promised that woman to stay silent. In her defense, Caroline was a person who usually kept her promises.
No amount of valerian seemed to help Anne’s terrible headache. She felt as if her skull were being cut in two with a steel knife. She knew the cause and, while she was not prone to histrionics, she recognized that her lonely walk home to Eaton Square after her interview with Lady Brockenhurst was one of the most difficult of her life.
She had been shaking so much when she arrived back at number 110 that when she knocked on her own front door she failed to offer any form of explanation for the state she was in. Billy had been terribly puzzled when he answered. What was his mistress doing out on her own, shivering like a jelly? Where was Quirk, the coachman? It was all very confusing and provided them with plenty to discuss down in the servants’ hall as they waited to befed later that night. But no one was more confused than Anne as she wandered slowly upstairs to her rooms.
“It was like she was in a daze,” said her maid, Ellis, as she sat down at the table that evening. “Just hugging that dog and rocking in her chair.”
The years had not been overly kind to Ellis. After the heady days of Waterloo, when the streets of Brussels teemed with handsome soldiers who liked nothing more than a bit of chat with a pretty lady’s maid, she’d found the move to London a little too sedate for her liking. She would talk about her friend Jane Croft, Miss Sophia’s maid in the old days, who was doing well for herself as a housekeeper in the country now, and Ellis was always threatening to go off and try something similar. But, truth be told, she knew she’d be a fool to leave. She hankered after employment in a more illustrious household, and it bothered her that she did not work for a family with a title, but the Trenchards paid their servants more than most of the aristocrats she’d ever heard of, and the food they served below stairs was significantly better than anywhere else she’d come across. Mrs. Babbage had a proper budget and she served meat at nearly every meal.
“She’s not wrong,” agreed Billy, rubbing his hands together as he inhaled the smell of stewed beef and potatoes from the large copper pot in the middle of the table. “I mean, who’s ever heard of a mistress walking about the streets alone like that? She was off doing something she didn’t want the master finding out about, that’s for sure.”
“Do you think she’s got a fancy man?” giggled one of the housemaids.
“Mercy, go to your room!”
Mrs. Frant stood in the doorway, hands on hips, dressed in a black high-necked shirt and black skirt, a pale green cameo pinned at her throat. She had only been working for the Trenchards for three years, but she had been in service long enough to know it was a job worth keeping, and so she suffered no nonsense below stairs.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Frant. I was only—”
“You were only going upstairs with no dinner, and if I hear one more word you’ll be out without a reference tomorrow.”
The girl sniffed but did not attempt any further defense. As she scuttled away, Mrs. Frant took her place.
“Now, we will converse in a genteel fashion, but we will not make our employers the subject of our conversation.”
“All the same, Mrs. Frant”—Ellis was anxious to show that she did not consider herself under the housekeeper’s command—“it is quite unlike the mistress to have such a head it needs valerian. I’ve not seen her so unwell since she and Miss Sophia went to visit that ailing cousin of hers in Derbyshire.” The two women exchanged a rather piercing look.
In lieu of any explanation, all James Trenchard could do was speculate as to why his wife had taken to her bed and why she had asked for her supper to be sent up on a tray. He assumed it had something to do with Charles Pope and his refusal to allow Anne to share the young man’s existence with Lady Brockenhurst, and
No amount of valerian seemed to help Anne’s terrible headache. She felt as if her skull were being cut in two with a steel knife. She knew the cause and, while she was not prone to histrionics, she recognized that her lonely walk home to Eaton Square after her interview with Lady Brockenhurst was one of the most difficult of her life.
She had been shaking so much when she arrived back at number 110 that when she knocked on her own front door she failed to offer any form of explanation for the state she was in. Billy had been terribly puzzled when he answered. What was his mistress doing out on her own, shivering like a jelly? Where was Quirk, the coachman? It was all very confusing and provided them with plenty to discuss down in the servants’ hall as they waited to befed later that night. But no one was more confused than Anne as she wandered slowly upstairs to her rooms.
“It was like she was in a daze,” said her maid, Ellis, as she sat down at the table that evening. “Just hugging that dog and rocking in her chair.”
The years had not been overly kind to Ellis. After the heady days of Waterloo, when the streets of Brussels teemed with handsome soldiers who liked nothing more than a bit of chat with a pretty lady’s maid, she’d found the move to London a little too sedate for her liking. She would talk about her friend Jane Croft, Miss Sophia’s maid in the old days, who was doing well for herself as a housekeeper in the country now, and Ellis was always threatening to go off and try something similar. But, truth be told, she knew she’d be a fool to leave. She hankered after employment in a more illustrious household, and it bothered her that she did not work for a family with a title, but the Trenchards paid their servants more than most of the aristocrats she’d ever heard of, and the food they served below stairs was significantly better than anywhere else she’d come across. Mrs. Babbage had a proper budget and she served meat at nearly every meal.
“She’s not wrong,” agreed Billy, rubbing his hands together as he inhaled the smell of stewed beef and potatoes from the large copper pot in the middle of the table. “I mean, who’s ever heard of a mistress walking about the streets alone like that? She was off doing something she didn’t want the master finding out about, that’s for sure.”
“Do you think she’s got a fancy man?” giggled one of the housemaids.
“Mercy, go to your room!”
Mrs. Frant stood in the doorway, hands on hips, dressed in a black high-necked shirt and black skirt, a pale green cameo pinned at her throat. She had only been working for the Trenchards for three years, but she had been in service long enough to know it was a job worth keeping, and so she suffered no nonsense below stairs.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Frant. I was only—”
“You were only going upstairs with no dinner, and if I hear one more word you’ll be out without a reference tomorrow.”
The girl sniffed but did not attempt any further defense. As she scuttled away, Mrs. Frant took her place.
“Now, we will converse in a genteel fashion, but we will not make our employers the subject of our conversation.”
“All the same, Mrs. Frant”—Ellis was anxious to show that she did not consider herself under the housekeeper’s command—“it is quite unlike the mistress to have such a head it needs valerian. I’ve not seen her so unwell since she and Miss Sophia went to visit that ailing cousin of hers in Derbyshire.” The two women exchanged a rather piercing look.
In lieu of any explanation, all James Trenchard could do was speculate as to why his wife had taken to her bed and why she had asked for her supper to be sent up on a tray. He assumed it had something to do with Charles Pope and his refusal to allow Anne to share the young man’s existence with Lady Brockenhurst, and
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