“In this profession, it’s the best thing.”
Chapter 7
“I’massumingthechinawould go in the china room, but what about the silver? Is there a silver room? How would I know which one it is if there isn’t any silver in it?”
Marigold’s jaw slackened as she held out her hands to slow the torrent of words escaping her new housekeeper. Beatrice Addington went by Bea, presumably because that’s as much as anyone could get in before she cut them off. “Mrs. Addington—”
“Also, could you call me Bea?” The woman hardly looked old enough to be employed as a kitchen maid, and Marigold was beginning to understand why her butler at Harrow Hall had been hesitant, then profoundly relieved, when she agreed to hire his daughter in her fledgling home. “Mrs. Addington is mymother, and this—” She gestured towards her drab black dress, the standard for English housekeepers, and winced. “Well, I have some suggestions.”
“And I appreciate them, and you, Mrs. Addington, b-but why d-don’t we wait until we’re more settled? And the silver room is connected to the p-p-pantry. The excess china will go there once you’ve finished with the silver.”
Bea’s head cocked to the side. “Oh, milady, I’m so sorry about the lisp. A friend of mine from school had the same. The boys teased her something awful for it.”
Marigold’s lips flattened into a thin line. She was already rattled by the horrible encounter with Archie the day before—
Archie.Pain and regret slashed across her chest.
But before she could breathe, she needed to rid herself of her loquacious new housekeeper. “It’s a st-st-stutter, but thank you.”
“And thank you,” Bea said with a deep curtsey. “For some reason, I can’t hold down a post anywhere. Da says I need to keep my mouth shut and get to my job, but that doesn’t seem so friendly, does it?”
Bea may not last long in this post either. “Mrs. Addington,” Marigold hazarded, “I must warn you. I d-don’t intend to remain in England p-past this autumn. There may not b-be a p-position for you for long.”
“I understand,” Bea said. “But I’ll watch out for you while I can, and maybe you can write a letter for me if I do well?” She punctuated the request with a wide smile and a bob on her toes, and Marigold smiled despite herself.
“I expect you will d-do a lovely job.”
Bea grinned. “Da said you were one of the good ones.” She curtsied once more before darting towards the silver room, andMarigold sighed. Perhaps her garrulous Matthew could keep up with the housekeeper once he and Reggie returned.
She’d received a small package that morning, and remembering the contents made tears burn in her throat. A long missive from her mother, detailing the journey to Boston and every detail of her youngest sister Fern’s life with a new baby. A quick note from Alexander, her brother-in-law and a mathematics professor at Harvard. He wished her well and expressed how much he enjoyed showing her boys around American Revolutionary War sites.
Matthew had written a few lines about visiting Boston Common and the Old North Church below a sketch of what must have been his interpretation of the Boston Tea Party, although he’d substituted what looked like vegetables for tea.
Reggie had included a series of mathematical equations that made Marigold’s head ache. Fern, herself a mathematics graduate student, wrote in her sloping handwriting just below.
Reggie worked out this proof for himself in one afternoon! I’m going to teach him derivations next!
Beneath her message was a line drawing of Reggie bent over a desk, scribbling furiously. Fern possessed multiple gifts, mathematics and art being only two of them, though English society had overlooked them because of her sometimes alienating behavior. How lovely for Reggie to find a kindred spirit in his aunt.
How devastating it would be for him to be thrown to the wolves at Felton College if Marigold was unsuccessful.
While Marigold had always preferred solitude, the isolation of her last several years made her crave the family she’d left behind. Aside from her most recent visit, she rarely saw Lily. Violet had fled to Hampshire over a scandal and broken heart, and Rose and Fern, her youngest sisters and twins, had both fallen in love and moved to America. If her children were taken away as well, what would she have left?
She couldn’t entertain that thought, not if she wanted to maintain her sanity. Even if she failed in obtaining her divorce and remained legally married, she could sail to American, sell the jewelry her husband had given her over the years and use it to start a life in hiding. The thought caused a fresh knot of anxiety to tie in her chest. But the prospect of remaining in England, where the marquess could find new ways to humiliate her and torment their children, was untenable.
She jolted at the unfamiliar—a knock on the front door. Her fear fed her ample reasons someone might call upon her at the early hour, none of them pleasant, the least of which being her husband demanding she return to Harrow Hall, as though he could hear the rebellious path her thoughts had taken.
But she’d heard nothing from him since the day she asked for the divorce, and she expected she wouldn’t until papers were delivered to his solicitor.
The door slammed, shaking the windows in their panes, and light footsteps scurried down the hallway. “Pardon, milady,” Bea gushed from the threshold, her palm pressed to her chest. “There’s agentlemanhere to see you, and may Isay—”
“You maynotsay—” Marigold hissed.
“—he’s deliciously handsome.” Bea fluttered her hand in front of her face. “His name is…” She pulled a card from her sleeve and squinted. “Mr. Grand?”
A throat cleared behind her. “Um, Mr.Grant.”
Marigold froze. So did Bea. “Oh dear,” the housekeeper whispered. “I was s’posed to ask you before I let him in, wasn’t I?”
