in the middle of the unpolished wooden floor and looked around at the disgraceful furnis.h.i.+ngs of the horrible room. My parents sent me to this place, she said to herself again. She had already acknowledged their lack of compa.s.sion toward her but had not imagined that their disregard could extend to this. Her father had said she would be comfortable here. Did he feel that losing her hair equated to losing all respectability?

She ripped off her bonnet and cap, throwing them against the pitched wall and then ran a hand over her gruesome head, not needing to see it to know how disgusting it was. She grasped two of the remaining tufts of hair and pulled at them, not expecting them to come away from her head so easily. She began to cry and grabbed another portion and pulled . . . and pulled . . . and pulled some more, her body racked with sobs as she threw the last of her hair onto the floor around her. She sank to her knees on the braided rug, covered her face with her hands and cried as she had never cried in her life.

It was clear to her now that she had not been sent simply to Yorks.h.i.+re; she'd been cast into h.e.l.l. Was she truly so terrible to deserve such punishment?

Chapter 17.

Amber had been lying in bed and staring at the single window of her new bedchamber-though she found the term overstated-for well over an hour the next morning when there was a tapping at the door. She didn't respond and instead pulled the quilt higher to her chin, knowing Suzanne would come in without an invitation.

Suzanne let herself into the room, and Amber turned to face the wall. The bed was large enough to be comfortable, but the pitched roof above her felt confining, especially when compared against the four-poster bed in the London house and the equally grand bed at Hampton Grove; her room there was the size of the entire upper floor of Step Cottage.

Amber listened as Suzanne picked up the discarded clothing from the floor, shaking out each piece. Amber refused to watch Suzanne's movements as she went about the room, folding clothing and pulling out drawers in order to put everything away. The last thing Suzanne did was fetch the chamber pot from beneath Amber's bed, then she left the room as silently as she'd entered, pulling the door closed behind her.

Imagining Suzanne taking the chamber pot to the privy-wherever that might be-reminded Amber of the discussion they'd had before departing for London regarding Suzanne performing tasks meant for housemaids. And she would be leaving.

The thought of Suzanne's departure terrified Amber. Not only would she be responsible for herself, she would be alone in this house-this prison. Though she'd told both Suzanne and Lady Marchent that she could be without a personal maid, now that she had a fuller grasp of the situation and realized there were no other servants here, it was impossible. Perhaps she could find a new maid, but how? She had never hired anyone. How would a new maid react to her situation? Her father had said he was sending correspondence to people in town-who? Would he outfit the house with servants? Even if he did, where would they stay? With only one room for a servant, the cottage could not accommodate the attendants Amber needed. Her father had to know that.

The questions finally drove her out of bed. She picked up the dressing gown from the chair where Suzanne had left it, adjusted the cap on her head without surveying the damage she'd done last night, and tied the gown about her waist. She exited her room and took a fresh look at the house in the daylight.

The plaster looked no better in the day than it had the night before; the swirls of the trowel used to shape it were reflected in the texture, and the dark wooden beams that ran through the ceiling and walls were rustic and stark.

She peeked into the second bedroom, the same size as her own, and found it furnished equal to her own but cluttered with discarded household items and dusty trunks and crates. As it was the only other bedchamber, Lady Marchent would stay there upon her visit in July, but Amber could not imagine her mother tolerating such accommodations. If not for her father's a.s.surance of familiarity with Step Cottage, Amber would think he had never seen it.

The third door, directly across from the top of the stairs, led to a closet, dark and narrow, which ran the width of the top floor with shelves stuffed with all manner of linens and crockery. It smelled of musty dirt. She pulled the door closed without further inspection.

Amber descended the narrow staircase that creaked beneath her feet and found herself in the foyer she had entered the night before. From where she stood she could see into the small parlor, and she ventured further down the hall to an equally confining library. The leather settee and chair that flanked the empty fireplace were dark and heavy, but improved somewhat by the daylight coming through a window set above a small desk. The day was quite bright for what Amber had imagined the North Country would be.

