"It positively boggles the mind," Alexandra repeated in a voice reeking with disapproval.
"What does, Miss Alex?" he inquired, approaching the bed. Spread out before his mistress upon the coverlet was something white and large, which the myopic footman deduced was either a towel or a newspaper. Squinting his eyes, he stared hard at the white object, upon which he perceived there appeared to be blurry black blotches, which in turn led him to correctly conclude that the object was a newspaper.
"It says here," Alexandra informed him, tapping the newspaper dated April 2, 1813, with her forefinger, "that Lady Weatherford-Heath gave a ball for eight hundred people, followed by a supper consisting of no less than forty-five different dishes! Forty-five dishes! Can you conceive of such extravagance? Furthermore," Alex continued, absently brushing her dark curls off her nape as she glared at the offending newspaper, "the article drones on and on about the people who attended the party and what they wore. Listen to this, Sarah," she said, looking up and smiling as Sarah Withers padded into the room carrying an armload of freshly laundered linens.
Until Alexandra's father died three years ago, Sarah had held the title of housekeeper, but as a result of the dire financial circumstances resulting from his death, she had been discharged along with all the other servants—excepting Filbert and Penrose, who were both too old and infirm to find new employment. Now Sarah returned only once a month, along with a peasant girl to help out with the laundering and heavy cleaning.
In a gushing falsetto voice, Alexandra quoted for Sarah's benefit, "Miss Emily Welford was escorted by the Earl of Marcham. Miss Welford's ivory silk gown was adorned with pearls and diamonds." Chuckling, Alex closed the paper and looked at Sarah. "Can you believe people actually want to read such tripe? Why would anyone care what gown somebody wore or that the Earl of Delton has lately returned from a sojourn in Scotland, or that 'Rumor has it he is showing a particular interest in a certain young lady of considerable beauty and consequence'?"
Sarah Withers lifted her brows and stared disapprovingly at Alex's attire. "There are some young ladies who care about making the most of their appearance," she pointedly replied.
Alexandra accepted that well-intentioned gibe with cheerful, philosophical indifference. "It would take more than a little powder and puce satin to make me look like a grand lady." Alex's long-ago hope to emerge from a "cocoon" as a classically beautiful blonde had not come to fruition at all. Instead, her short-cropped, curly hair was dark chestnut, her chin was still small and stubborn, her nose still pert, and her body was just as slim and agile as a lad's. In point of fact, her only truly remarkable feature was a pair of sooty-lashed, huge aqua eyes that completely dominated her face—a face that was now lightly tanned from working and riding in the sun. However, her looks no longer concerned Alex in the least; she had other, more important matters to occupy her mind.
Three years ago, after the death of her grandfather was followed almost immediately by the demise of her father, Alex had become technically, albeit inaccurately, the "man of the house." Into her youthful hands had fallen the job of looking after the two elderly servants, stretching the meager family budget, providing food for the table, and dealing with her mama's temper tantrums.
An ordinary girl, brought up in the ordinary way, would never have been able to rise to the challenge. But there was nothing ordinary about Alexandra's appearance or her abilities. As a young girl, she had learned to fish and shoot for sport to become a good companion to her father when he came to visit. Now, with calm determination, she simply used those same skills to feed her family.
The clatter of wood being dumped into the wood box banished from her mind all thoughts of ball gowns dusted with diamonds. Shivering from the chill that seeped through the thick walls of the house, making it damp and cold even in the summer, she wrapped her arms across her chest "Don't waste that, Filbert," she said quickly, as the footman bent to add one of the small logs he'd brought up to the feeble little fire. "It's not really cold in here," she prevaricated, "it's merely a little brisk. Very healthy. Besides, I'm leaving in a few minutes for Mary Ellen's brother's party, and there's no point in wasting good wood."
Filbert glanced at her and nodded, but the log slipped out of his grasp and rolled across the scuffed wooden floor. He straightened and glanced about him, trying to distinguish the brown log from the sea of floorboards about him. Conscious of his failing eyesight, Alexandra said gently, "It's by the foot of my desk," then watched with sympathy as the old footman padded over to the desk and crouched down, feeling about him for the log. "Sarah?" she asked suddenly, as the same strange feeling of expectation she had occasionally experienced over the last three years gathered in her breast. "Did you ever have the feeling that something special was going to happen?"
Sarah briskly closed the drawers of the bureau and bustled over to the armoire. "Indeed I have."
"Did the feeling come true?"
"It did."
"Really?" Alexandra said, her aqua eyes bright, inquisitive. "What happened?"
"The chimney caved in, just as I warned your papa it was going to do, did he not see to having it repaired."
Musical laughter erupted from Alexandra and she shook her head. "No, no, that's not the sort of feeling I mean." A little embarrassed, Alexandra confided, "I've had this feeling now and then since shortly after Grandfather died, but it's been ever so much stronger and constant this past week. I feel as if I'm standing on a precipice, waiting for something that's about to happen."
Taken aback by Alexandra's dreamy voice and prolonged languor when she was normally matter-of-fact and a whirlwind of busy activity, Sarah studied her. "What is it you think is going to happen?"
Alexandra shivered deliciously. "Something wonderful." She started to say more, but her thoughts were scattered by a loud feminine screech that came from Uncle Monty's bedroom across the hall, followed by the sound of a slamming door and a pair of running feet. Alexandra flipped upright and jumped off the bed in a graceful, energetic motion that was far more natural to her nature than her previous state of dreamy stillness, just as Mary, the young peasant girl whom Sarah brought with her to help with the laundering, charged angrily into the bedroom.
" 'E swatted me, 'e did!" Mary burst out, rubbing her ample bottom. Raising her arm, she pointed an accusing finger toward Uncle Monty's room. "I don't 'ave to take that from the likes o' him, nor nobody! I'm a nice girl, I am, an'—"