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“She really will believe she did all of this herself,” Harriet said in a whisper, motioning to the beautiful greenery around the room.

“And we will allow her to,” Clara said just as humorously.

If Clara had thought Miss Bowles was terrible at decorating for her scant boughs and mistletoe, Lady Dalmeer was abysmal for her garish display of stuffed boughs and kissing balls. She’d spent hours inside the drawing room, directing basket after basket of greenery to enter and fill every corner of it. The result was unsightly, and all the servants had agreed.

“Do you really think she’ll choose her room to win above all others?” Clara whispered next, sweeping up the excess soot from the oversized grate.

“I’ve no doubt,” Harriet replied. “That’s why we all agreed to make the room a bit better.”

Clara could understand the action. The greenery had been abysmally garish. There had been sprigs of pine trees sticking out from frames and in the backs of cushions, mistletoe had been stabbed through the curtains in various locations, and boughs of holly hung around the candles on the chandelier—which was not only a fire hazard, but a risk of them falling upon the guests.

The servants had taken it upon themselves to tighten the display, and what resulted was a truly spectacular Christmas-feeling room.

“I would have hated for her guests to think she chose her room because it was hers alone,” Harriet continued, standing up and wiping her hands on her apron. “At least now, they might understand when she does it anyway.”

“Will she notice, do you think?” Clara asked. “That we changed it.”

Harriet laughed. “Not a chance. She’ll be too focused on receiving the attention from all those handsome gents—and pairing them up. She’s doing her best in that regard.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice even further. “Although I hear her son won’t give into her pressuring at all. Word from the other maids is that he’s set his eye on someone else. One his mother won’t approve of.”

Clara forced herself not to respond. Over her time at Bellthorne, she’d done her best not to engage in gossip, but it became harder and harder as the hours passed by.

Instead, she focused on taking a wet cloth and wiping around the hearth to remove the seemingly hundreds of coal-covered fingerprints she’d left behind on the white marble.

She was getting better at starting fires, but her issues with coal were seemingly endless.

After finishing polishing off the fire-irons and replacing the screen, Harriet motioned to the door. “You’d better be off now to see to Miss Sterling. She’ll be needing to get ready for dinner soon.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Clara said, eying the coal scuttle, bucket of water, and the rest of the mess she’d made across the floor. Fortunately she’d remembered to lay the cover across the maroon and blue rugs first.

This time.

“I’ll clean all this up,” Harriet offered. “Take care to wash your hands and face. You’ve made yourself quite a mess.”

Clara shook her head. “I usually do.”

She smiled goodbye to her friend, washed up in her chamber with a few of the other temporary maids, then swiftly made her way to Miss Sterling, who was awaiting her arrival with a smile.

“My apologies for being late,” Clara said, breathless.

“Oh, I’d be more concerned if I didn’t have full confidence in your abilities with my hair,” Miss Sterling teased. “Not to worry, though. I’m certain you’ve enough work to see to without my own needs standing in your way.”

How grateful Clara was that she’d been assigned to Miss Sterling and not Miss Bowles. Clara would surely have been dismissed at this point.

After another successful session, with Miss Sterling more than pleased with her appearance, the woman left to join the festivities while Clara set about her other tasks she’d had to put off throughout the day—refreshing washstands, prodding fires, tidying chambers, and dusting the other rooms she was still assigned.

By the time she was finished, her stomach was aching with hunger, especially when she caught the mouthwatering scents of the Christmas Eve dinner now being served in the dining room.

Roast beef, venison, turtle soup, steamed carrots, buttered cabbage, and so much more. Clara could envisage it all.

She’d nearly forgotten what day it was tomorrow. She was devastated not to spend it with Mother. But then, if they were at Cliveley Park, there would not be much celebrating going on anyway.

Ever since Mother’s husband died, Algernon had made it a point to cut corners in every way to save money and make up for the debt he was left with. He’d stolen Mother’s family jewelry and sold it, doing the same with Clara’s finest gowns, then ultimately rationed their candle usage and bedpans throughout each new month.

There was certainly no chance he’d be holding a fine Christmas dinner this year. Poor Mother. Clara was in a better state than she was at this point.

But next year would be better. It had to be.

Clambering down the servants’ stairs with sore feet and reddened hands, Clara rested while she could in the kitchens, only to return upstairs an hour later to ready the bedchambers for the guests, turning down bedding and warming the bedpans and fires.