Regency Mistletoe & Marriages: A Countess by Christmas / The Earl's Mistletoe Bride. Joanna MaitlandЧитать онлайн книгу.
wisdom regarding which subjects were appropriate for a girl to learn. Instead, if Helen had shown an interest in any particular topic she had bought her the relevant books or equipment, and hired people who could help her pursue her interest. So she could not teach pupils watercolour painting, or the use of the globe. And the post she had been able to obtain was so poorly paid she would not be able to survive herself were her meals and board not included.
Not that she minded for herself. She was young and strong and fit. But her aunt’s collapse today had shocked her. She had never thought of Aunt Bella as old and infirm, but the truth was that these last few months had taken their toll. And in a few more years she might well fall foul of some condition which would mean she needed constant care.
If her cousin’s nephew proved as cold-hearted as Aunt Bella had led her to believe, and as the treatment she had received since arriving appeared to confirm…
She rolled over and wrapped her arms about her waist.
Her aunt’s future did not bear thinking about.
Chapter Two
She woke with a jolt the next morning, feeling as though she had not slept for more than a few minutes.
But she must have done, because the fire had gone out and the insides of the lead paned windows were thick with frost feathers.
She got up, wrapped herself in her warmest shawl, raked out the grate and, discovering a few embers still glowing gently, coaxed them into life with some fresh kindling. Then she looked around for the means to wash the soot and ash from her fingers. There was no dressing room adjoining their tiny room, but there was a screen behind which stood a washstand containing a pitcher of ice-cold water and a basin.
Washing in that water certainly woke her up completely!
She did not want her aunt to suffer the same early-morning shock, though, so, having made sure the coals were beginning to burn nicely, she put the fire guard in place and nipped down to the kitchens to fetch a can of hot water.
By the time she returned she was pleased to find that the little room had reached a temperature at which her aunt might get out of bed.
‘You had better make the most of this while the water is still warm,’ she told her sleepy aunt. ‘And then I shall go and forage for some breakfast.’
‘My word, Helen,’ her aunt observed sleepily, ‘nothing daunts you, does it?’
Helen smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Aunt Bella. I try not to let it.’
She had discovered within herself a well of ingenuity over these past months, which she might never have known she possessed had they not been so dramatically plunged from affluence to poverty. Seeing her aunt so upset by their losses, she had vowed to do all she could to shield the older woman from the more beastly aspects of losing their wealth. She had been the one to visit the pawnbrokers, and to haggle with tradespeople for the bread to go on their table. Not that they had been in any immediate danger of starving. So many of the townspeople had banked with the Middleton and Shropshire that a brisk system of bartering had soon come into being, which had done away with the immediate need for cash amongst its former clients. The silver apostle spoons, for instance, had gone to settle an outstanding grocer’s bill, and the best table linen had turned out to be worth a dozen eggs and half a pound of sausages.
Once her aunt had finished her toilet, Helen tipped the wastewater into the enamel jug provided for the purpose and set out for the kitchens once more.
At least this morning there was an orderly queue of maids who had come down to fetch a breakfast tray. She took her place at the back of it, completely content to wait her turn. In fact she thoroughly approved of the way they all got attention on the basis of first come, first served. Regardless of whom they were fetching and carrying for. It was much more fair.
What a pity, she thought, her lips pursing, the same egalitarian system had not prevailed the evening before.
The kitchen maid scowled when it came to her turn.
‘I don’t suppose there are any eggs to be had?’ Helen asked politely.
‘You don’t suppose correct!’ her nemesis answered. ‘You can have a pot of chocolate and hot rolls for your lady. Eggs is only served in the dining room.’
Really, the hospitality in this place was…niggardly, she fumed, bumping open the kitchen door with her hip. But then what had she expected? From the sound of it the Earl of Bridgemere thoroughly disliked having his home invaded by indigent relatives. And his attitude had trickled down to infect his staff, she reflected, setting out once more on the by now familiar route back up to the tower, because their master was a recluse. What kind of man would only open his doors—and that reluctantly—to his family over the Christmas season? An elusive recluse. She smiled to herself, enjoying the play on words and half wondering if there was a rhyme to be made about the crusty old bachelor upon whose whim her aunt’s future depended.
Although what would rhyme with Bridgemere? Nothing.
Earl, though…There was curl, and churl, and…
She had just reached the second set of stairs when round the corner came the broad-shouldered footman who had carried her aunt so effortlessly up to her room the night before.
Instead of stepping to one side, to allow her room to pass, he took up position in the very centre of the corridor, his fisted hands on his hips.
‘I hear you have been setting the kitchen in a bustle,’ he said. ‘I hope you have permission to take that tray, and have not snatched it from its rightful recipient as you did last night?’
‘What business is it of yours?’ she snapped, thoroughly fed up with the attitude of the staff in Alvanley Hall. She knew they were not used to entertaining visitors, but really! ‘And how dare you speak to me like that?’
His light coffee-coloured eyes briefly widened, as though her retort had shocked him. But then he said icily, ‘Mrs Dent is most put out by your behaviour, miss. And I must say that I can quite see why. I do not appreciate servants from other houses coming here and thinking they know how to run things better…’
‘Well, first of all, I am nobody’s servant!’ she snapped. At least not yet, she corrected herself guiltily. ‘And if this place was run better, then I dare say visiting servants would abide by Mrs Dent’s regime. As it is, I deplore the way rank was placed above my aunt’s very real need last night.’
She had really got the bit between her teeth now. She advanced on the footman until she was almost prodding him in the stomach with her tray.
‘If I had not gone down to the kitchens myself, I dare say she would still be lying there, waiting for somebody to notice her! And as for situating a lady of her age up so many stairs—well, the least said about that the better! Whoever arranged to put her up in that room ought to be—’ She could not think of a suitable punishment for anyone who treated her beloved aunt with such lack of consideration. So she had to content herself with taking her temper out on the unfortunate footman, since he was the only member of His Lordship’s staff actually in range.
‘She is supposed to be a family member, yet Lord Bridgemere has had her stashed away up there as though he is ashamed of her! No wonder she has stayed away all these years! Now, get out of my way—before I…before I…’ She barely refrained from stamping her foot.
‘Do you mean to tell me you are a guest?’
Helen could not tell what it was about him that irritated her the most. The fact that he had ignored all her very real complaints to hone in on the one point she considered least relevant, or the way he was running his eyes insolently over her rather shabby attire, his mouth flattened in derision. If she had been less angry she might have admitted that the gown she was wearing was one she had kept precisely because it did make her look more like a servant than a lady of leisure. Her wardrobe would now have to reflect the position she was about to take up. Nobody would take a governess seriously if she went