“I cannot wait on the guests,” I protested.
“Ican help you and let all the food burn to black bits oryoucan figure it out,” Wenthelen told me, matter-of-fact.
I turned to Morwen, worried her mouth might fall open. “You are capable of serving.”
“No, my lady.” She crossed her arms defensively. “I am a lady’s maid.”
“She won’t even polish,” Alice interjected.
“I do not know how,” Morwen protested.
“You hold a cloth and polish,” Alice scoffed.
“I am a lady’s maid,” Morwen repeated, turning to me plaintively. There was no argument in her features, but rather a bovine kind of obstinance—a lack of understanding. I felt, suddenly, more gentle, the way one wants to hush and assure an animal through its discomfort.
I exhaled and turned to Mathilde. “Mathilde, go upstairs and entertain Lavinia, please.”
My daughter paused her kneading. The dough sat in front of her in a shaggy mound. She held up her dirty, sticky hands. “Must I?”
“You must.” I handed her a rag to wipe herself. “I will be up presently.”
She stood, gave the dough a final, decisive punch, and removed her flour-covered apron. I turned back to Morwen. She waited, fidgeting, hands picking nervously at her waist.
“Morwen,” I started. “We do not run a traditional household here at Bramley. We are ladies, but we don’t require lady’s maids. However, I do require help.”
“I do not know how to be a scullery maid.” Morwen gestured toward the polishing cloth. She spoke with a hint of learned, appropriate deference. She did not have to add:And it is beneath my station.
“You agreed to come for no pay.” I looked her over, wondering what had brought her here, to our hearth. She was clean, but her shoes were worn, and she wore a smock made of lockram instead of cambric or holland. She held my gaze for a long moment, a bit of boldness that might indicate she had been in a household of strong standing, been valued, even, and comfortable. But at the last minute she dropped her gaze and directed it toward the planks of the floor, unwilling to reveal to me her secrets. “Only in exchange for a place to stay,” I finished. “I deduce you do not have many other options.”
After a moment of hesitation, she nodded in confirmation, as if it were difficult to acknowledge even to herself.
“We’re grateful for your help and, as I said, your help is needed. But you’ll need to step beyond the bounds of your role. I need you to wait on our guests. You’ve seen it done plenty of times. Just bring up a tray and go about it properly.”
“A tray of what?” she asked.
“Wenthelen will show you,” I said, and stepped from the kitchen before I could be punished by our cook’s response.
In the state room, Mathilde was sitting across from Lavinia and Finnian, barely disguising a frown.
“Oh, good, you’ve returned,” Lavinia said. “Finnian has brought a nosegay and a love letter he would like to give to your daughter.”
Taken aback, I managed only a quick glance at him. He nodded in agreement, and, I saw, was holding a small bouquet of posies. He patted his breast pocket.
“I—ah—which one?” I managed, not daring to look at Mathilde.
“Well, that’s what we must discuss. Which do you think is better?”
I could not stop myself from coughing.
Lavinia went on. “Rosie may be better suited to him in stature and inclination, but I understand if you’d want to see your eldest married first—it would be a terrible blow to Mathilde otherwise.”
The door swung inward and behind it, Morwen pushed through with an oversized tea service. We didn’t have new tea leaves and I was quite sure the biscuits were two days old, but Wenthelen had seen that the appropriate silver had been used—polished, already, in preparation for Simeon’s visit.
“On the table there,” I told Morwen.
“And,” Lavinia continued, “I was not sure if Rosie’s affections were still fixed on Prince Simeon. No boy wants to follow in someone else’s wake.”
I noticed, from behind, that Morwen had straightened and was listening. Certainly, our household was confusing—motley and now, it was revealed to her, adjacent to royalty.
