J essa ran her tongue across her teeth. They felt fuzzy, and her mouth tasted of morning funk and the nasty tea she’d had last night. But in reality, needing to brush her teeth was the least of her worries. She eyed the maid, wondering if she could get the truth out of the girl who looked extremely young to work as a maid. “Molly, is it?”
“Aye, mistress. I be Molly, and Mrs. Robeson said ye could choose between me and Hester to be yer lady’s maid.” The thin brunette tilted her angular jaw higher and patted her chest. “I have the more experience, ye ken? Hester is nice enough, but she be the newest here at the keep.” She cast a glance back at the tub. “Would ye care to enjoy yer bath now?”
While Jessa wasn’t all that sure about stripping down in front of the maid, she wanted to wash since she hadn’t showered since yesterday morning, which felt like eons ago. Remembering how she had grumbled about the cottage’s poor water pressure, she wished she’d been more thankful for what she’d had at the time. Now, she was reduced to bathing in something better suited for watering livestock. Life had handed her quite the lesson in gratitude.
She clambered out of the bed, then skittered to one side as Molly hurried forward and reached for her.
“Forgive me, mistress.” The maid backed up a step, wringing her hands. “I only meant to help ye with yer shift.”
“It’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just a little jumpy.”
“Himself said ye had survived a terrible ordeal.”
“Himself?” Jessa had a pretty good idea who Molly was talking about, but it never hurt to be sure. Especially since she still hadn’t figured out this alternate reality Mr. MacSexy had manufactured. She untied the nightgown and pushed it to the floor rather than slipping it over her head. She preferred to keep her line of sight clear at all times.
“The laird,” Molly said while steadying Jessa to help her step into the high-sided tub. “Is the water warm enough, mistress? Ye want I should heat it a bit more? Jasper brought us two fine kettles that I’ve got warming over there on the fire. There’s plenty.”
“No, it’s good, thank you.” Jessa bundled her hair on top of her head, then was at a loss for how to get it to stay there. All her hair clips and ties were at the cottage or Mairwen’s massage therapy room. “Do you have any clips or barrettes? Or a scrunchie would be awesome.”
Sorting through one of the baskets, Molly paused in her digging and frowned. “Forgive me, mistress, but I dinna ken what ye need. If ye tell me what troubles ye, I am sure I can sort it out.”
Well, of course, the maid wouldn’t know about those things. Molly had been trained or brainwashed into living and believing all things 1785. “Something to hold my hair up so it doesn’t get wet?”
The girl brightened and held up a length of ribbon and what looked like either wicked sharp chopsticks or meat skewers. “Aye, right here. I was just finding them for ye.”
As Molly secured her hair, Jessa tried not to wince, then decided it was high time for some crafty fact-finding. Maybe the maid would accidentally spill the beans about what was really going on here. “How old are you, Molly?”
“I be ten and seven.” The girl soused a cloth into the water and rubbed the bar of soap across it until it was frothy and the scent of roses filled the air. “Hester be only ten and five. That’s why I’ve the more experience and would be a better lady’s maid for ye.”
Seventeen and fifteen-year-olds? What kind of guy was this Grant MacAlester? “Fifteen is pretty young to work as a maid. Aren’t you both still in school?” Of course, it was summertime. Maybe this was summer work for them, like summer theater in the park or something.
Molly paused in her scrubbing of Jessa's back. “I dinna ken what ye mean, mistress. Both Hester and I can read already. I can even figure out some weights and measures. We’ve a pair of scullery maids that are naught but ten and eleven. They canna read nor do sums yet, but Mrs. Robeson and I are teaching them, so they might be a better help to Cook with her recipes one day. The MacAlester is a kind man who pays his servants more than most. The sculleries earn a whole ten pounds a year rather than the usual six or less. Our families would go hungry were it not for him paying us so good. Many from the village wish they could work here at the keep. ’Tis quite the honor.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The MacAlester doesna trust easy.”
“I bet he doesn’t. Is your village Seven Cairns?” That was the only local name Jessa could remember.
“Nay, MacAlester Crag. Seven Cairns is to the west of here.” She scrubbed Jessa's arms and smiled. “Yer skin is so fair, mistress, like fresh cream just poured into the pans.”
Jessa wrinkled her nose, embarrassed by the girl’s praise. “Ah, but I’m covered in freckles.”
