“But what can I do? Become a scullery maid?”
“Perhaps the Countess will arrange a suitable marriage for you, Eugenia,” Mrs. Reilly replied, desperation clear on her reddened face. “There are young and handsome footmen here in need of wives. You could almost take your pick.”
Eugenia glanced away, unhappy to see her adopted mother near tears. “I will try to come back, Mama Reilly. I promise.”
As she hugged the cook and left the kitchen, she felt tears sting her eyes.Why do I feel that I’ll never see this place, my parents, again?
Chapter 3
Seated in the castle’s solar, Augusta worked at her stitchery, her mind wandering. Heavy rain lashed the windows while the screaming Yorkshire wind blasted across the moors. Outside of her private apartments, this room was her favorite, and she often spent her days in it. Its walls held ancient tapestries of battles and hunting, while suits of armor from medieval times stood in corners. On sunny days, the many windows encouraged the sunlight to spread throughout. A fire burned on one of the hearths, keeping the damp chill at bay.
Her mouth twisted with petulance as she recalled Maximilian’s threat to embarrass her if she dared to take it upon herself to announce the engagement between Lady Helena Reeves and Maximilian.
How dare you. You impudent little boy.
In her annoyance, she pushed the needle through the cloth too hard and pricked her finger. A tiny well of blood erupted, and she stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked on it. Curse words rose to her lips and hovered, but her intense training as an aristocrat reminded her that proper ladies did not swear, even in private.
“James,” she said, removing her finger from her mouth. “Be a dear and send for my son.”
The footman standing behind her bowed low. “At once, Your Grace.”
Whether that was truly the man’s name or not, Augusta cared not one jot. She called every footman ‘James’ and every female servant ‘Jenny’. She had no idea what their names truly were, and she called only her personal maid by something else – Eloise. Proper ladies of the court had French maids, even if they were not born in France. Eloise may have been born in England, and her birth name did not matter.
“Jenny, I want hot tea.”
Though Augusta did not turn around, she listened intently to make sure she heard the appropriate amount of skirt rustling to know that the serving maid curtseyed properly. If any servant thought that because Her Grace did not look at them and believed she would never know if they tried to get by with anything less than absolute decorum, that servant learned quickly to offer correct respect.
Augusta knew they spoke behind her back and declared she had eyes there, and she also had at her disposal a wide arsenal of punishments if she was not given her proper due as a Duchess. An offending servant might be docked wages, or be discharged, according to her mood and the degree of the offense. Thus, the servants obeyed her with alacrity and seldom failed to deliver her proper deference.
But they offer my stepson the barest respect, and he cares not. Still, they adore him, and my name is defiled.
Augusta sniffed, resuming her stitchery. “Servants should be kept in their place,” she murmured to herself. “They are like sheep and know nothing except how to be sheep.”
Augusta’s hot tea arrived, but her son did not. She sipped at it and discovered it was not at the correct temperature and sent it back. Jenny returned quickly with the fresh cup. Growing impatient, she tapped her fingers along the arm of her chair, her needlework in her lap. “Where is my son?” she snapped to the room in general.
“I do not know, Your Grace,” came the timid reply from the Jenny behind her.
“Well, go find him.”
Staring into space, Augusta listened again to the skirts and the quick staccato of shoes on the stone floor. The door opened and closed as the girl departed with haste.
The minutes dragged on, and by the time the James returned with Wilmot, Augusta felt ready to have James whipped.
I know he spent time chatting up one of the housekeepers rather than follow my command. Insolent creature.
“Lord Wilmot, Your Grace,” he said, bowing as he presented Wilmot.
Augustaknewhe laughed at her, she justknewit. But if she ordered James whipped without evidence of his disobedience, Maximilian would be angry. Though she cared little about his anger or his defense of these useless servants, she knew Maximilian always found ways to make Augusta uncomfortable when she made him angry. Right now, she needed her mind clear.
“Leave us,” she snapped.
This time she watched them closely as the servants paid their courtesies and left the solar. Wilmot drew up a chair for himself near the fire and flopped into it like a wet sack. She eyed him with disapproval as he merely gazed back at her with his usual lackluster demeanor, his hair once more falling over his brow.
“Sit up straight, boy,” she hissed. “Are you a Duke’s son or a fishmonger? If you cannot keep a straight back, perhaps a rod up it may teach you.”
Wilmot sat up properly, but his sullen expression did not alter a whit. He shunted his eyes to the side, staring at the fire, occasionally flinching as a particularly hard gust of wind rattled the window panes. As always, Augusta felt a strange mixture of love and repugnance when she gazed at her son. He was so unlike his father, she knew, while that repulsive Maximilian was nothing less than the old Duke come alive again. The younger Duke went nowhere without people in the ton remarking on how much alike father and son had become.
“Where were you?” she demanded.
