Freedom by Jenn LeBlanc Page B

morning sun, before stoking the fire in the grate and heating a kettle. The room warmed quickly and Mrs. Weston walked to the giant bed.
     
    Francine groaned and rubbed her hands over her face, then cocked an eyebrow as she looked around. She was still here, wherever here was. She’d tossed and turned all night, in and out of dreams, her mind replaying the events in the maze. She believed half the images must have been imagined, because she certainly wasn’t aware of the duke being attracted to her before. She decided the excitement had colored her memories, making them more vivid than they actually had been and, in truth, the parts that she knew to be accurate were rather unbecoming and a bit insulting.
     
    Had he actually said that she had no morals? Yes, he did, she thought. He really said that . Obviously he wasn’t taken with her as much as embarrassed for her sake—or maybe simply for propriety’s sake. Good grief, he was ridiculous. She had never met a man who was so concerned with what others thought.
     
    Francine sat up, looking for Mrs. Weston again. She spied her behind a footman who was pushing in the slipper tub, and she smiled.
     
    “The dressmaker should arrive today, so we should get you all cleaned up.”
     
    Francine watched as Mrs. Weston moved around the room and a parade of housemaids came in through the passage behind the fireplace carrying kettles. Francine sighed as the steam rose, blotting out the countryside as it peeked through the windows. Mrs. Weston added some oils to the bath and then went to help Francine to the tub.
     
    They were starting to get used to each other, and Mrs. Weston turned away politely as Francine disrobed and stepped into the warm bath, then returned and fussed over her hair, straightening tangles and getting it washed.
     
    Francine reached up and patted the hand that gently pushed her forward in the tub.
     
    “Oh dear, sweet. Don’t you worry, miss, we’re going to take good care of you, no matter,” she said.
     
    Francine smiled, leaning her chin on her knees and letting Mrs. Weston take care of her as her mind drifted back to the garden. She closed her eyes, saw him leaning on the wall in front of her, his breathing labored, his movements determined. And his body—aroused? Is that what I saw? she thought as she flushed. Yes, it was. She could feel the blood tingling close to the surface of her skin, raising goose bumps and tightening her nipples. She leaned back in the tub at Mrs. Weston’s urging, shaking her head under the water to clear her thoughts and rinse the soap from her hair.
     
    “Oh, miss! You’ve caught a chill,” Mrs. Weston said. Francine blushed harder, sending Mrs. Weston in a flurry, yanking the curtains closed and stoking the fire. Francine sat up, giggling, and Mrs. Weston walked over to her. “Are you feeling well?” she asked.
     
    Francine nodded as she glanced up at Mrs. Weston and signed thank you .
     
    “You did that last night, miss. You used your hands to tell me something. What was that?” Mrs. Weston asked.
     
    Francine was surprised she remembered any sign language since she hadn’t used it in years. But she used it naturally, as though she had never stopped. One of the girls in the foster home where she was taken after her parents died had been profoundly deaf, and she had learned from her. Francine shrugged, unable to tell Mrs. Weston about it, and signed thank you again, this time using both hands for emphasis.
     
    “Well, miss, how do you say you’re welcome?” Mrs. Weston asked.
     
    Francine repeated the sign for thank you .
     
    “‘Tis the same?” Mrs. Weston asked. Francine nodded and Mrs. Weston smiled. The housekeeper handed her the bar of lilac soap and turned to ring for her breakfast tray. Francine rubbed her hands around the bar, squeezing to make it spin. She closed her eyes tightly and chanted to herself, iPod iPod iPod iPod . She opened her eyes and looked down. Soap . She sighed and