Epworth added sugar to the tea, paused, then added more. “I doubt you would hiss at him.”
Judith snorted a laugh, then winced at a spiked pain. “I am not completely convinced I would not.”
Epworth smiled, then handed the tea to Judith. She then retrieved the cold one from the escritoire and slipped Judith’s note into her pocket. “I will take care of it, my lady. If he is a worldly gentleman, he should understand.”
Judith gave a low cough. “Even worldly gentlemen are not always aware of or comfortable with the ways of women. They often act as if it makes us an exotic species of animal.”
“I find that most curious.” Epworth placed the cup and saucer on the tray. “I suspect it is different for us, my lady.”
Judith peered at her. “The servants?”
Epworth shrugged one shoulder. “We do not live such separate lives as the aristocracy do, with bedchambers apart. The men, they know us, we know them. The good ones, they help when they can. My da, he would hold mum, especially at night after he came in from the docks. He’d curl around her, keep her warm. Mum said he put out more heat than any brick ever could. He’d also tend to the little ones, either him or me. Not all men, of course. Some are clods.” She paused, looking at the flames in the grate a moment. “Absolute clods.”
“Ah.” Judith sometimes wondered if the lives of servants were not somehow simpler, easier to manage, but she dared not say so. She also knew far too much about what went on in other households to truly believe that. In her experience, “a simple life” did not exist. For anyone.
Another knock on the door revealed two of the housemaids, one bringing in a low wash pan and an empty bucket, the other a kettle of hot water and a stack of thick towels. Judith cocked an eyebrow at Epworth, who directed the maids to place everything in front of the fire.
Epworth then faced her directly. “You will feel better once we get you and the bed cleaned up, resupplied with fresh rags, the hot tea in your belly, and the brick at your back.” As Judith started to speak, Epworth held up a hand. “Do not argue. You know this to be true.”
The two women stared at each other, then Judith let her shoulders sag. “I hate feeling weak.”
Epworth went into action, pouring hot water into the wash pan and retrieving Judith’s soap from her washstand. “You are not weak. If men hurt this often and this badly, society would crumble.” She motioned for Judith to stand so she could remove her dressing gown and night rail. “Let us make quick work of this before you catch a chill.”
*
Friday, 12 August 1814
Mark Rydell’s Bloomsbury residence
Seven in the evening
Mark peered downat the woman who had delivered the missive a few moments before. They stood in the small front parlor of the house, where Howe, with a scowl of suspicion on his rosy face, had led her after she had arrived at the same back door where Judith had stood only last week. Howe had announced her only as “Lady Sculthorpe’s lady’s maid” and backed out of the room, hovering in the foyer, glowering.
The woman had handed Mark the foolscap without a word. He read it twice as she waited, expressionless, her austere, black muslin dress as still as her body, and now he looked from it to her and back, a little puzzled.
Yesterday’s late-night message had been delivered by a sleepy hall boy who had barely stood upright, and it had left Mark exhilarated. This, however, was no hall boy. Her posture and her uniform indicated her much loftier position. Mark read the note again, any sense of anticipation withering into disappointment and confusion.
Unfortunate change of plans. A visitor, expected but forgotten about, arrived two days early during the night. Will send word soon for resumption of plans. Apologies.
He cleared his throat. “Epworth, I presume.”
A single nod.
“You might have sent a messenger.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I suspected Lady Sculthorpe may have been more self-sacrificing and discreet with her words than she needed to be.”
He glanced at the foolscap. “I am not sure what—”
“I realize I am speaking out of turn, with a liberty I have no right to, but I have cared for Lady Sculthorpe for more than twenty years. She has a long history of putting others first, carefully guarding those around her from any sort of... embarrassment... even when she should give her own feelings a priority.”
Mark felt as if he were circling a muddy drain. If Judith’s note had not been confusing enough. “I am quite unsure—”
“She is in a great deal of pain, which I doubt she mentioned in her note.”
That got his attention. He stiffened, on alert. “She did not. Why is she in pain? What kind of pain? Is she taking any remedy?”
“Ginger-and-motherwort tea. Yarrow. A hot brick to her back.”
