Wednesday evening...
"Every bit as tardy a lady's maid as she is a lady. Certainly not how I do things!"
After a muddy day like today, Emilia Finch would have been here to attend to things an hour ago. Emilia Finch would have insisted her charge have a proper bath. But she was not Emilia Finch today. She was Prudence Crewe and, in that role she had now taken so long to wriggle her way out of this wet dress alone that there was no time to do more than a slapdash wash with a cloth. But what other choice did she have?
"Have to be Miss Crewe and her maid," she muttered.
Mopsy yelped from the bed, as if in solidarity — that or protest. Once Emilia realized that everything she pulled from the closet was considered his newest toy, she had little choice but to restrain the poor love until he learned. Since she could use the sympathy, she decided to interpret his yelp as agreement.
"Someone tell me how I'm to do all this and that, to boot!"
That being yet another supper where she was out of her depth, surrounded by people above her station, and expected to pretend to enjoy the whole thing. To add another layer of humiliation, there was sure to be dancing tonight. Emilia fanned her face, which she could see was in high color even a dozen feet away from the mirror.
It wasn't only anticipation of tonight that had her so agitated. Remembering her behavior this afternoon, she felt as if she was in a constant state of embarrassment. Mr. Byrne probably thought her a complete simpleton, from her falling on her bottom in the stream to her ogling him and giggling.
Considering his rather smug, high-handed behavior and ill-natured teasing, she'd rather have stayed annoyed, but things had become more friendly as they talked — perhaps too friendly on her end, the way she gawked at him and his tanned arms and wet shirt. How far did the tan go? And how did a gentleman, an Irish one at that, get so tan?
Then again, he hadn't always been a gentleman, had he? And the way he talked of the English, which really should have offended her as a born-and-bred Yorkshire girl, he probably didn't deserve the title. Yes, he was very uncouth and she'd much rather remember those bits of the afternoon. Wasn't he too low-born for Miss Prudence anyway? A snobbish thought, but so long as she was Prudence Crewe, remembering that might help her avoid making a fool of herself like a silly, swooning housemaid.
This was all very unlike her.
Back at Hartley Hall, the other maids might sigh and whisper over the more handsome footmen or even the guests, but Emilia had always considered such things foolhardy. She thought they'd do better to keep their eyes on their work and stay on their guard and her caution had served her well. Even if a girl wasn't let go for wanton behavior — and didn't it always seem to be the girls? — many had ended up in tears or even brawls upon finding their sweethearts were kissing half the other maids in the house and a good many in the neighboring houses.
She'd stayed vigilant, but it wasn't as if she hadn't been cornered quite a few times — whether by other servants or the so-called gentlemen visiting Mr. Hartley, who seemed to misunderstand what needs a maid was meant to tend to. She'd managed to escape unscathed, whether by luck, timely interruptions, or a well-placed knee if all else failed -- something only to be used on the other servants, of course.
How nice it had been at Crewe House in comparison. When she'd first come, most of the servants were too old for such dramatics. She certainly couldn't see Dawes going about pinching her bottom and Thomas might as well be her uncle. Cook and Sally were both faithful old retainers as well, and married, so there was no swooning over the others.
The only one close to her age had been Ian, though a year younger. But he was always much too responsible to get up to any nonsense with her, though the same couldn't be said for him and Miss Charity. As for the servants who'd come in the last few years, they were all younger than her by four years or more. The footmen even called her "ma'am" at times, which was just a little bit galling, but she supposed she could take it as a sign of respect for her seniority.
No. There was no romance on the horizon there, but it was just as well. It wasn't as if she'd never had a romantic thought. She quite appreciated romance... for others. She'd certainly supported — or didn't actively stop — Charity's romantic adventures, reckless as they were. She also had a certain preoccupation with Lord Byron's exploits and scandals in the papers and, though she might miss the diversion, always hoped he might find some nice girl and settle into a married life.
She was quite relieved Byron had finally wed a Miss Annabella Milbanke in the winter and that his name would certainly not be littering the scandal sheets ever again.