Amber followed the hall to the kitchen where she could smell something baking. She inhaled deeply, her stomach tight with hunger. She stopped just over the threshold and looked around the room. So primitive. So small. There was no water pump for the basin set within the counter that ran along one full side of the room. Beneath the counter were shelves filled with simple dishes and pans, but nothing of the quality at Hampton Grove. Nothing fit for someone of her station. A bricked hearth, blackened from use, sat against the interior wall it shared with the servant's quarters. The impoverished room was barely fit for servants, let alone women of genteel birth.

She must be expected to take her meals beside the fire but could scarce believe it. She wondered if she should insist on returning to London, but Amber would choose this exile above having to withstand her mother should she go back begging for consideration.

An outer door opened, and Amber startled until she saw it was Suzanne returning from outside, chamber pot in her hand. The maid met Amber's eyes quickly but said nothing as she headed toward the corridor that led to the rest of the house. Amber heard Suzanne's steps creak upon the stairs, cross the ceiling, and then come back again.

When Suzanne reentered the kitchen, she went to a washbasin set up on a table against the wall nearest the door and washed her hands. She dried her hands on a dishcloth and moved to the cooking fire where she used a crooked metal hook to pull the heavy iron pan from the coals. With the same hook, she lifted the lid, intensifying the smell of fresh-baked bread, which further tightened Amber's stomach. She was not used to feeling hungry and could not remember ever having wanted food so badly.

"I'm afraid it might be a bit burnt on the bottom," Suzanne said without looking at Amber still standing in the corner. "I suspect the coals were too hot when I set the pot upon them. I don't often apply myself to baking." She placed the lid on the hearth and then removed two wooden plates from one of the shelves beneath the counter. "Mrs. Dariloo was kind enough to stock some things in the larder." She nodded toward a cupboard set within the back of the house. "There's a smokehouse out back too, and a cellar s.p.a.ce that will be good for vegetables once there's a harvest."

Amber didn't want to hear such low details of household management and sat at the table, staring at the steaming bread on the other side of the room. It didn't look burnt to her, and she would scarcely care if it were.

"Don't you agree it was kind of Mrs. Dariloo to be so attentive?" Suzanne asked.

Amber met Suzanne's reprimanding expression and looked away quickly. She did not give a fig for Mrs. Dariloo. Not when so many things of greater consequence were so devastating.

"Your father's man of business did not make contact with them until Monday evening-late in the day," Suzanne continued. "They spent Tuesday pulling off the Holland covers, sweeping and cleaning everything in sight, and clearing the chimney. Three days' work they managed to do in but one. Come yesterday they filled the larder, removed the shutters, and readied the stables for the horse and gig. Very kind of them, don't you think?"

"My father is their employer," Amber said, feeling defiant as she stared at the wood grain in the table that wasn't even varnished. "They will be well compensated for their service."

The spoon banging against the iron pot made Amber jump, and she looked up at her maid whose mouth was in a tight line. "Is that why you think people do what they do for you? Only because they are paid?"

"Of course," Amber said. "What other reason is there?"

Suzanne narrowed her eyes, then shook her head and went back to slicing the bread still in the pan. "You know nothing about regular people, Miss, and it is perhaps your greatest failing, though certainly not your only one."

"I beg your pardon!" Amber recoiled. "How dare you speak to me like-"

The spoon hit against the pan again, and Amber went quiet for a second time, shocked that Suzanne would act so out of place.

"Miss Sterlington," Suzanne said, facing her, the spoon in one hand and her other hand on her hip. "May I speak plainly?"

"Have you not been plain enough?"

"I spent a great deal of time speaking with Mrs. Dariloo last night. Step Cottage is four miles from the town of Romanby and Northallerton is a mile north of that. The nearest neighbor is no less than three miles from here. You are not going to live the life you lived in London or on your family estate. You will not be surrounded by servants who will cater to your interests and move about silently doing their work as if they have no mind or will of their own. Your father's solicitor asked the Dariloos to find a housekeeper who can come in once a week and-"

Amber gasped and clenched her hands into fists on the tabletop. "Once a week?"

"Yes, once a week," Suzanne repeated. "Mrs. Dariloo will try to find someone willing to come more often, but you are so far out of town that she feels it is unlikely."

"I shall have a housekeeper who lives here," Amber demanded. She pointed to the servant's room. "They shall live in the quarters afforded them and meet my needs on a daily basis."

