Slowly she sat up and put her legs over the side of the bed, then eased herself to her feet, afraid the dizziness would return. Numb despair made her feel cold all over, but her legs were steady as she gazed about her. On her left, light blue draperies heavily embellished with silver threads were pulled back, framing an entire wall of mullioned windows; at the far end of the room, a pair of blue-and-silver-striped settees were placed at right angles to an ornate fireplace. The phrase “decadent splendor” drifted through her mind as she dusted off her skirts, cast one more look about the room, and then gingerly sat back down on the blue silk coverlet.
An awful lump of desolation swelled in her throat as she folded her hands in her lap and tried to think what to do next. Evidently she was to be sent back to New York like unwanted baggage. Why then had her cousin the duke brought her here in the first place? Where was he? Who was he?
She couldn’t go to Dorothy and her great-grandmother, because the duchess had written Dr. Morrison a note that made it clear that Dorothy, and Dorothy alone, was welcome in her home. Victoria frowned, her smooth brow furrowing in confusion. Since the black-haired man had been the one to carry her upstairs, perhaps he was the servant and the stout, white-haired man who’d opened the door was the duke. At first glance, she’d assumed he was a ranking servant—like Mrs. Tilden, the housekeeper who always greeted callers at Andrew’s house.
Someone knocked at the door of the room, and Victoria guiltily jumped off the bed and carefully smoothed the coverlet before calling, “Come in.”
A maid in a starched black dress, white apron, and white cap entered, a silver tray in her hands. Six more maids in identical black uniforms marched in like marionettes, carrying buckets of steaming water. Behind them came two footmen in gold-braid-trimmed green uniforms, carrying her trunk.
The first maid put the tray on the table between the settees, while the other maids disappeared into an adjoining room and the footmen deposited the trunk at the end of the bed. A minute later, they all trooped right back out again in single file, reminding Victoria of animated wooden soldiers. The remaining maid turned to Victoria, who was standing self-consciously beside the bed. “Here’s a bite for you to eat, miss,” she said; her plain face was carefully expressionless, but her voice was shyly pleasant.
Victoria went over to the settee and sat down, the sight of the buttered toast and hot chocolate making her mouth water.
“His lordship said you were to have a bath,” the maid said, and started toward the adjoining room. Victoria paused, the cup of chocolate partway to her lips. “His lordship?” she repeated. “Would that be the ... gentleman ... I saw at the front door? A stout man with white hair?”
“Good heavens, no!” the maid replied, regarding Victoria with a strange took. “That would be Mr. Northrup, the butler, miss.”
Victoria’s relief was short-lived as the maid hesitantly added, “His lordship is a tall man, with black curly hair.”
“And he said I should have a bath?” Victoria asked, bristling.
The maid nodded, coloring.
“Well, I do need one,” Victoria conceded reluctantly. She ate the toast and finished the chocolate, then wandered into the adjoining room where the maid was pouring perfumed bath salts into the steaming water. Slowly removing her travel-stained gown, Victoria thought of the short note Charles Fielding had sent her, inviting her to come to England. He had seemed so anxious to have her here. “Come at once, my dear,” he had written. “You are more than welcome here—you are eagerly awaited.” Perhaps she wasn’t to be sent away after all. Perhaps “his lordship” had mistaken the matter.
The maid helped her wash her hair, then held up a fluffy cloth for Victoria and helped her out of the tub. “I’ve put away your clothes, mum, and turned down the bed, in case you’d like a nap.”
Victoria smiled at her and asked her name.
“My name?” the maid repeated, as if stunned that Victoria should care to ask. “Why, it’s—it’s Ruth.”
“Thank you very much, Ruth,” Victoria said, “for putting away my clothes, I mean.”
A deep flush of pleasure colored the maid’s freckled face as she bobbed a quick curtsy and started for the door. “Supper is at eight,” Ruth informed her. “His lordship rarely keeps country hours at Wakefield.”
“Ruth,” Victoria said awkwardly as the maid started to leave, “are there two ... ah ... ‘lordships’ here? That is, I was wondering about Charles Fielding—”
“Oh, you’re referrin‘ to his grace!” Ruth glanced over her shoulder as if she was fearful of being overheard before she confided, “He hasn’t arrived yet, but we’re expectin’ him sometime tonight. I heard his lordship tell Northrup to send word to his grace that you’ve arrived.”
“What is his—ah—grace like?” Victoria asked, feeling foolish using these odd titles.
Ruth looked as if she was about to describe him; then she changed her mind. “I’m sorry, miss, but his lordship doesn’t permit his servants to gossip. Nor are we allowed to be familiar-like with guests.” She curtsied and scurried out in a rustle of starched black skirts.
Victoria was startled by the knowledge that two human beings were not permitted to converse together in this house, simply because one was a servant and the other a guest, but considering her brief acquaintance with “his lordship,” she could fully imagine him issuing such an inhuman edict.
Victoria took her nightdress from the wardrobe, pulled it over her head, and climbed into bed, sliding between the sheets. Luxurious silk caressed the bare skin of her arms and face as she uttered a weary prayer that Charles Fielding would prove to be a warmer, kindlier man than his other lordship. Her long dark lashes fluttered down, lying like curly fans against her cheeks, and she fell asleep.
Chapter Five
Sunlight streamed in through the open windows and a breeze glided through the room, softly caressing Victoria’s face. Somewhere below, a horse’s hooves clattered on a paved drive, and two birds landed simultaneously on her windowsill, embarking on a noisy quarrel over territorial rights. Their irate chirping slowly penetrated Victoria’s slumber, stirring her from happy dreams of home.
Still half-asleep, she rolled over onto her stomach, burrowing her face into the pillow. Instead of the slightly rough fabric that covered her pillow at home and smelled of sunshine and soap, her cheek encountered smooth silk. Dimly aware that she was not in her own bed with her mother downstairs making breakfast, Victoria squeezed her eyes closed, trying to recapture her tranquil dreams, but it was already too late. Reluctantly, she turned her head and opened her eyes.