“That’s just where the goddesses dusted ye with spices.” Molly went to the tall metal pitcher beside the fire, added some water to it from the steaming kettle hanging from the rod over the coals, then returned and gently rinsed the soapiness away.
Jessa shivered beneath the torrent of heated water. Maybe washing in a livestock tub wasn’t so bad after all.
“It’s nay too hot, is it, mistress?” Molly clutched the metal pitcher to her middle, obviously afraid she’d done wrong.
“No. It’s perfect.”
The maid shifted in place with a worried frown. “I noticed ye already scrubbed the rest of yer parts. Does a lady’s maid not wash ye all over? Am I doing this wrong?”
“You washed the parts I couldn’t reach. That’s what I look for in a lady’s maid.” Jessa gave up on tricking the devoted Molly into saying something she shouldn’t. It would be like kicking a puppy. “I think you are a fine lady’s maid.” She didn’t add that she had no idea what a lady’s maid was supposed to do, but as long as Molly wasn’t all that sure about it either, they’d get along just fine. “Maybe Hester can fill in for you whenever you take time off.”
Molly went still and stared at her as if she’d just unhinged her jaw and revealed a set of fangs. “Take time off? No one shirks their duties unless they’re dead.” Then she shrugged. “Or so ailing that they canna rise from their sickbed. But ye best not let Mrs. Robeson discover ’tis more laziness than feeling poorly.” She held up what looked like a large bedsheet. “I warmed the linen by the fire so ye willna take a chill. As cool as it is this morn, ye would hardly know ’tis June.”
Jessa tried to remember every period drama she had ever streamed on her laptop so she’d know more about what was going on. Then she recalled all the chatter she’d read about Hollywood’s historical inaccuracies. But if this was all an act—and it had to be since time travel was not possible—maybe they wouldn’t notice whatever blunders she made. She stepped out of the tub and allowed Molly to wrap the toasty warm cloth around her. “Wow, this feels wonderful. Thank you for thinking of it, Molly.”
The girl tipped her head to one side as though surprised, then she smiled. “Ye are verra welcome, mistress. ’Tis my duty to take the verra best care of ye.” She led her over to a padded footstool in front of the hearth and helped her sit. “I’ll fetch the oils and comb out yer hair. Then ye can choose what ye wish to wear.”
“Choose?”
“Aye, mistress,” Molly said while gathering items from the basket on the floor. “Mrs. Robeson has a good eye for that what fits and that what doesn’t. She helped Hester and me gather some clothes for ye from the room. Once we see what ye like and what might need taking in or letting out, I’ll put them to rights, and we’ll fill the wardrobe with yer verra own things.” She blossomed with a proud smile. “Mam always said I was quite the seamstress.”
Jessa stared at her, slowly blinking as if it would help her understand what Molly had just divulged. “This room with the clothes. Is it some sort of thrift shop or something?” She tried not to think about the whole a wardrobe holding her very own things part. That implied she’d be staying a while, and she couldn’t quite deal with that at the moment.
“I dinna ken what a thrift shop is.” Molly gave her another puzzled look as she crouched in front of her and started rubbing a rose-scented oil on her feet and legs. “Is that a place where clothes are took when those that wore them canna wear them anymore?”
“Yes. That is what we call a thrift shop where I’m from.” Jessa didn’t mind second-hand clothing. Thrifting had saved her lots of money, and she’d scored several neat finds over the years.
“If ye dinna mind my asking, where are ye from, mistress?” Molly rubbed the oil onto Jessa's arms and smeared a generous dollop into her armpits.
Jessa tried not to shudder at the greasy feel when she lowered her arms. As slippery as she was, she could probably wiggle through a keyhole. “New Jersey, and I think that’s plenty of oil for now.”
“As ye wish.” Molly set it aside and went to the articles piled in the other chair.
While she was turned the other way, Jessa dried the excess oil from her armpits. Mr. MacSexy would soon regret kidnapping her without her deodorant, toothbrush, and toothpaste.
Molly sorted through the pile of clothes like a squirrel hunting for a buried nut. She selected several items and held them up. “With yer eyes as green as a glen in springtime, these colors would suit ye. Do ye like the green or prefer the blue?”
“I usually wear black,” Jessa said.
Molly’s dark brows rose to her hairline. “Are ye in mourning, then?”
She might as well be honest with the maid. “No. Black makes me look taller and thinner.”
The maid frowned. “Why would ye wish to look taller and thinner?”