"I do not believe you will find such an arrangement," Suzanne said. "Romanby is a small village, and Mrs. Dariloo seemed to think that living in the cottage could not compensate for live-in help even should you find someone. People here have families they return to at the end of the day or end of the week. They do not live at the place of their employ when there is but one person and a small lodging to care for."

"My father will pay whatever is required," Amber said. "He will want me to be comfortable."

Suzanne said nothing, which was perhaps the strongest answer she could give. Lord and Lady Marchent had sent their daughter as far from them as possible to live in miserable conditions. Why should Amber think they would listen to her request? She was not only a pariah to society, she was also an embarra.s.sment to her parents. A blemish. An imperfection.

"I shall die here alone," Amber said, unable to breathe for the shock of reality falling about her. "I shall be alone for all but one day of the week?" She shook her head, panicking at the idea as a lump rose in her throat. Was that why her parents had sent her here? Did they expect she would disappear completely; perhaps die as an outcast? Would they prefer such an end?

Suzanne came to sit on the bench across the table from Amber. "Miss," she said in a well-controlled tone. "You are going to live as most people in England do-caring for your own needs and having purpose in your days."

Amber raised her eyes. Purpose? Why had Suzanne emphasized that word? Until now Amber's purpose had been to maintain her family's reputation, one day serve as an admired wife of an admired man, and seek pleasure and amus.e.m.e.nt in any way she liked. But that did not seem to be Suzanne's meaning.

Suzanne clasped her hands together upon the table. "There is great satisfaction in accomplishment, Miss."

"I am accomplished," Amber argued.

"Not only in music and embroidery and poetry, but also in creating useful things, in cooking and laundering and-"

Amber grabbed Suzanne's clasped hands. "I cannot launder my own clothing. Surely you are not suggesting such a thing!"

The slight smile on Suzanne's face confused her even more. Had she not truly awoken this morning? Was she still abed, caught within a nightmare?

"Miss," Suzanne said, "nothing will be as it was. That's what I realized as I spoke with Mrs. Dariloo. We've no idea the changes we will have to make to exist in this new place, but there are kind people, this is a good house, and the country is quite beautiful. You shall rest and heal and learn that there is more to life than parties and fas.h.i.+on. I daresay that at the end of it, you shall be better for this trial-a kinder, wiser woman with a better understanding of the world most people of your station never know. We shall make the best of this and find contentment if we can."

The tears rose like a tidal wave and Amber did not wipe them away. "We?" she whispered out loud.

Suzanne looked at the tabletop. "After speaking with Mrs. Dariloo and further considering the circ.u.mstance, I have decided to stay until your mother comes. I do not know how you could care for yourself and, in all honesty, I'm not sure there's another maid in the county who could handle your moods, should you manage to find one. I shall need you to appeal to your parents for an amount at least equal to what I was making in London so I may send it to my family. They are dependent upon me, you see, and I cannot choose to stay here without a.s.surance that they will be cared for."

"Oh, Suzanne," Amber said, squeezing her hand. "I shall make sure of it, even if it means I pay you from my own quarterly stipend. Thank you."

"But I can't be expected to run this household myself," Suzanne said. "You will need to take on a new level of self-sufficiency, Miss, and you will need to be kind, not just to me but to everyone."

"I shan't be meeting anyone," Amber said, mindful of the damage beneath her cap. "I wish no one to even know I am here. I want no one to call on me, no one to wonder why I have been sent to this G.o.dforsaken place."

"I don't know if that will be possible," Suzanne said.

"It must be," Amber insisted, her thoughts working furiously. "I shall go by a different name; surely everyone my father corresponded with would afford me such protection. Should I have the chance to enter society again, I can't take the risk of anyone knowing what has become of me at this moment."

"Perhaps," Suzanne said, sounding doubtful and perhaps a touch frustrated. "The more important aspect of this conversation is that I need you to agree to be kind. I know you can behave with gentleness; you were kind during our travel. If I am to stay I shall need your word that you will treat me, and anyone else we might meet, with respect."

