Hattie pressed a hand to her forehead. She could feel a headache coming on, probably from lack of sleep. Or the tension that came with feeling less than. She didn’t have the ingredients to be considered for a marriage with the viscount. And she didn’t have the qualities necessary to suit someone as pedestrian as Rupert Masterson.
She hated feeling like this, despairing and hopeless. She resolved to not allow herself to feel this way.
If only she knew how.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MRS. O’MALLEYWASdesperate for details of the fancy supper Hattie had attended, and as she boxed up some whisky bonbons for Hattie to take to Grosvenor Square, she pelted Hattie with one question after another. Who was in attendance? What did they serve for the meal? What did the ladies wear? How did the viscount seem? Which young lady did he like the best?
Hattie laughed as she put away Mrs. O’Malley’s ledgers. “I think he liked them all, really. Or maybe he liked them not at all. I’m sure I’ll be the last to know.”
“If you ask me, he ought to look no further than you, Hattie Woodchurch. You’re the best of the lot.”
Hattie smiled warmly. “You’re very kind, Mrs. O’Malley. But you’ve not seen the ladies he is considering. If you had, your opinion would be much changed.”
“Rubbish,” she said with a cluck of her tongue.
“I’m very sure of it,” Hattie said laughingly. “I’m not cut from the right cloth. He’ll marry someone with proper connections and a pedigree he’ll need for his heirs.”
“Oh, those people,” Mrs. O’Malley scoffed. “They value the wrong things! They ought to search for compatibility and a return of affection. Mr. O’Malley didn’t care a whit that my father was a poor farmer—he loved me for who I am, and we were happily married for twenty-eight years before he died.” Mrs. O’Malley paused a moment and looked misty-eyed into the distance.
Hattie smiled. “He must have been a wonderful man.”
“Aye.” Mrs. O’Malley dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Never you mind those toffs, Miss Woodchurch. You’ll want someone who loves you for who you are, not for the size of your purse.”
“That is the hope,” Hattie agreed. She slung her bag over her shoulder and took the bundle of bonbons. “Good day, Mrs. O’Malley!”
She walked across town to Grosvenor Square, her pace a jaunty one. The self-doubt she’d directed at herself Saturday night had vanished in the sunlight. She knew who she was. She knew what to expect from her life. She would have to make her own place to belong—life was not going to simply hand it to her.
She also knew she only had a limited time with the most handsome viscount in England. She intended to make the most of it. It might very well be one of the high points of her life.
At Grosvenor Square, she entered through the servants’ door as she always did, arriving in the kitchen with her basket of treats from Mrs. O’Malley. Everyone gathered around to see what she’d brought. “Bonbons,” she announced as she held the basket out for everyone to see.
“Ooh,bonbons,” they repeated in awed unison.
The two kitchen ladies, the footmen, and Mr. Pacheco were on hand to sample them. As they did, exclaiming in Spanish, Hattie went round the room and asked after everyone with the bit of Spanish she had learned.“Cómo está?”
They smiled with delight at her attempt. Yolanda said loudly,“Muy bien!”But then, Mr. Pacheco spoke to her in Spanish, and she said again, much more softly,“Muy bien.”Aurelia and one of the footmen attempted to respond in English, but it made no sense to Hattie. Although Mr. Pacheco spoke both English and Spanish, he was not inclined to translate. For one, he was stuffing bonbons into his mouth. For another, he claimed translating one language to another gave him a headache.
But Hattie understood them well enough. In a very short time, she had come to consider these people her friends. When she asked Aurelia how she fared, the girl blushed furiously. Yolanda spread some flour on the table, picked up a wooden spoon and, with the handle, drew the rudimentary shapes of a woman and man. Aurelia let off a string of very heated Spanish, and Carlos quietly left the room. Yolanda laughed until Mr. Pacheco said something that made both ladies stop talking altogether.
Mr. Pacheco shook his head. “These girls, they fill their heads with silliness.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Berries,” he said to Hattie. “I found them growing wild, in the park.” He picked one off his hand and tossed it in his mouth.
Hattie laughed. “Those are rose hips, Mr. Pacheco. Not berries.”
“No?” He shrugged and thrust his hand a little closer. “Try.”
“No, thank you. Once, when I was a girl, I made myself ill with rose hips.” She hung up her bonnet and her wrap, smoothed the lap of her gown. “Have a care you don’t eat too many in one sitting.”
“Och,”he said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve a stomach forged from iron.”
She wouldn’t be surprised if he did.
Hattie wished the staff a good day and, with her bag, began to make her way to the study.
The viscount wasn’t there when she entered. Hattie went to her desk, assuming he’d left work for her, but found nothing. She put down her things and moved to the window, expecting to see him in the garden. But a light rain had begun to fall, and no one was outside. Restless, she moved around the room, looking at the paintings and knickknacks. At the hearth, she spotted a small painting she hadn’t noticed before. It was on a tiny easel, and as she leaned in to have a closer look, she realized it was the viscount at the center of the portrait, flanked by a man and a woman who resembled him.
“My brother and sister.”
