Christa avoided the hurled silver-backed hairbrush with ease. Dodging thrown objects was one of the more amusing parts of the job; the servant’s code did not say that she had to stand still to be hit. Considering Lady Pomfret’s aim, there was no great danger. With a sweet smile, she slipped out the back door of the suite into the servants’ passage.
In the last three weeks, Christa had found that the long hours were tiring but bearable, as were the Spartan living conditions. The poisonous gossip among the other servants was more unpleasant, and Mrs. Haywood had been correct in her warning—a lady’s maid was an object of suspicion and resentment. She was too well dressed, too well paid, too close to the mistress. Nonetheless, that also was tolerable, though she missed normal human companionship.
Christa had survived by burying her memories of her past. Except for occasional moments late at night, she thought of herself as Christine Bohnet, a young girl of peasant stock, trained to serve. It was now second nature for her to guard her tongue, avoiding any reference to her exalted birth. She was not sure how the household would react to the news that she was an aristocrat fallen on hard times. Either she would be dismissed as being too grand for her position, or, more likely, Lady Pomfret would take a gloating satisfaction in humiliating a woman of superior birth. Either alternative was repellent. Christa found that her pride would not accept anyone pitying her loss of consequence—far better to appear born to the servant class.
She no longer felt herself to be in danger from Lord Radcliffe—if he had been able to trace her, it would have happened already. Now that Christa was hidden in this household, he would never find her unless they walked into each other on the street. Even then, the earl might not truly see her—she would be dismissed as just another mob-capped servant.
The greatest burden was lack of freedom to come and go. Were it not for her ladyship’s messages to her two lovers, Christa would go mad with confinement. The lovers were the reason Lady Pomfret placed such emphasis on discretion—it was more important to keep them from learning about each other than to keep her affairs from her husband.
It was a source of astonishment that Lady Pomfret had two lovers; truly, some men had no discrimination! Both men made casual advances to Christa when she delivered notes but accepted her rebuffs easily.
Before setting out, Christa went to her attic room for a shawl against the brisk April air. When she had a free moment during the day, she would often open the window and lean out, enjoying the sense of space and freedom and the fascinating jumble of rooftops. Today, however, she stopped on the threshold, surprised at the sight of a very small girl scrubbing the floor.
Because Christa ate with the upper servants, she was unfamiliar with most of the staff. She knew someone cleaned her room but had never seen who. “Good day, young lady,” she said cheerfully. “I haven’t the pleasure of your name.”
The plain little face that turned to her was terrified. “Oh, I’m dreadful sorry, miss! I’ll get out.” The child grabbed her bucket and mop and tried to dart toward the door.
Christa put out one hand to stop her. “You need not run. My name is Christa. What is yours?”
The huge eyes dominated the peaked face; she looked to be no more than nine or ten. She stammered, “Please, you won’t tell Mrs. Higgins, will you? I’m not supposed to talk to anyone, nor be seen, neither.”
Concerned for the child’s obvious fear, Christa knelt and put her arms around the girl’s thin shoulders. “Ma pauvre, do not worry! I shall not hurt you, nor report you to Mrs. Higgins.” To her shock, the child burst into tears, burying herself in Christa’s arms and shaking violently.
It was several minutes before the storm subsided. By then they were seated side by side on the bed and Christa had found a handkerchief for her guest. “Now, tell me your name, and why you were crying.”
The child said, “I’m dreadful sorry, miss. It’s just that you’re the first person to say a kind word to me since I came here.” Her face started to pucker, then with a valiant sniff she continued, “My name is Miranda.”
“What a splendid name!” Christa said admiringly.
Miranda nodded vigorously. “Isn’t it lovely? Mrs. Willa-son at the foundling home chose ever such lovely names—there was Prospero and Portia and Romeo and . . . lots of others.”
Christa smiled with amusement; obviously Mrs. Willa-son enjoyed Shakespeare. “But Miranda is one of the best.”
“Oh, it is. Since I’m only the scullery maid, I get to keep my own name, too.” At Christa’s look of puzzlement, she explained, “Didn’t you know that in this house most of the servants are named for their position? The head housemaid is always Lily, the first footman is William, the second footman is James. Like that.”
“You mean, if one is promoted, one gets a new name?” Christa asked in fascination.
Another nod. “Yes. The scullery maid has no name ’cause I’m the least important. And upper servants like you and the butler and the housekeeper and Sir Horace’s valet can use your own names. That’s why you get to be called Miss Bonnet—because you’re one of the most important people in the house.”
Christa digested this, then asked, “What do you do?”
“Wash things, mostly. I get up at four in the morning to do the flagstone floor in the kitchen, then the back stairs, and I black lead the grates and clean the rooms of the upper servants.”
Christa frowned slightly, noticed how Miranda’s hands and arms were chapped raw from too much scrubbing in cold places. “It sounds like very hard work.”
“Oh, it is, miss,” the child sighed. “Sometimes when my hands are bleeding on the floor, I think I’ll never get it clean.”
Christa repressed a shudder. It was abominable! And yet, this child had clothes and food and a roof. There must be thousands like her on the streets of London, scavenging to survive.
“I must run some errands for her ladyship, Miranda. But perhaps we can visit another time?”
“That would be ever so nice, miss,” the child said wistfully.
“I would take it as a great favor if you would call me Christa.” She smiled.
Miranda bobbed a curtsy and said shyly, “I would like that, Christa. Very much.”
Chapter 5
