Kasey Michaels - Beware Of Virtuous Women

After that first late morning she still couldn’t muster up any shame for indulging in, Eleanor was up near enough to the crack of dawn the next two days to have seriously discommoded Mrs. Hendersen and her maids. Most especially when she’d walked into the kitchens this morning after waiting an hour for her morning chocolate the day before, sat herself down at the newly scrubbed wooden table, and politely asked if she might have a coddled egg and a dish of tea, thank you.

Mrs. Hendersen had explained, gamely attempting to be civil, that the lady of the household should ring for a servant.

Eleanor had then pointed out the illogic of such a plan. “A servant whom, I’ve now learned, would hear the summons, run up two flights of stairs to hear that I would enjoy a coddled egg and dish of tea. She would then run back down those stairs to have someone procure both, labor back up those stairs, undoubtedly carrying a heavy silver tray, run back to her post, run back when I rang to have the tray taken away.”

“Yes, ma’am, but that’s the way it is,” Mrs. Hendersen had interrupted, which did her no good at all, because Eleanor hadn’t quite finished. And, as her siblings could have told the housekeeper, when Eleanor had something to say she could be like water on a rock, calmly coursing along until she’d worn that rock into a pebble, just from steady, low-keyed persistence.

As at that particular moment. “Oh, and then return the tray here, to the kitchens. In other words, Mrs. Hendersen, the simple matter of dealing with my coddled egg and dish of tea would necessitate a half-dozen trips either to or from my bedchamber. Much, much more sensible to move me, at least for today.”

“But…but…” Mrs. Hendersen had said, still unaware she might be seeing a slim, petite young woman with an unfortunate limp (the “poor little dearie”), but that she was in reality listening to a quiet verbal assault that would have had Napoleon cowering in a corner and whimpering, “Assez! Plus qu’il n’en faut! Enough! More than enough!”

“Beginning tomorrow morning, I shall be taking my breakfast at eight each morning in that lovely small salon next to Mr. Eastwood’s study,” Eleanor had told the woman—much to the delight of a red-haired freckled young girl Eleanor now knew to be Beatrice, who had been assigned to serve the new mistress.

“That’d be the breakfast room, ma’am,” Mrs. Hendersen had told her, her face rather splotched in unbecoming puce as she fought to keep her tone deferential.

“And called so for a good reason, wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Hendersen?” Eleanor had responded with one of her gentle smiles, believing that matter settled, and then had immediately moved on to the next subject on her mind.

As Mrs. Hendersen sputtered, Eleanor had then called all the servants together and explained life as it would be under her direction. Life as it was at Becket Hall, where everyone helped with any bit of work that might present itself, and nobody was asked to do what a person could reasonably do for him or herself.

Which, as Eleanor realized almost from the moment Jack came storming into her bedchamber shortly before the dinner gong was to sound that evening, had been a horrible mistake.

She’d been sitting at her dressing table, extremely content as a clearly adoring Beatrice pulled a pair of silver-backed brushes through her hair—the girl had insisted—when she’d heard the slam of the connecting door and her “husband’s” near bellow.

“What in bloody hell have you been about, woman?”

Beatrice gave out a small yelp and ran from the room, taking the brushes with her, so that Eleanor could only sigh, then lift her hair with her hands and let it all fall down her back, nearly to her waist.

Which seemed to stop Jack, who had been advancing on her with a fury she hadn’t seen in several years, in fact, not since Courtland had discovered Cassandra hiding in the drawing room after filling his riding boots with mud because he’d refused to take her out riding with him.

“How in blazes do you hold all that mess of hair up on that fragile neck of yours? No, don’t answer me. That’s not my question.” Jack kept his gaze on Eleanor, however, as he pointed in the general direction Beatrice had taken moments earlier. “Do you have any idea of the anarchy you have unleashed out there?”

Eleanor searched in one of the drawers of her dressing table, unearthing a deep blue grosgrain ribbon that matched her gown, then tied it around her hair at her nape. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s not my pardon you’ll be begging, wife. Mrs…Mrs…whoever she is, is downstairs in the kitchens, crying into the cook’s apron.” He raised his eyebrows as he glared at her. “And do you want to know why she’s crying in the cook’s apron?”

“Mrs. Hendersen.”

Jack was losing control, and he knew it. “What?”

“Your housekeeper. Her name is Mrs. Hendersen. And, no, Jack, I don’t know why she’s crying into Mrs. Ryan’s apron. Is she ill?”

Jack jammed his fingers through his hair. “She didn’t look all that good when I saw her but, no, she’s not sick. She’s at the end of her rope—and that’s out of her mouth, not mine. Did you really tell the servants they only had to do what they wanted to do?”

Eleanor sat down, frowned at him. “No, that’s not quite it. At Becket Hall we all help each other. But there are duties, everyone has the duty to help. At Becket Hall they’re…well, I suppose you could call them the crew. Yes, that’s it. There are general assignments, even preferences, but everyone lends a hand where it’s needed. It’s all rather—what’s the word? Oh, yes. Democratic.”

“Is that right? Well, don’t look now, madam, but our crew has instituted a mutiny.”

“Now you’re exaggerating. It will take a little time for everyone to understand that they’re being asked to responsively think for themselves, employ initiative, but—”

Jack let out a short laugh. “Oh, they’re already thinking for themselves, Eleanor. According to Mrs…damn!”

“Mrs. Hendersen.”

Jack glared at her. “According to the housekeeper,” he pushed on doggedly, “two of the footmen have thought for themselves that they should be taking in the sights at Bartholomew Fair today, while the cook—ha! Mrs. Ryan—has thought for herself that something called bubble and squeak would make for a fine dinner for the master of the house. Who would be me, Eleanor, who doesn’t have the faintest damn idea what bubble and squeak is, but I’m damn sure I don’t want it served up in my dining room. And then there’s that maid of yours—”

“Beatrice? She’s been here with me for most of the afternoon, cleaning this chamber and yours, both of which more than needed a good polish.”

“Well, good for Beatrice,” Jack snarled, dropping into a chair. “That also explains why there’s some pathetic little thing sitting beside Mrs. Hendersen and also crying up a storm because now she has no dusting to do and she’ll soon be on the streets on her back and men with no teeth will be taking their pleasure on her. And that’s another direct quote.”

Eleanor put a hand to her chin, looked around as if there might be something to see. “Oh. Dear. They don’t quite understand, do they?”

Jack stood up again. He couldn’t seem to stay still for more than a moment. Probably because he wanted to strangle this strange, irritating woman. “Yes, I think you could safely say that. I think you could also safely say that you’re in no danger of my housekeeper addressing you as you poor dearie ever again. Now, what do we do? Correction, what do you do, because this is your mess, Eleanor, and it needs cleaning up before Eccles and Phelps come to dinner tomorrow night.”