“Because I’m short and plump.” Jessa shrugged and tried to think of a way to explain it without sounding as if she was ashamed of her body—because she wasn’t. Society just hadn’t caught up with the notion that sizes other than tall and thin were beautiful, too. “I have a lot of jiggle to my wiggle, and from where I’m from, many men don’t find that attractive.”
“What a load of rubbish.” Molly’s eyes flared wide, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Forgive me, mistress. I should not have said that.”
Jessa laughed. “Speak freely around me, Molly. It’ll be our secret.” She nodded at the clothing. “And pick whichever color. I trust you.” It didn’t matter what she wore, since she would be leaving at her earliest opportunity.
Molly bounced like a happy puppy. “Aye, mistress. First, a fresh sark. I’ll have the one ye wore last night laundered.”
Jessa could only assume that a sark was the same thing as a chemise, shift, or old-fashioned nightgown. If she was going to wear a dress, why did she need to put another nightgown on first? But she cooperated and shook the garment down into place. Surprisingly, the hemline fell to her shins. Usually, everything was too long.
“And now for the first of the petticoats.” Molly bent and held the waist of the plain white skirt open wide so Jessa could step into it.
“More than one?” She stumbled to one side as the maid yanked the waistband snug and tied it.
“Of course, more than one. This one is to keep the finer ones clean when yer sark gets damp with sweat.” Molly tugged on its folds and stepped back, eyeing the piece critically. “The length will do for now, but I’ll hem it this evening. It’s still a bit long. It’ll be peeping out from under the others.” While bending to select the next layer, she asked, “Do ye not wear more than one petticoat where ye’re from?”
“Sometimes,” Jessa lied. “Depends on the time of year.”
“Ahh.” Molly nodded and tied an item around Jessa's waist that looked like a neck pillow for naps while traveling.
“What is that?” Jessa angled from side to side, eyeing it.
“The bum roll holds yer skirts just so and makes them sway all lovely like. Draws a man’s eyes to yer arse—I mean—yer bum. Ye dinna want to be all flat, do ye?”
“Apparently not.”
“And now yer fancy petticoat. This one with the green stripes will set off yer overskirt just so. See it over there? It’s green as an emerald.”
“I’m sure it will be perfect.” Jessa had no choice but to agree. No wonder she needed a lady’s maid. These layers were ridiculous. “How exactly am I supposed to pee?”
“Do ye need the chamberpot, mistress? I can fetch it.”
“Not at the moment, but when I do, I would prefer to be able to do it alone without needing someone to hold all my skirts out of the way.”
“Did ye not wear clothes like these in yer New Jersey?”
Jessa had to admit Molly played the part of an eighteenth century maid well. “There were a lot fewer layers in New Jersey,” she told the girl and left it at that.
“I see.”
But she didn’t. The girl was humoring her. Jessa could see it in her eyes. She waved to hurry her along. “Okay—what’s next?” Maybe once she was dressed, she could rinse her mouth with water. It wouldn’t be as good as her sonic toothbrush and minty mouthwash, but it would be better than nothing at all. Or maybe they were done, but her bottom half seemed to have a great deal more coverage than her top, and the idea of bouncing around without the support of a bra was a little disconcerting.
“These fine stays.” Molly proudly held up what appeared to be a very stiff, curvy vest made of panels of leather and a dark green plaid that matched the overskirt.
If it was meant to work like a corset or a bustier, wouldn’t it go on the inside? Jessa eyed the garment. “Should we not have put that on first before the shift?”
“No, mistress. These stays are lovely and meant to be seen. They’re quite proper for a lady of yer station.” Molly helped her slip her arms through the straps, then tugged it closed in the front and started lacing. “Ye might wish to brace yerself, ye ken? It must be pulled tight.”
The maid’s strength as she yanked on the lacing surprised Jessa. “That’s tight enough,” she told her when her breasts bulged above the neckline. “Not only am I about to pop out, but I also need to breathe.”
“I can pull it closer. Closer is always better, Mrs. Robeson says.”
“No.” Jessa tugged on the front and resettled the girls more comfortably in place. She’d wanted support, and now she had it. Apparently, she needed to be careful what she wished for. “What’s next?”
“There’s a jacket, but I dinna think ye’ll need it today. All that’s left are yer stockings, slippers, and then I’ll dress yer hair.”
“Dress my hair?”
“Aye, comb it out and put it up as befits a lady of yer status.”