But for her, romances were a thing to be considered someday. Perhaps when she had time for it. She wasn't sure when that someday would be, but surely in some far-off future. Gently bred young ladies might be tossed up on the shelf at her advanced age of three-and-twenty, but girls of her class had no such expiration — not if they still had work in them. Yet the idea of settling down with some farmer or shopkeeper seemed stifling. Didn't she want more life first? More fashion, more opportunities to laugh at the society foibles of the Beau Monde, more travel? Any travel? She'd not yet been on a boat, not even on the Thames. She'd never visited a real French dress shop, where even browsing would be a thrill. She'd yet to go sea-bathing in the sun-drenched Mediterranean, where she heard the waves were as warm as fresh bathwater.
To be sure, she'd only be doing those things while trailing after Miss Prudence, but she could certainly experience one or possibly two of them before settling in to keep house for a nice young farmer or shopkeeper or...
Or settling into a life as Mrs. Finch and keeping house for the Crewe family, she reminded herself.
Hadn't she already decided that was what she must do? It was just as well. How many men would come begging for the hand of a woman committed to keeping house for another family? And how likely was she to travel anyhow? Miss Prudence was more wont to paint an imagined Riviera than visit a real one. So far, her life as a lady's maid had only taken her as far as Scotland, which was certainly no sunny European villa.
All that would likely be exhausting, anyhow. "I'll be grateful for such security," she announced to her audience, "for m'self and my father. Grateful and not at all stifled at the idea of knowing what life will be with each passing day, week, month..."
Mopsy barked quite loudly, as if on to her fibs — that or he was suspicious of the burnished gold gown that had her trapped by now. She'd been excited to wear it... before she attempted to don it with no assistance.
"Too loud, Mopsy! You must learn or you'll be tossed into the hedgerow — possibly with me, in the end," Emilia added as she struggled anew.
Mopsy whined and laid down again.
If it wouldn't put her out of a job, she'd have made over Miss Prudence's dresses as she had for Charity, so one could dress when there was no help to be found — like now.
She was stuck, half-in a corset with a gown puddled over her hips and one arm still trapped when Miss Prudence finally sailed in... without knocking and without closing the door. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I got very caught up and I didn't hear the— Why is your face so red?" Miss Prudence had the nerve to ask.
"Because we've barely enough time to dress," Emilia said through her teeth as she picked up the dragging gown and shuffled awkwardly to shut the door as Mopsy had let out a fresh set of barks, none of them soft.
Prudence gave the dog a suspicious glance. "You brought it in here?"
"Him. And I'll explain in a moment," Emilia said as Mopsy ran in tight circles on the bed. "Could you do me up before I ruin this thing?"
"Yes, yes." Prudence turned her around. "Dear Lord. Yet more tiny buttons. I shall go blind. Not that I should be complaining," she added. "Buttoning and unbuttoning is the only lady's-maiding you've allowed me to do as yet."
"If you're so eager, where were you a half-hour ago? I rang for you twice and you didn't come."
"I wasn't near the bells. I only knew you rang when Evie came to fetch me."
"And where were you that you need to be fetched? I thought you were supposed to be in here, safely tucked away and reading."
"I did mean to be. But once I saw the state of the library, I couldn't allow it to stand! We only managed to redo a few shelves. There was much debate over where to place the Greeks versus the translations of them and--"
"Who is we?"
"Well... It's a long story. And why only fifteen minutes? Dinner is not till seven."
"I aim to see Sir Anthony first. About Mopsy. I thought he might take him in."
"Mopsy?"
"The dog," Emilia clarified. "I've named him."
"I knew there was some secret reason for this dog-washing fervor of yours." Prudence turned to the bed and the pup that had tangled himself so thoroughly in his rope with his excitement at this new visitor. She inched cautiously closer as Mopsy struggled to get to his paws. "He looks... clean enough, I suppose."
"He looks lovely," Emilia said, feeling miffed for his sake as she moved to free him. Now that he'd dried, one could barely see the spots she'd had to cut away under all his fluff. "I'm sure Sir Anthony will take him in now."
"Hmm." Prudence seemed to merely tolerate his enthusiastic, sniffing inspection of her and subsequent licks of her hand. "He seems eager to please, if Sir Anthony likes that sort of thing."
"Who wouldn't like that sort of thing?" Emilia cooed. "Look at the way he stares, tilting his little head as if thinkin' very hard how to be charming."
Prudence shrugged. "I'm more partial to cats myself. They mind their business, don't bother anyone, and look only to please themselves. Much like me."
