Christa’s gaze was steady. “I must.”
“Very well, if you are sure. Can you start this evening?” At Christa’s nod Mrs. Haywood continued, “My usual commission is a shilling on the pound for the first year’s wages, but since it is Lady Pomfret, I will charge only a crown.” Her voice was wry as she added, “If you are still there in a year, you can pay me the rest.” She wrote the address on a slip of paper, then handed it across the desk.
Christa stood, her eyes shining. “Oh,thank you, Mrs. Haywood. I shall never forget your kindness.”
“I only hope you will not regret this day’s work.” The woman stood and extended her hand. “If you are in need of another situation in the future, I hope you will come to me again. Good luck.”
Christa refused to be worried by Mrs. Haywood’s pessimism as she returned to Suzanne’s to collect her things and say good-bye. She was excited at having successfully crossed the first hurdle. She would work hard and give Lady Pomfret no grounds for complaint. Life was good,n’est-ce pas?
Chapter 4
Before she left Suzanne’s, Christa noticed with amusement that one of Lewis’s flunkies still lurked in the shadows across the street; if the earl wanted inconspicuous watchers, he shouldn’t dress his servants in silver livery. Luckily her route through the alleys had not been discovered, and she was able to come and go without detection.
For the sake of both speed and safety, Christa used some of her small amount of money for a hackney ride to Lady Pomfret’s town house on Bedford Row. It was a handsome three-story building, though nothing so imposing as Radcliffe House in Mayfair. The evening was well advanced when she lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped sharply.
The footman who answered proved to be the same one who had carried the message to Mrs. Haywood’s. Since the primary purpose of footmen was ostentation, tall handsome oafs like this one commanded higher wages than men who were shorter or more intelligent. Christa had not been impressed by him earlier, and further study showed no reason to improve her opinion. With a polite nod she said, “Good evening. I am the new lady’s maid. To whom shall I announce myself?”
The footman stared at her blankly for a moment, then a lewd smile spread over his face as he recognized the pretty little Frenchy from the registry office. This one looked much better than the horse-faced Yorkshire woman who had preceded her, and he was anxious to find out if it was true what they said about French women.
Standing aside so she could enter, he said, “That would be Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper. Follow me, miss.”
The footman led her through a series of halls and passages; the house was very deep to compensate for the narrow street frontage. A stair at the back took them down to the main service area. At the bottom, he gestured at a closed door. “That’s Mrs. Higgins’s parlor. By the way, my name is James.”
Giving her a gap-toothed smile, he stood aside to let her pass. Christa was suspicious of his politeness, and with reason: the footman gave her a sharp pinch on the buttock as she passed. Since she thought it wise to establish an aura of untouchability as soon as possible, Christa swung the portmanteau back sharply without even turning her head. She judged it hit just below the kneecap, and from the strength of his muffled oath, it must have connected well. As she knocked on the indicated door, she looked at him coolly and said, “Thank you, James,” then entered the comfortably furnished housekeeper’s room.
Mrs. Higgins had been working at her account books and was not best pleased to be interrupted. A pinch-mouthed creature who dressed entirely in black, she seemed singularly unimpressed by the new addition to the household. Her mouth tightened even further as she looked Christa up and down, and she did not suggest the girl sit in the extra chair. “You’re the chit from the agency? I’ll show you your room, then take you to Lady Pomfret’s chambers to await her ladyship’s retiring. The last abigail left in a hurry and her ladyship’s things need a great deal of work, so you needn’t be idle while you wait.
“The upper servants eat in the steward’s dining room. The second housemaid, Betsy, takes care of the water and coal for her ladyship’s chambers. You can order her on matters pertaining to the mistress’s comfort, but remember, she has other duties as well. I will introduce you to the laundry maids tomorrow. I have Lady Pomfret’s jewel box here for safekeeping. You may take charge of it only if the mistress approves you. Now, come along.” Mrs. Higgins rose with a jingle of the key ring that was the badge of the housekeeper.
Christa counted one hundred and ten steps from the basement to the attic as she followed Mrs. Higgins up the narrow service stairs. Her new home was cramped and bare floored, containing only a narrow wooden bed, a two-drawered storage chest, and a washstand with a chipped pitcher and a bowl that didn’t match.
Mrs. Higgins barely gave her time to set down her portmanteau before leading her back downstairs. Lady Pomfret’s suite took up half the second floor, and consisted of a sitting room, a bedchamber, a dressing room, and several small rooms for her wardrobe. The three main chambers had fireplaces, a comfort not to be found in the attic.
“Use the time to familiarize yourself. Lady Pomfret will expect you to know where everything is kept, even on your first evening. I will see you in the morning. The staff breakfast is at seven o’clock.” With a curt nod the housekeeper turned and went out, leaving Christa alone to explore.
After two hours of sorting through gowns, shawls, wigs, silk stockings, slippers, and perfumes, she was reasonably sure where everything was kept and had developed a low opinion of her new employer’s taste. In spite of the housekeeper’s pessimistic comments, things were in reasonable order. Christa was mending a rent stocking with tiny, nearly invisible stitches when Lady Pomfret returned to her room.
Her ladyship stopped and gave her a baleful look as Christa stood quickly and curtsied. “You must be Bonnet.” Her new mistress had a grating voice that was in keeping with her coarse appearance. The woman must have been handsome when she was younger, but the buxom girl had become a stout matron in her forties. Lady Pomfret wore an elaborately powdered wig, a style that was now passé but still seen sometimes on older women.
Christa inclined her head respectfully and said, “Oui, my name is Christine Bohnet, your ladyship.”
The woman snorted. “Bownay? I’ll have no such foreign names around me. You’re ‘Bonnet’ from now on.” She examined her new maid pessimistically, a process that Christa was getting heartily sick of. “Unlace me.”
Her ladyship lifted her arms so Christa could remove the silk polonaise and skirt. Then Christa unlaced the heavily boned corset, a process that changed her ladyship’s silhouette amazingly. “I’ll have my green nightgown now.”
Fortunately Christa had found the garment in her explorations. “Shall I remove your wig now, madam?” she asked.
“Of course!” Lady Pomfret snapped as she plumped herself down before the dressing table. “Are you going to be another of those imbeciles who don’t know their job? It’s impossible to get decent servants these days—they’re all thieves or sluts or drunkards or all three. Which are you, Bonnet?” she finished, her watery gaze meeting Christa’s eyes in the mirror.
“None, your ladyship,” Christa said soothingly. “I desire only to learn what pleases you. Forgive me if I do not always know, but I promise I shall attend to your comfort as best I can.”
Mollified, Lady Pomfret started to relax as Christa deftly removed the heavy wig and began to brush out her mousy hair. Its sparseness might explain why Lady Pomfret preferred the older styles.
“The most important thing my abigail must have is discretion. There will be no tales of me leaving this chamber, or I’ll have your head.” At Christa’s involuntary shiver, Lady Pomfret’s small blue eyes brightened and she asked with some animation, “Have you ever seen someone guillotined, Bonnet? I hope so. I’ve always wondered if it is true the blood spurts over fifteen feet. Fetch mydormeuse.”
Revolted by the woman’s morbid curiosity, Christa went to fetch the sleeping cap but disclaimed any personal experience of the guillotine. It was not the truth; she had gone once when a young girl she knew was executed. It had made her feel ill for days, but she had felt a duty to go, that her friend should not die with no one there who cared. It was not a memory Christa would share with Lady Pomfret.
“I’ll have my cup of chocolate at eleven o’clock, not a moment sooner. Mind you don’t wake me when you come in to start the mending.”