“What exactly is my status?” Jessa wondered what everyone had been told about her presence.
Molly went still, standing there with a pair of long ivory stockings in one hand and a pair of dark green ribbons in the other. “Are ye not here to wed Himself?” she asked, sounding as forlorn as a lost toddler.
“I have no intention of marrying anyone at the moment. Why would you think that?”
“I dinna ken,” Molly hurried to say, her tone chilling with a distance that wasn’t there before. “And besides, ’tis not my place to say.” She nodded at the footstool again. “If ye’ll be good enough to sit, I’ll help ye with yer stockings.”
Jessa lowered herself to the pillowed stool, determined to find out more. “You don’t know or you won’t say? What is it not your place to say? I told you to speak freely around me, remember?”
On her knees, Molly looked up with a pleading expression and whispered, “If Mistress Mairwen brought ye here to wed the MacAlester, it would be unwise of ye to refuse.”
“I can handle Mistress Mairwen.” In fact, Jessa had a few choice words to share with that conniving old woman who had turned out to be an accessory in kidnapping.
Molly glanced around as if someone was eavesdropping and taking notes. “Dinna say such things, mistress. It is nay wise.”
Jessa wondered what Mairwen had done to put such fear into the young girl. Of course, if Molly was sticking to the eighteenth century mindset, then maybe she was playing the superstitious young Scot. Jessa wished the poor girl would just be honest with her, but she totally understood the situation where a paycheck was a paycheck. Choosing not to be difficult, she rubbed a finger across her teeth. “Do you have another washcloth I could use to clean my teeth? They feel icky.”
Molly froze in the middle of tying a ribbon above Jessa's knee to keep her stocking in place. “Icky?”
“You know. Slimy. Gross. My mouth tastes bad.”
The maid’s mouth formed a small o of understanding. “I brought ye a freshly boiled toothbrush and some powder, but I thought ye’d nay need it till this evening.”
“I like to brush my teeth in the mornings too,” Jessa said slowly, wondering why the toothbrush had been boiled and what the powder was for.
“Here’s yer slippers. While ye put them on, I’ll fetch everything for ye, and then we shall do yer hair.”
Molly seemed relieved that Mairwen was no longer the subject of their conversation. Jessa stored that away to think about later. If she found out that Mairwen or MacSexy was mean to this girl, she’d report them to whomever she could find and get Molly some help. Surely, Scotland had an equivalent to social services or resources for at risk women and children.
With a glass of water in one hand and what looked like a brush to scrub bathroom grout in the other, Molly glanced back at the pitcher and basin on the washstand. “I dinna have enough hands.”
“I can stand at the washbasin and brush my teeth. You don’t have to drag everything over here to me.”
“Mrs. Robeson said I was to fetch everything ye need. A lady is nay supposed to be bothered with getting her own things.”
“Yeah, well this lady is not helpless, and I don’t mind doing some things for myself.” Jessa took the grout brush from Molly and went to the basin. “So, this is the boiled toothbrush?”
“Aye, mistress. Brand new boar bristles and freshly boiled.”
Jessa swallowed hard and stared down at the source of Molly’s pride. They expected her to brush her teeth with pig hairs? “Alrighty then. Brand new. That’s great.” Gingerly, she started toward her mouth with it.
“Nay, mistress. Wet it first, so’s the powder will cake on it.” Molly prepared the toothbrush for her and handed it back. “Do ye not usually use powder?”
“No,” Jessa said while eyeing the coated brush that now smelled like a pumpkin spice latte. “I’m used to a minty paste.”
“I see.” Molly opened the jar of powder and showed it to Jessa. “Mrs. Robeson uses cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove along with the eggshells and salt she grinds with her mortal and pestle. She says it’s good for yer teeth and gums.”
Eggshells and spices. Interesting. Determined to power through, play along, and not show weakness, Jessa scrubbed her teeth and tongue, surprised when it wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as she’d expected. After rinsing her mouth, it felt a great deal better than before the brushing. “Thank you, Molly. Now my morning has been started right.”
“Well done, mistress.” Molly tugged her back to the footstool. “We’ll finish yer hair, and then ye’ll be ready to join Himself and see to yer breakfast. I’m sure Mrs. Robeson will have yer coffee ready by now or the MacAlester will be demanding to know why not.”
“I can hardly wait.” Jessa looked forward to seeing the rest of the keep and discovering the lengths the man had gone to all in the name of the eighteenth century.