Judith covered her face with her hands.Dear God in heaven, what have we done?
A soft tap on the door preceded Epworth’s entry with a tray. Following her came four other housemaids, with all the accouterments of a long hot bath. Judith eased out of bed, letting them help her. It was time to see if she could have anything resembling a normal day.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wednesday, 17 August 1814
Lord Mark Rydell’s Bloomsbury residence
Half-past six in the evening
Mark stood still,taking slow shallow breaths and resisting the urge to toss Howe into the Thames. His finicky valet, now also his butler, had retied Mark’s cravat twice, with quaking fingers and reddened cheeks, determined to produce a perfectly symmetrical knot. He now circled Mark with a brush, straightening, pulling, and picking imaginary nits from the black-and-white kit, muttering dire comments about dining room measurements, polished silver, and soup courses.
“She can read a recipe, but can she read a ruler? Apparently not. The knives were too far from the plates, and the silver polish is still in the pantry, looking all the world like sauce for the duck. We are not using two of the candelabras because they are still tarnished. We are not equipped for this. We are not staffed for this.”
“You do know I can hear you, correct?”
Howe stepped back, stiffening his posture. “Sir?”
“You’re muttering, but I can still hear you.”
The valet blinked. “I was . . . muttering?”
Mark tightened his lips to avoid smiling. “Howe, whatever you were thinking was coming out of your mouth. Fine for a valet. Not so much a butler.”
Now the red crept up the man’s forehead. “Um . . . I . . .”
Mark waved off the thought and sat down to put on his slippers. “Try to remain calm. I realize this is your first meal as my butler, but this is not a state dinner. It’s my family and Lady Sculthorpe, and they all know about you, even if they have never met you. Lady Sculthorpe’s maid will accompany her but will remain in the servants’ dining room. Make sure Miss Epworth, their carriage driver, and the footman get something to eat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You go on down. They should be arriving soon. I will join you shortly. And, Howe?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Take a few deep breaths. Neither your position nor your reputation depend on this dinner.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. But I still wish to do my best.”
“Of course. Which is why I appreciate you.”
Mark watched Howe leave, releasing a long sigh of relief. Since Mark had announced the dinner and sent the invitations, Howe had been relentless in his fastidiousness. In just four days, the house had been cleaned top to bottom, the menu devised and revised, supplies purchased, and the dining room prepped with new linens and china. Clara had turned out to be an excellent organizer and leader for the female staff, as well as being able to calm the much older Howe in the midst of his fits of panic.
Mark’s own sense of unease about the evening, however, had little to do with the place settings, the recipes, or any cobwebs the maids might have missed. Because he knew none of his guests would be considering his gifts as a host. Instead, they would be focused on the dark curls and blue eyes of a three-year-old girl. His mother, in particular, would be examining the way Olivia walked, the way she smiled.
That smile.
Mark headed up to the nursery, opening the door to find Rose waiting patiently in a dark-green linen gown, the best of her meager frocks, although it now hung loosely about her frame, and he wondered if she had lost weight again, the way she had during her first illness. Mark had offered to have a modiste make her several new dresses after they had moved in, but she had refused, and he did not want to push the matter at this time. They faced far too much adjustment to the new living arrangement. Rose, in complete opposition to her daughter, remained a quiet and private person who doted on her granddaughter.
Said granddaughter looked up at Mark, a smile spreading over her face. She had been sitting at a low table, combing the hair of a doll almost as tall as she was. Mark, who knew nothing about buying clothes or toys for little girls, had thought the doll would be more of a decoration for the room, occupying one of the small chairs. Instead, it had become Olivia’s constant playmate, an escaped princess named Elizabeth but dubbed Lizzie.
Tucking Lizzie under one arm, Olivia crossed to him. “Are they here?”
He squatted, stroking her arm. “Not yet. Are you ready?”
She nodded vigorously, her curls bouncing. “Will they be nice?”
His relationship with his mother crossed his mind, but he set it aside. “They will. It’s my brother and his wife, my mother, and a good friend of ours, Lady Sculthorpe. They just want to meet you. They may ask a few questions, but it will not take long. Then you can come back up here, change out of this fancy thing, and play.” He tugged the skirt of her frock, a high-waisted white muslin dress with a royal-blue cotton slip underneath and a matching ribbon around the waist. Blue ribbons dotted her hair,which had been pulled away from her face in an attempt to tame at least a few of the curls.