Amber did not feel she had any choice but to agree, even though she wasn't sure she understood the importance. She had treated servants as servants all her life. She had treated merchants and tradesmen as was their due. Still, it was not difficult to reflect on the tantrum she had thrown last night, or the way she had ignored Suzanne this morning to realize what Suzanne meant. Suzanne would stay, but not to coddle Amber or let Amber act within the sphere of their social positions, as had been the case previously. She was uncomfortable with this change but knew that without her agreement Suzanne would not stay. She nodded.

"I need your word," Suzanne prodded, lifting her eyebrows.

"You have it," Amber said, though she would need to determine the exact nature of Suzanne's expectations. It would not do to lose her bearing completely, but she had never felt so dependent on anyone in her entire life and truly feared that without Suzanne's a.s.sistance she would not last the month in this wild place.

"Then I shall stay," Suzanne said with a nod.

"Oh, thank you," Amber said, realizing that perhaps how she felt toward her maid right now was what Suzanne meant about being kind and respectful. Suzanne was choosing Amber and Yorks.h.i.+re over the life she had trained for and the family she had in London-family who wanted her there with them while Amber's family wanted nothing to do with her at all. "I understand your sacrifice," she said to further rea.s.sure Suzanne.

Suzanne's expression drooped. "I'm not sure that you do, but I am committed. I hope that by the time Lady Marchent joins us we shall have a better sense of your condition and prospects. She can then make arrangements for your continued comfort until you return to London in time for next season."

"It is my greatest wish to return," Amber said breathlessly. Though when they left London she had felt as though she could never return for her embarra.s.sment of the ball, this house being the alternative to a society life had her reconsidering her pessimism. If her hair would repair itself, she could arrange it in curls, perhaps combed forward in the t.i.tus style some women wore with bands and ribbons. So long as a marriage afforded her the comforts she missed already and secured her future, she could accept a far lesser arrangement than she had expected. There were any number of men she had not given a second look to who may consider her once she had recovered.

"Then we are agreed," Suzanne said with a sharp nod. "Jeffery and Cornelius stayed in the grooms' room attached to the stable, though they said it was vastly uncomfortable when I spoke to them this morning. They are even now in town delivering the correspondence your father sent and procuring us a carriage and some animals."

"Animals?"

"Your father requested a horse for the gig, a milking cow, and some chickens. As I said, we are too far from town to rely on the resources available there. There is a path behind the house that leads to the stable, which is not far, and a structure in disrepair that could serve for the chickens. I asked Jeffery to seek out Mr. Dariloo in town and ask him to come see about repairs. It is not too late to start on a garden, I think."

"I can scarce take this in, Suzanne," Amber said, a quiver to her voice as she imagined picking eggs up from nests. Suppose they wanted chicken soup-would they have to kill their own dinner? The thought was repulsive. "How shall we do this ourselves? You are from the city, and I have never imagined doing such things."

Suzanne let out a breath and did not smile. "I do not know how we will make it work," she said with perhaps more honesty than Amber was prepared to hear. "I have little experience with animals, but understanding our need for them outweighs my fear somewhat. We shall simply have to learn what to do through our mistakes, I'm sure, but also our successes. I do believe that we shall come out all right." She looked over her shoulder at the pan of bread beside the cooking grate. "I believe the bread is sufficiently cooled. Why don't you serve each of us a portion while I write a letter to my sisters for Jeffery to deliver upon his return to London?"

Amber stared at the pan, then looked at Suzanne. "You want me to serve the bread?"

Suzanne nodded.

"I have never served food from a pot in my life." Amber said. The extent of her "serving" was to take teacakes from one plate and put them on another when entertaining. "I shall do it wrong."

"I am hungry enough to eat it no matter the form it is served in, but if we are to work together, serving bread from a pot is but the simplest of tasks for you to begin with."

Amber looked at the pot, swallowed, and stood up from the table. London may as well be a thousand miles away, she thought. She found a fork she hoped would work to lift the slices of bread from the pan. Was it not even a week ago that she'd sat at Mrs. Middleton's table and laughed about hair rinses over strawberry tarts? She had worn a dress that day that was finer than any she would dare wear in this part of the country, especially if she were to be involved in household tasks.

Today I serve bread for the first time. What can I possibly expect tomorrow to bring?

Book Two.