Page 5

All those years of rigorous lessons on comportment and decorum, not to mention instruction on Christ-like behavior, seemed to have flown from her mind as easily as a wild bird out an open window.

“He was here when I dozed off,” Mrs. Thackpenny droned on, patting the stack of cozy throws padding her lap.

Dozed off?

The woman’s snoring could’ve stripped the faded wallpaper from the walls.

Outwardly composed—Joy had, at least, learned that skill well at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women—she set aside her embroidery.

“He needed to go outdoors, Mrs. Thackpenny. And after the last incident, I thought it unwise to make him wait.”

Three days ago, Whiskers had relieved himself in one of the many cold fireplaces in the townhouse, then proceeded to track ash-covered kitty footprints onto the carpet and sofa. Naturally, Joy had been blamed. Her ill-tempered employer had threatened to reduce her allowance for the cost of cleaning the already stained and shabby cushion and carpet.

Flannery, the sometimes butler, sometimes footman, sometimes coachman and groom, usually saw to the pampered pets’ trips outdoors. Only that day, he’d been running an errand for his mistress, and the task had fallen to Joy. Except, her domineering employer hadn’t given her a moment’s peace since Mrs. Thackpenny had awoken with a headache that morning, and the neglected cat had been entirely forgotten.

Sir Whiskerton had only done what came naturally

An enormous, long-haired white and orange tabby with stunning blue eyes, Sir Galahad Whiskerton—such a ridiculous name—behaved more like a dog than a cat. And he quite despised the blue bow his mistress insisted Joy tie about his neck every morning after his breakfast.

The baleful glare the twelve-year-old feline turned upon her made her feel quite guilty. So whenever kippers were served for breakfast, she’d sneak Whiskers hers, as she couldn’t abide the nasty things.

Whiskers, on the other hand, had no such aversion. Except for the tails, that was. The cat refused to eat the tails, which meant Joy had to dash about and gather the evidence, less anyone see the proof of her perfidy.

A wry smile bent her mouth as she closed her sewing basket’s lid.

She couldn’t have fresh tea leaves, but Whiskers sported a new sky-blue silk bow each week and Poppet a peony pink one. Mrs. Thackpenny doted upon her pets, but not her overworked and underpaid staff.

“Go find him,” Mrs. Thackpenny ordered.

“I shall fetch him for you at once,” Joy said, grateful for the opportunity to stretch her legs.

She just might dally a few minutes and take in Rochester’s brisk air. Heavens, how she missed the daily walks relished when still a student at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women.

How had five years gone by so quickly?

So discontentedly?

The laborious passing of each additional year dashing more of her dreams until she feared she’d become a replica of her employer. Disenchanted with life, angry about unfulfilled dreams and deferred hopes, and bitter at God because she was powerless to change a dashed thing.

How long ago that seemed, and how excited she’d been to learn she’d been offered a position as a lady’s companion to a granddaughter of an earl. That initial exuberance had wilted, shriveled, and eventually, died.

And yet, what else was Joy to do?

In truth, that plaguing thought had niggled quite persistently of late.

At eight and seventy, Mrs. Thackpenny’s constitution was becoming fragile. When she passed on, Joy would need to find a new position. Mrs. Shepherd would likely help her, but a letter of reference from Mrs. Thackpenny would do much for securing another post.

Only, how did one go about requesting such a thing?

It seemed in grossly poor taste.

By the by, Mrs. Thackpenny. You very well may die soon, and I would like to request a letter of reference so that I might find another position when you shuffle off your mortal coil.

The feisty widow, likely as not, would clock Joy soundly with her scarred cane.

“Ask Mrs. Wilkie for a pot of tea and tray of dainties on your way through the kitchen, Miss Winterborne. Make certain there are peach tarts,” Mrs. Thackpenny decreed imperiously, waving said cane in a small arc the way a monarch might brandish a royal mace.

She would’ve made an impressive queen, wielding her scepter over her subjugated people.