Page 15

“I’m grateful for the⁠—”

“You were not my first choice, Clara,” Mrs. Wintle interrupted, signing the bottom of a paper before shifting to the next below it. “But apparently, doing another’s hair is a dying art form no one else is capable of performing.” She said the words begrudgingly with a shake of her head. “I trust you will not let me or Miss Sterling down, otherwise⁠—”

“I’ll be dismissed,” Clara finished.

Once more, Mrs. Wintle’s steely eyes were upon her, and Clara, once more, bit her tongue. She needed to leave now before she said something she truly regretted.

“Your trial begins now,” Mrs. Wintle said. “Harriet will be able to help with some of the bedchambers to a degree, but you will still be expected to see to your other duties.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You may leave now, but first see to delivering Mr. Newton his freshly cleaned cravat—he is on the ground floor, first bedchamber at the end of the corridor—then see that Miss Tabitha Bowles’s gown is delivered promptly to her room from the press. Her own lady’s maid has found herself inundated with caring for Miss Bowles’s other requests and hasn’t the time to fetch it herself. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What are you waiting for? Go on.”

Clara picked up her footing at once, thrilled to not only still have her place of work, but to also have the chance to be a lady’s maid. She used to do Mother’s hair when Algernon dismissed their lady’s maid, and over the course of six months, Clara had become rather skilled.

More than anything, she was grateful for the chance to do something other than light fires.

Gathering Miss Bowles’s gown and Mr. Newton’s cravat from the press room first, Clara then climbed the servants’ stairs toward the ground floor, gliding across the carpet and stepping off to the side when a woman with dark blonde hair and warm eyes wandered in her direction. Clara recognized her as one of the women who’d arrived only today—Miss Elinor Prescott, she believed.

“Excuse me,” Miss Prescott said hesitantly. “Might you point me in the direction of the dining room?”

“Of course.” Clara turned around and pointed down the way from which she’d come. “If you turn left at the end of the corridor...No...No, turn right at the end of the corridor, then left. Or is it...Yes, I believe it is left, then right. Then left again, and the dining room will be the third door on your left. Right. The fourth door on the right.”

Heavens. Maybe she didn’t know Bellthorne as well as she thought.

Still, Miss Prescott, though appearing a little dazed, thanked her for her instructions, even asking her name before Clara left the opposite way, depositing Mr. Newton’s cravat to his bedchamber before moving to the first floor, in more of a hurry than ever.

Finally reaching the corridor that held both Miss Bowles and Miss Sterling, along with a number of other guests, Clara raced around the corner in a tight manner, only to hear a shredding coming from the gown in her hands.

She gasped, stopping at once and staring down at the folds of fabric to discover a large shred in the hem at the back, the seam having been torn by catching on the edge of a large frame extended from the wall.

“No,” she groaned, extending the word out in a long whine. “Of all the...”

She shook her head, peering closer to see the damage that was at least a few inches long—and absolutely noticeable.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” she whispered to herself.

A door clicked open nearby, and a soft, feminine voice spoke behind her. “Clara?”

Clara whirled around, coming face-to-face with a woman with dark brown hair falling down in waves around her shoulders, her cheeks rosy as she smiled. Clara vaguely remembered pointing the woman in the direction of her bed chamber only two days before...but had it been this room Clara had directed her to?

Oh, dear. Yet another way she was failing as a maid.

“I heard you were to help me this evening,” the woman continued.

“Miss Sterling,” Clara said at once, remembering to curtsy. “Yes. I’ll be right with you.”

Miss Sterling tipped her head to the side, eying the gown in Clara’s hand. “Is everything all right? Only, I heard you speaking before and it sounded as if...” Her eyes fell on the torn gown. “Oh, dear. Whose dress is this?”

“Miss Bowles’s. Down the corridor,” she whispered.

Her mind raced as she attempted to decide what to do. She could simply deliver the dress while hiding the tear—but then the blame would either be directed at her or worse, the innocent laundry-maid. Or she could deliver the dress to Miss Bowles as it was and risk being reported to Mrs. Wintle.

There was only one thing for it—she had to mend the dress herself. But that meant she would have to return to the laundry, request a thread and a needle, mend the dress, and return it to Miss Bowles—all before even beginning with Miss Sterling. That would hardly leave her enough time to do Miss Sterling’s hair in a fine enough manner to be impressive.