"Aye, that last part is like you. But if we're talking of minding our business," Emilia began stiffly, "what were you doing with yourself in the library and with who?"
"What have you been doing with yourself? You still look awfully flushed." Prudence gestured to her, obviously avoiding the question.
Emilia wasn't sure she hadn't reddened further. Prudence didn't need to know the dog wasn't the only one she'd been with. Mr. Byrne didn't signify, anyhow. He was just another guest, she reminded herself, and not one she would be associating with further. "Well, you... look very dusty."
"What does it matter how I look?" Prudence skipped over to the dressing table and started rifling through the bottles and tins, then stopped, smiling. "Isn't that a lovely feeling?" She shrugged and continued displacing everything. "Might one of these help? This one says powder."
"What? No." Emilia took the tin from her. "That powder is for starching lace."
"Well, pardon me, I've yet to try my hand at... laundering or pressing," Prudence huffed, now toying with the wet dress over the chair, "though I supposed you'll have me start with this."
"No just leave it to dry." Emilia snatched it away to hang it over the fire screen. "I'll work out what to do with it later."
"Very well, but you'll have to give me something. Evie has been after me to share my wisdom, asking what I know of face powders and rouge."
"Tell her you don't believe in face powders or paints. They give people spots." Emilia might not get out in society as much as Prudence, but she saw many an older woman who'd slathered her cheeks with lead in her younger days, possibly to appear as if she'd never been out of doors. They looked like they'd survived leprosy. She certainly couldn't abide the idea of a fledgling lady's maid committing such crimes against the complexion. "That's not the fashion now, anyhow. A girl is to look hearty, as if she'd been out in the fresh air. Not tan or freckled, of course, but rosy-cheeked. Tell this Evie that both La Belle Assemblée and Lady's Monthly Museum insist upon only the lightest rouge and only more if ye've been ill. You really should study these things if you want to know—"
"I can't abide those fashion rags. I'm sure you can teach me better than the La Belle Museum."
"La Belle Assemblée," Emilia corrected, frowning. "And how would you like it if I called Shakespeare a... rag?"
Prudence only laughed. "I don't think the man himself would mind. He always played to the groundlings. Miss Poole and I were actually arguing about that very thing and she—"
"Miss Poole? You were arguing with Miss Poole?"
"Not arguing. It was more of a spirited debate. You see, we decided to start with plays and poetry and—" Prudence stopped. "Wait. First, you should know that Miss Poole and I aim to redo the library and we've only just started."
"What?"
"I told her that you bid me to fix it, so if she asks—"
"I bid you to take a book, not—"
"Now, don't be upset. Miss Poole was very pleased with your ideas." She smiled blandly. "By yours, I mean mine. And I'm certain Sir Anthony won't mind in the least."
"And you don't think that won't give him ideas?" Emilia scoffed. "He's likely to think, with me taking such an interest, that I mean to be mistress of this house. And by me, I mean you."
"And what of you," Prudence countered, "gifting him freshly-washed dogs? Won't that give him an idea or two?"
"That's different." Emilia pulled Mopsy to her side. "I'm trying to find a home for the poor love. I might as well do some good to balance all the evil of this charade of yours."
Prudence giggled. "You make me sound diabolical. Come now, it's as much your charade as mine by now. And you must admit, it's just a little bit fun."
Emilia didn't answer, giving Mopsy another stroke before moving to the dressing table. "You're quite right about me being flushed. Perhaps some rose oil." Emilia didn't put much store by the powders and paints they sold in the shops. She much preferred her own concoctions. She plucked off her glasses and began applying it.
Prudence studied her. "Why are you so nervous? You didn't complain much after last night."
"There was no dancing last night."
"Oh, I'm sure you can get out of that easily."
"I'm sure I can't. Miss Baddeley claims Sir Anthony and I must lead the first dances."
"Hmm, that does seem to be a pickle. Perhaps I can go spread it about that you've twisted your ankle."
"And then have me walk about with that charade as well? No, thank you. I've enough to contend with as is."
"Well, if it's helpful, I have no reputation for my fine form when dancing, so you're quite free to make a hash of it."
