“What was that?” Jonathan asked curiously.
“A cow won’t go headfirst down a stair, and who could blame her? But she can be persuaded tobackdown, if you have someone stationed at each hoof to move it backward.” Alex suddenly laughed outright. “It’s a slow business and difficult to get volunteers for the back feet.”
In a moment they were all whooping with laughter at the thought. In his innocence, Alex decided that being head of a family might not be so difficult after all.
* * *
It was time to work on the wigs again. In the eight weeks since Christa had started her career as an abigail she had cleaned, trimmed, and recurled every one of the heads in her charge. Her ladyship apparently did not object to lice and other fauna infesting her hairpieces, but Christa did.
Lady Pomfret was out much of the time, leaving her maid in peace to mend and alter and refurbish. It was a rather lonely life but not unpleasant. There was satisfaction in a job well done, and Christa would sit in milady’s boudoir and read books from the library when her other tasks were done. On a day like today, with the May sunshine flooding in the window, she would succumb to her natural exuberance and sing happily away in French.
Carefully removing the clay rollers from the formal headdress in front of her, Christa patted the plump ringlets into place around the top of the head, then looped a long swath of hair at the nape into a cadogan. Sadly, Lady Pomfret wanted her to attach a coquelicot band, three ostrich plumes, and a bunch of pink roses with green foliage. The thought of them bobbing above her ladyship’s beefy countenance did not please; Christa was beginning to understand why a lady’s maid would leave a position because her mistress did not reflect creditably on her.
She broke off her song when the front door of the suite opened to reveal Lady Pomfret’s husband, Sir Horace. Christa had never seen Sir Horace at close quarters before. The baronet was as beefy as his wife, and as he walked toward her, she heard creaking sounds reminiscent of a ship at sea. It must be a corset. Suppressing a smile, she stood and bobbed a curtsy.
“Good morning, sir. Lady Pomfret is abroad early today. Do you wish to leave a message?”
Sir Horace stared at the abigail, unconscious of the fact that the tip of his tongue had slid out and licked his lower lip. By George, but she was a tasty morsel! The baronet kept a woman near Covent Garden but liked to have at least one or two of the maids primed and ready as well. He’d been mowing the third housemaid for several months, but she wasn’t half so toothsome as this one.
“No need. You must be the new mam’zelle, Bonnet.”
Christa nodded. “Oui, milord. I am Christine Bohnet.” She pronounced her surname in the French fashion but without hope; none of the English appeared willing to tackle foreign sounds.
“You’re a pretty little puss,” Sir Horace said, moving around the narrow table where Christa worked on the wigs. “Sometimes I hear you singing when I’m in the hall.”
“I am sorry, sir, I do not always notice that I am singing. I shall try to be quieter.”
“No need to apologize,” he said with oppressive bonhomie. “It does my heart good to hear you sing.”
Christa looked at him with distaste. The baronet was within an arm’s length of her, and proximity did not improve his appearance. A number of teeth were missing and he had smallpox scars. That was not his fault, of course, but the scars did not improve a countenance that was low browed and bulbous nosed to begin with.
She did not start to become irritated until the man reached out and pulled off her mobcap. Christa was proud of that cap; she thought it gave her the look of a proper servant. Without it, her simple dresses made her look too elegant for a maid.
The baronet tweaked a dark curl. “Pretty hair you have, too.”
Christa stood and deftly put the width of the table between them. Really, men were so tiresome! She had found a book downstairs in the library calledDirections to Servants, an amusing satire derived from life belowstairs. The author, Jonathan Swift, said that the lord of the household often fancied his wife’s maid, even if she were not half so handsome as his own lady. All of Lady Pomfret’s men appeared anxious to prove the writer correct; having discouraged the two lovers, apparently Christa would now have to do the same with the husband. “Milord is very kind. If milord does not require anything, I must go out now to purchase some ribbons for Lady Pomfret.”
Christa hoped that mention of his wife might deter him, but the baronet pasted on what was intended as a charming smile and moved after her, trapping her between a wing chair and a small table. He was surprisingly quick for such a bulky man; he must have pursued a good few maids in his time.
“No need to run away,” he said coaxingly. “It is early yet. Plenty of time for us to have some fun, eh?” The Chinese-blue dress Christa wore had an open neckline and Sir Horace reached out and grasped the bare skin of her neck and shoulder. His damp hand started squeezing and petting, then slid down to her left breast. “Nice,” he said with approval. “Is the rest of you just as nice?”
The baronet put his other hand on Christa’s shoulder to pull her to him, then tried to force her chin up. She turned her head sharply and the wet kiss landed on her cheek. Using her most aristocratic voice, Christa said sharply, “Sir Horace, let go of meat once!”
Her air of authority startled the baronet so much that he released her, but increasing excitement led him to believe that she was just holding off until the business arrangements were settled. “Don’t worry, my pretty. I’ll make it worth your while.”
As Christa tried to slip away, Sir Horace followed until she was backed into a corner of the room. “Swift said the final favor was worth a hundred pounds. I’ve never paid a servant half so much, but you look to be worth it.”
Christa was hard pressed not to burst into laughter at the farcical scene; she knew now whose book she had found in the library. Didn’t the foolish man recognize satire when he read it? Apparently the baronet studied the book to learn his courting techniques!
Her amusement ceased abruptly when Sir Horace grabbed her with one arm and slid his other hand inside the bodice of her dress. At the touch of his clammy hand, Christa abandoned all hope of an easy escape and kicked him on the shin. She would have hit him with her fists, but one arm was held in his grip and the other pinned against the wall. Sir Horace’s breath stank of brandy and rotting teeth as he tried to kiss her again. She bit his chin and attempted to wriggle out of his grasp.
Christa had almost pulled free when the baronet lunged and wrapped his arms around her waist, his weight dragging her to the floor. She was knocked breathless, his heavy body pinning her to the carpet. Sir Horace seemed to take her temporary quiescence as consent. He gasped hoarsely, “I’ll give you a settlement! You’ll have a house till I tire of you, and twenty pounds a year for life.”
She twisted frantically but was unable to get free. For the first time Christa realized that this disgusting man might actually rape her.No—a thousand times no! She was a d’Estelle and would never let this barbarian defeat her. As Sir Horace lifted his body to reach up her skirt, she jerked her knee up, hitting him hard where a man is most vulnerable.
With a howl of rage and pain, the baronet rolled partially off her as he convulsed around his injury. Christa was pulling herself free of the heavy body when the main door swung open to reveal Lady Pomfret with the footman, James, holding the door open for her.
At the sight of the tableau, her ladyship’s beefy face turned a remarkable shade of purple and her hefty body seemed to swell like a pouter pigeon’s. With the awful rage of a woman wronged, Lady Pomfret thundered, “I knew you were a slut, Bonnet, as soon as I saw your rouged face and sly smile, but even a tolerant woman like me is shocked that you’d wave your muff at my husband in my own bedchamber!”
