Page 45 of Secrets of the Heart

But there had been such unhappiness in Rachel’s voice when she had talked about the way she thought people viewed her, about the boredom and lack of purpose in her life. He had wanted to protest that he did not think her useless or incapable at all, that yes, he wanted to protect her, but only because she was the dearest thing in life to him. But of course he could not tell her those things. And, wanting to lift her spirits—and, yes, wanting to be with her, he had to admit that, too—he had offered her this chance of working together. It was another symptom of the pure idiocy that seemed to afflict him every time he was around her.

“About our working together…” he began.

His words sent a chill through Rachel. She was certain that he was about to rescind his offer, so she jumped in before he could say anything more.

“Yes, I suppose we had better divide our duties, hadn’t we? Well, I will talk to Mrs. Birkshaw’s maid. I do not know Lady Esterbrook well, but I am sure that she will permit me to question the maid,” she said, presenting him with the thing that made her participation useful—a personal lady’s maid was the person who a man, either genteel or common, would have the most difficulty getting to interview. “I shall start to work on it tomorrow. What will you do?”

He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I shall drop by the tavern most likely to be frequented by the servants from Birkshaw’s house and engage one of them in conversation.”

“And what if they don’t imbibe?” Rachel asked.

“Then I will have to find some way to approach them at his house. Confusion over a delivery is often a good way.”

“This could take some time, I suppose. How will we…communicate whatever we learn?”

“Send me a note and I’ll come around—no, that wouldn’t work.”

“No. I think my servants might find it a bit odd to see Michael dressed that way coming to pay a call on me. When I find out anything, I shall go to your sister’s house and tell you.”

“All right.” Michael knew that he should tell her not to come, to simply send a note with her news, but he could not. He wanted to see her again, wanted the chance to spend a few more moments with her. It was odd, but there was something freeing about being with Rachel like this, all the constraints that seemed to bind them as man and wife suddenly gone. She had talked to “James” with an ease that was both a joy and a stab of pain. Why had she never told him—Michael—about her feeling that others viewed her as useless and incompetent? Was he so remote? So difficult to approach? So unlikeable?

The meal was over, their business done, but Rachel felt a curious reluctance to leave. It was pleasant to have someone to whom she could talk this freely without worrying over what he thought of her or if she had said the wrong thing, as she often did with Michael.

“Well, I guess it is time to go….”

“Yes.”

Neither of them made a move to get up, however. Rachel thought of the things she had waiting for her to do at home. There were calls she ought to return, but it would probably be too late for that, fortunately. There was the cunning little baby cap that she was making for Miranda’s and Dev’s child. There might be some household matter she had to resolve, and then later she would have to choose a gown and dress for dinner at the Mannings’. Her life, she thought, was unfailingly boring. She wondered exactly when she had grown tired of having nothing to do but dress and eat and attend social events, when the round of parties and plays and operas had taken on a dull routine.

Today had been much more interesting.

Resolutely, she pushed that thought aside, for life was rarely like today, and rose from her chair. “I had better find a hansom.”

“I will escort you.” Michael stood up and walked with her out of the room, holding the door for her and walking out after her, his hand going naturally for an instant to her elbow in a courteous gesture.

Rachel felt his touch all through her. She kept her eyes carefully in front of her, afraid that if she glanced at him, she would blush. Did he feel it, too, this explosive sizzle that ran through her at the merest touch? Or was it merely some mad reaction that belonged to her alone?

Whatever it was, Rachel knew that the best thing for her to do was to go home and never see this man again. She also knew that she would not heed her own advice.

Rachel laid her plans for approaching the late Mrs. Birkshaw’s lady’s maid. She thought that Lady Esterbrook would probably allow her to interview her new maid, although she would find it an odd request. However, Rachel thought that the resulting conversation with the maid would be awkward and stilted. She would get a far more honest reaction from the woman about her former mistress and that lady’s death if she could approach her more naturally.

By happy coincidence, Lady Esterbrook lived on the street that ran along the other side of the park across from Rachel’s own home, little over a block away. Therefore Rachel took a pad and charcoal and, donning a bonnet, went into the park and took up a position on a bench from which she could observe the Esterbrooks’ front door. For a day and a half she drew, or pretended to, all the while keeping a sharp eye on the Esterbrook door. On the second afternoon she was rewarded by Lady Esterbrook leaving the house, a neatly and much more inexpensively dressed woman trailing a step or two behind Lady Esterbrook’s stout figure. With any luck, Lady Esterbrook was being accompanied on her walk by her maid.

Excited, Rachel leaped to her feet, dumping the pad and charcoal pencil onto the ground. Leaving them there, she walked quickly through the park in the same direction in which the other two women were going. She had to make a detour to leave the park by its main entrance and then cut back over to their street, by which time they were half a block ahead of her. However, it was easy enough to keep them in sight, and she did not want to get close enough for either of them to notice her, anyway.

Lady Esterbrook dawdled in front of a millinery shop, looking in the front window at a display of hats, so Rachel had to idle where she was to keep far enough behind them. Since there were no store windows in which to look beside her, she fiddled with the buttons of her glove as if there was something wrong with it, glancing up now and then to see if they had moved on. When they did, she started forward once more. A few minutes later Lady Esterbrook stopped again to look into a window, and Rachel felt a twinge of impatience.

But then Lady Esterbrook said something to the other woman and went into the store, leaving the other woman waiting idly on the sidewalk. Rachel was certain now that the other woman was her maid. She would not have made a friend or even a hired companion loiter on the street instead of going inside the store with her. Rachel quickened her pace until she drew level with the woman. She glanced at the maid and took a step past her, then stopped and turned and came back to her.

“Martha?” Rachel asked in a tentative voice.

The maid glanced at her in surprise. “Yes, miss?”

Rachel smiled. “You are—I mean, you were Mrs. Birkshaw’s lady’s maid, were you not?”

The woman, who looked to be a few years younger than Rachel, beamed. “Why, yes, miss. How did you know?”

“I knew your mistress,” Rachel said, telling her the story she had concocted last night. “I saw you once at her house. Perhaps you don’t remember me. I am Mrs. Glendenning.”