"I know this is greatly amusing to you, but I am the one dealing with a state of constant embarrassment. And it don't help none that I'm not meant to be myself. I didn't even tell you all that happened last night. For one thing, you now have a reputation for shoveling the soup course down like it was your last meal. I also had no idea about this business of who walks into dinner first," Emilia said, pinning her hair up hastily, "and I made a very stupid joke and everyone looked at me like I was a dolt and I think I offended Miss Poole and—"
"Oh, I remember that. That Fanny Price nonsense. But don't fret. I explained your feelings about Mansfield much better. She didn't agree, but found your arguments well-reasoned."
"Oh, did she?" Emilia stared at Prudence in the mirror, wincing as she scraped at her scalp with a pin. "And she didn't find that strange, you speakin' for me... or the me that's you?" Dash it all! It was getting quite hard to keep it straight in her head.
"Not at all. I was quite clever about it." Prudence cleared her throat, curtsying. "Beggin' yer pardon, Miss, but me mistress is very shy with others, poor li'l retiring thing, but she tells me just everythin'." She curtsied again.
"No one who's heard of a Crewe girl would believe them to be shy." Emilia gaped at her. "And is that supposed to be some playactin' version of me?"
"You are missing the material point! Now I can say what I wish about anything to Miss Poole and pretend it came from you. And you can be too shy to debate the merits of literature with Miss Poole at every meal. It aids us both, you see."
Emilia had to admit, grudgingly, that it might be a clever way around things. "And what of this 'me mistress' nonsense. Ye make... You make me sound like the village idiot. And I don't curtsy before and after every word I say."
"You nearly do. With Mama, at least." Prudence tapped at her chin. "Yet I've always noticed a suspicious lack of curtsying with me. You are very insubordinate." She grinned. "I don't know how you've hoodwinked everyone else."
"Enough of your foolery." Emilia stood and smoothed her skirts. "Would you hand me that shawl?"
"Why all this fuss for supper?" Prudence held out the gold netted shawl dappled with beads. "I barely ever wear this silly thing. It's not even warm."
"Aye, but it's pretty. And neglected for far too long, like most of your clothes." Emilia said as she settled the shawl about her shoulders, then pulled on the satin gloves, a lighter gold than the dress, but they complemented it beautifully. Lady Crewe had allowed her to choose the accoutrements when the dress had been fitted. They'd not been touched until now.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Prudence was asking.
"I'm not." Emilia plucked up the red ribbon she'd hung on the doorknob and turned to Mopsy, tying a tidy little bow on the rope secured loosely about his neck. "There now, Darling. Don't you look a treat? Now please don't twist and turn too much or you'll spoil it."
"I didn't mean that."
She turned to find Prudence holding out her spectacles. "Oh. Those," she said dully.
"Well, they are part of the disguise. I'm simply helping."
"Aye, you're likely help me right out of a job," she muttered as she put them on before taking herself and Mopsy out the door, hearing Prudence chuckle in her wake. She supposed Prudence was still having a grand time with all this. Why was she not worried? What if Miss Prudence was right? What if Sir Anthony took her presenting Mopsy as some sign she was altogether too interested in his household? Then again, whatever Sir Anthony thought of this dog business, he would be Prudence's problem, not hers, whenever Prudence finally ended this charade. Emilia could very likely slink back to the servants quarters and not be bothered by anyone.
She was determined to put Mopsy into a bed by the fire before that happened. He wouldn't survive out there much longer. He wasn't raised for it. She wished she could take him home herself. But she couldn't see Mrs. Douglass letting her have a dog in her quarters, nor could she trust her father to care for one. He'd likely try to breed it for profit and become overrun with pups.
The servants here seemed good sorts, according to Prudence. They could surely make certain he had something to eat and somewhere to sleep. Who wouldn't want a good boy like this? Emilia noted with pleasure the way Mopsy trotted ahead like a dutiful pup, the way he kept sweetly glancing back at her as if to be sure she was enjoying their little jaunt down the hall as much as he was, the way he sniffed the air and then... suddenly shot forward and nearly made her fall face-first into the carpet.
The rope slipped from her fingers and she watched with horror as he barreled down the hall and disappeared around the corner. She had no idea what had got into him, but after hearing a shout down the hall, she was more worried about whatever he'd got into.
"Mopsy! This is no way to make a good show of yourself!" she shouted, picking up her skirts and running after him.
TBC
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