Celeste said nothing. Another hard lesson had been that Duchess did not require a response, and to make one would only invite a tirade. Carefully, she undid the little pearl buttons on the front of the riding jacket and laid it aside to check for soil or damage. The little buttons had a maddening way of working loose from their moorings, and there were no extra ones. If one was to be lost, the whole garment would have to be scrapped.
Mentally, Celeste shook her head over the wasteful ways of these English ladies. For the longest time Celeste’s winter coat had wooden buttons that her father had carved for her, then painted white. When the coat had finally worn so thin that even her mother had been forced to own that it was beyond repair, Celeste had carefully removed every one of those buttons that her dear Papa had made with his gnarled, arthritic hands.
The Duke and Duchess of Gwyndonmere were part of a select set of English peerage who had been granted lands in Scotland, supplanting the local Lairds. Unlike many of the holdings given this small subset of peerage, Gwyndonmere and its nearest neighbor, Mabway, had been established in the turbulent times between James IV and James V. Tucked as it was in the mountains a three-day ride uphill from Edinburgh, they had somehow escaped wave after wave of political turmoil, surviving until the current year of 1814.
The late Dukes of Gwyndonmere and Mabway had noted that the slow creep of technology and political changes could threaten the two small duchies and had arranged a marriage between their children to strengthen their position. This proved to be especially fortuitous when Margery’s older brother, Aaron, had succumbed to mumps in early adulthood. The two old Dukes had congratulated themselves on protecting their children and their holdings.
No such protections for me.Her father and mother were living in a charity house near Calais. Papa did whatever carpentry work he could find, and Mama supplemented his income by working in the charity house and by writing letters for people. Each month Mr. Ahmlad McAhmladhson helped her send a draft on the Bank of England to his agent in France. The agent took the money and a letter to her mother and father and sent a letter from them back to her. Papa could only figure a little and sign his own name, but her mother had been a lay teacher at a convent in her youth. She was sufficiently literate to read the letters from her daughter aloud to her husband, and to write back about the simple doings of the village.
“It is frightening now,” her mother wrote. “A village not far from here was burned, and even the little children slain.”
Celeste put the thought out of her mind. She deposited a little of her pay with Mr. McAhmladhson each week, and an even tinier hoard of coins. She hoped to rent a cottage on the estate and pay passage for her parents. It was probably a vain hope, but the news from the continent was terrible. As difficult as the Duchess could be, life at Gwyndonmere Castle offered her a degree of security and safety. She wanted to share that with her parents.
“Celeste! I haven’t got all day, girl. Wash my hair first so it will have time to dry.”
Celeste came out of her musings with a start. She hadn’t meant to leave the Duchess soaking quite so long. “It will be good for your complexion, Your Grace,” she soothed. “I will use that lovely New World hair cleaner you liked so much.”
Celeste massaged the liquid cleaner into the Duchess’s thick, auburn hair. The stuff stung her fingers, but didn’t seem to affect the Duchess at all. After the hair cleaner was rinsed out, Celeste massaged the lady’s scalp with sweet oil scented with lavender.
“Mmm, very nice,” the Duchess had her eyes closed, leaning back in the swan shaped wooden bathtub as she relaxed into Celeste’s expert ministrations. “Now I remember why I have kept you on even though you do not fully understand correct dress. Now, I will have the warmed towel and you may begin spreading my hair to dry.”
It took nearly two full hours to prepare the Duchess for dinner. By the time Celeste put the finishing touches on a modish tower of hair, only part of which belonged to the Duchess, she was beginning to be ravenously hungry.
The Duke tapped at the door. “Get that, would you, Celeste?” The Duchess turned this way and that in front of the mirror. “Adequate,” she sniffed.
“There you are,” the Duchess sniped at her husband, “I was beginning to despair of ever making it down to dinner. This wretched girl you have found for me was dreaming off in the middle of my bath. Such a strange creature.”
The Duke exchanged a glance with Celeste over the top of his wife’s head. “You look beautiful as always, my dear. The butler has let me know that there is chicken pudding for dinner.”
The Duchess placed her hand formally on top of his extended arm. “Chicken again? I declare I shall begin to cluck. Can we not have a bit of beef or even pork?”
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” the Duke said, “it is spring. We must preserve the breeding stock lest there be nothing to make young ones for the fall butchering.”
The Duchess made a slight moue. “Always with the seasonal practicality, Your Grace.” She then seemed to remember her abigail. “Clean up the room, Celeste. I want it to be spotless when I return. Once you are done with that, you are free for the evening.”
“Will you not want me to help you undress, Your Grace?” Celeste asked.
“I will manage nicely on my own. Now, Jonathan, lead me to that everlasting chicken.”
Celeste sighed as she picked up the used bath things to take to the washroom. Did not the Duchess realize what a gem of a husband she had? Not only was the Duke incredibly handsome, with his dark hair and eyes so brown they were nearly black, he was kind and gentle. He was careful in his estate management and well-loved by the tenant farmers and villagers who made up the population of Gwyndonmere. None of the serving maids mentioned this head of the house making advances on them, nor did he seem to have a paramour, although it was common knowledge that he and the Duchess did not share a bed in any sense of the word.
She got a basket from a cupboard in the hallway, and placed the towels, bath clothes, and Her Grace’s soiled underthings in it. At least she would not have to wash them. Her Grace had a dedicated washer woman just for her own special laundry. It occurred to Celeste that the Duchess was a very expensive woman to keep.
When the room was spotless and every drape and pillow perfectly placed, Celeste picked up the laundry basket and headed below stairs to her own dinner. The upper servants would not dine until the Duke and Duchess had finished with their repast, but she could at least get the soiled linens downstairs. Perhaps she could even help the kitchen maids with setting the servants’ table.
Strictly speaking, as a lady’s maid, she could have chosen to make it known that such work was beneath her. But she had been raised simply and found that the time between taking the Duchess’s laundry down and the meal being served passed much more swiftly if she was busy doing something.
On her way down the servants’ stair, she passed Roderick Warner, who was just going up. As the Duke’s valet, he outranked most of the other servants, and had made it clear that Celeste was one of the few servants he found to be his social equal.
Even though he found them socially inferior, Warner had made advances to several of the maids. At least two and possibly three of them found his attentions flattering. Warner was very handsome, in a roguish devil-take-the-hindmost kind of way. Below-stairs gossip had it that he was an accomplished lover and that even virgins would receive great pleasure in his company. For her part, Celeste didn’t like or trust the valet and did her best to keep away from him.
“Stuck up French tart,” Roderick Warner used a light teasing tone to scoff at her. “Think you are better than the rest of us because you do for the Duchess.”
Celeste kept the basket between them, bobbed a curtsy at him. “Not at all,” she said. “But I need to get these things to the laundress before going to dine with everyone else. I’m sure you would not deny me my evening meal.”
“If you would allow me, I would deny you nothing.” Warner purred in a seductive voice. His eyes were fixed upon her and his mouth quirked into an enticing smile.
Mr. Hammonds, the butler, stepped to the door of the butlery, just a step or two beyond the landing where Warner stood. “Celeste,” his well-trained ponderous basso reverberated up and down the stairwell, “I have need of your help.”
