was
deliberating over the choice of a tea cake or shortbread.
“You say he goes to services?” Mama managed.
“Every week, without fail,” Miss Hennessey replied. “Sir Jack runs a proper household, and Sunday is often the only time the help can
socialize between estates. Don’t you find that staff morale benefits from a Sunday outing, weather permitting?”
Deftly done. Mama could not resist giving her opinion, no matter how ill-informed she might be on the subject. She nattered on about setting an example,
community standing, and lapses in decorum, while Jack pondered a question from the magistrate’s portion of his mind.
How was Madeline Hennessey, who’d spent a decade in service, impersonating a lady of the manor so convincingly? True, she’d observed Abigail
Belmont at close range, but Abigail Belmont had come from a well-to-do merchant family, not gentry, and Candlewick was not a pretentious household.
Miss Hennessey presided over the tea tray, deflected Mama’s usual ration of bile, and flattered a woman who delighted in managing everything in her
immediate environs, all without appearing to do more than sip her tea and pass the plate of tea cakes.
Who was Madeline Hennessey? Who was she
really
, and when could Jack kiss her again?
Chapter Five
----
“This is your half day,” Sir Jack said, as Madeline sat down to breakfast.
For Madeline, the routine of eating with the family was frankly onerous. A maid didn’t have to stop in the middle of a task, change her attire, fix
her hair, and sit down for a meal that took far longer to consume for being a social occasion. She ate her meals—if she ate at all during the
day—when her work permitted, and without liberal servings of small talk and family contention.
“Today would normally be my half day,” Madeline replied, taking the seat at Sir Jack’s right elbow. Nobody else had come down yet nor
would they likely bestir themselves for an hour or two, if yesterday had been any indication.
“I see no reason to deviate from established custom,” Sir Jack said, pouring her a cup of tea. “Belmont would complain on your behalf if
he got wind that I’d failed to abide by the letter of our contract.”
The tea was ambrosial. The leaves were used fresh for each pot, and Sir Jack, having spent time in Asia, was something of a tea connoisseur.
“I have been in your household less than a week,” Madeline said, adding sugar—more luxury—and milk to her cup. “We have yet
to establish a custom, and the ground being covered with a foot of snow, I’m unable to use my half day.”
She could walk to Aunt Hattie’s, the nearer of her aunts’ properties, but that would be almost three miles of frigid going each way, and her
boots were simply not up to it. Then too, this week was more properly Theodosia’s turn for a visit—a shade more than six miles
roundtrip—and disturbing the schedule would have consequences.
“Well, I can use your half day,” Sir Jack said, topping up his own cup. “You will please accept my invitation to take you calling upon
your aunts, or to Candlewick, or to any damned where my mother is not hovering with critical comments about everything from my cravat to my footmen to my
use of a wrought-iron poker to arrange the logs in the hearth.”
Mrs. Fanning was a force of nature, determined to bend her sons into her notion of manly paragons.
“Your mother also compliments you.”
“No, she does not. She appraises my features, as if she were an auctioneer at Tatt’s, tempting buyers to bid on a questionable specimen. I no
longer have a sizeable nose, I have a rugged countenance. I’m not lacking in conversation, I’m a man who can keep my own counsel. According to
Mama, thwarting a few small native rebellions was tantamount to saving the realm. Miss DeWitt’s opinion of me is likely the worse for Mama’s
efforts. Please pass the butter.”
“Are you to be inspecting Miss DeWitt?” None
deliberating over the choice of a tea cake or shortbread.
“You say he goes to services?” Mama managed.
“Every week, without fail,” Miss Hennessey replied. “Sir Jack runs a proper household, and Sunday is often the only time the help can
socialize between estates. Don’t you find that staff morale benefits from a Sunday outing, weather permitting?”
Deftly done. Mama could not resist giving her opinion, no matter how ill-informed she might be on the subject. She nattered on about setting an example,
community standing, and lapses in decorum, while Jack pondered a question from the magistrate’s portion of his mind.
How was Madeline Hennessey, who’d spent a decade in service, impersonating a lady of the manor so convincingly? True, she’d observed Abigail
Belmont at close range, but Abigail Belmont had come from a well-to-do merchant family, not gentry, and Candlewick was not a pretentious household.
Miss Hennessey presided over the tea tray, deflected Mama’s usual ration of bile, and flattered a woman who delighted in managing everything in her
immediate environs, all without appearing to do more than sip her tea and pass the plate of tea cakes.
Who was Madeline Hennessey? Who was she
really
, and when could Jack kiss her again?
Chapter Five
----
“This is your half day,” Sir Jack said, as Madeline sat down to breakfast.
For Madeline, the routine of eating with the family was frankly onerous. A maid didn’t have to stop in the middle of a task, change her attire, fix
her hair, and sit down for a meal that took far longer to consume for being a social occasion. She ate her meals—if she ate at all during the
day—when her work permitted, and without liberal servings of small talk and family contention.
“Today would normally be my half day,” Madeline replied, taking the seat at Sir Jack’s right elbow. Nobody else had come down yet nor
would they likely bestir themselves for an hour or two, if yesterday had been any indication.
“I see no reason to deviate from established custom,” Sir Jack said, pouring her a cup of tea. “Belmont would complain on your behalf if
he got wind that I’d failed to abide by the letter of our contract.”
The tea was ambrosial. The leaves were used fresh for each pot, and Sir Jack, having spent time in Asia, was something of a tea connoisseur.
“I have been in your household less than a week,” Madeline said, adding sugar—more luxury—and milk to her cup. “We have yet
to establish a custom, and the ground being covered with a foot of snow, I’m unable to use my half day.”
She could walk to Aunt Hattie’s, the nearer of her aunts’ properties, but that would be almost three miles of frigid going each way, and her
boots were simply not up to it. Then too, this week was more properly Theodosia’s turn for a visit—a shade more than six miles
roundtrip—and disturbing the schedule would have consequences.
“Well, I can use your half day,” Sir Jack said, topping up his own cup. “You will please accept my invitation to take you calling upon
your aunts, or to Candlewick, or to any damned where my mother is not hovering with critical comments about everything from my cravat to my footmen to my
use of a wrought-iron poker to arrange the logs in the hearth.”
Mrs. Fanning was a force of nature, determined to bend her sons into her notion of manly paragons.
“Your mother also compliments you.”
“No, she does not. She appraises my features, as if she were an auctioneer at Tatt’s, tempting buyers to bid on a questionable specimen. I no
longer have a sizeable nose, I have a rugged countenance. I’m not lacking in conversation, I’m a man who can keep my own counsel. According to
Mama, thwarting a few small native rebellions was tantamount to saving the realm. Miss DeWitt’s opinion of me is likely the worse for Mama’s
efforts. Please pass the butter.”
“Are you to be inspecting Miss DeWitt?” None
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