Lady Helena gazed at Eugenia with tears standing in her eyes. “What if I love him, but he does not love me, Eugenia? What if he, for all his handsome looks, is a lout who beats his wife? What if I die giving birth to his child?”
Rushing forward, Eugenia fell to her knees at Lady Helena’s feet. She took her hands in her own, gazing up. “You must not think that way, My Lady. You are young, beautiful with the stout name of Whitington behind you. Life is full of risks, but you cannot hide in your chambers throughout your life, afraid to marry for fear you may die in childbirth. You are too strong for that, you know this. Be joyful in your prospects, for I know in my heart you will be loved by your husband.”
Lady Helena’s lips trembled and her unshed tears made her eyes gleam like emeralds in the sunlight. She cupped Eugenia’s cheek in the palm of her hand. “You are a true friend, Eugenia. Do not kneel. Come here and give me a hug.”
Eugenia popped to her feet and embraced her mistress. “I am so happy for you,” she whispered.
* * *
Eugenia helped her mistress dress for dinner and carefully styled Lady Helena’s dark red locks into an attractive chignon. Lady Helena had fully recovered her excitement about traveling to Yorkshire to spend a few weeks at the Bromenville estates, and her constant chatter and giggles hampered her ability to keep her head still so Eugenie could properly style her lady’s hair.
When at last the deed had been accomplished, Eugenia inspected Lady Helena’s bodice and gown for any flaws. “I think you are ready, My Lady,” she said.
Lady Helena inspected her face in the looking glass. “I am too pale. Tell me I am too pale.”
“You are not too pale. A high lady is supposed to have white skin. If you are not, then you might be classed as a working woman.”
Lady Helena laughed. “I certainly would not want that. Now go to the kitchen and get your dinner. I heard the cook has been complaining you have not visited her in a while.”
Eugenia frowned slightly, yet humor flashed in her hazel eyes. “I have so. I saw her the day before yesterday, in fact. She fed me so many sweet tarts, I thought I would burst.”
“Go. Make her happy. There is nothing worse in this world than an unhappy cook.”
After Lady Helena left, Eugenia made certain her own hair and gown were impeccable, then went down to the kitchen through the hidden servants’ tunnels. The head cook, a stout matron named Mrs. O’Reilly, ruled her domain with an iron skillet and commanded her small army of assistants, scullions, kitchen maids, and cook boys. Yet, she and her husband, the household’s butler, raised Eugenia as their own.
Mrs. O’Reilly planted her fists on her wide hips and glared as Eugenia emerged into the hot kitchen from a side door. “Where in heaven’s name have you been, child?” she demanded, waving her wooden spoon like a scepter.
Eugenia hugged her and kissed her sweaty cheek. “Mama Reilly, you know I saw you the other day. Will you please stop the drama?”
“Drama, is it? When a woman cannot see the child she raised –”
She halted her harangue when she caught sight of Eugenia’s amused expression and dancing eyes and sighed. “I just miss you, sweetheart. I know your duties to Lady Helena keep you busy, but please try to come by and see me every day?”
Eugenia perched upon a three-legged stool. “I will do my best. How is Papa?”
“He is well, child, misses you as much as I do. After he serves the family supper, stop in and see him?”
“I will try, but you know I must attend on Lady Helena.”
“I do know it. Now, child, I will fix you a plate. Roasted duckling tonight. You are much too thin, you grew too fast for your bones.”
Mrs. Reilly heaped a plate full of delicious food for her, which she took to a small side table and devoured its contents. She had lived in this kitchen, considered the cook and the butler her parents, helped with whatever her little hands could handle. When she was nine years old, Mr. and Mrs. Reilly told her story: she was in truth a foundling.
Nine years before, in the cold of winter, she had been found at the gates of the Whitington townhouse in London. Still swathed in her swaddling bands with her name penned on them, a small pendant with her first initial ‘E’ had been pinned to the cloth. No one knew who placed her there, who her birth parents were, or why she had been abandoned.
Raised by the servants of the household, Eugenia grew up loved and knew no wants save one – to know who her real parents are. However, no one could answer that for her. Thus, she addressed the Reillys as her parents, then was told she would become Lady Helena’s personal maid when she was ten. As the two girls, close in age, had often played together, the situation gave them a special bond of closeness.
“Mama Reilly,” she said, taking her now empty plate to one of the scullery maids. “I have news.”
Mrs. Reilly turned from stirring a soup pot. “What would that be, dear?”
“Lady Helena has been invited to the Duke of Bromenville’s estates.”
“Why that is excellent news indeed, child,” she began, then froze. “But that means –”
Eugenia hurried to her and hugged her hard. “I know. I am to go with her. They might get married, Mama. If that happens, I will not be back.”
“Nonsense. If our beloved lady gets married to the Duke, then you can request to come here. There will always be a place for you here, child.”
