Page 19 of Better Not Bet a Bluestocking (Ladies of Opportunity #3)
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A LADY’S SCANDALOUS KISS
?Blue Rose Romance? LLC
Rochester , England
9 December 1817
Early afternoon
“ Miss Winterborne ?”
Mrs . Sabella Thackpenny’s sleep-thickened, warbly voice yanked Joy from her pleasant daydream about where she’d spend her half-day off this Saturday .
Walking in The Vines Gardens ?
Browsing the shelves at Barclay’s Book Shoppe and Emporium ?
Or —the thought nearly made her sigh aloud in anticipation—perhaps enjoying a cup of strong , sweet tea with milk at that quaint tea shop on High Street where she and her friend Mercy Feathers had enjoyed maid of honor tarts two years ago?
Mercy was the governess for two young charges here in Rochester .
Had it truly been two years since Joy had seen her friend?
Lips pressed tight, she shook her head the slightest bit.
It didn’t seem possible that much time had passed.
She clearly remembered the Christmas decorations and gingerbread cookies that day. She could still almost smell the evergreens and the cinnamon, cloves, and ginger. Aromas she’d not enjoyed the pleasure of since.
Joy missed the other young women from Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women who had become her sisters in every way except for by blood.
She especially missed Mercy , Chasity Nobel , and Purity Mayfield .
The four of them had shared a room at the academy for as long as Joy could remember.
All of the cast-off girls who’d ever called Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women their home had shared a middle name too. Shepard . The name was a slightly altered version of the kindly but strict and extremely pious Hester Shepherd’s own surname.
That sweet, Godly woman had bestowed a Biblical given name upon each discarded child in her loving care. Mrs . Shepherd , now a spinster in her sixth decade, vowed she adored the girls she’d raised since infancy like her own daughters.
The honorary missus before her last name was a matter of formality. No proper instructor was ever addressed as a miss .
As Mrs . Shepherd had been taking in unwanted charges—all by-blows in one form or another of the wealthy or aristocracy—for two-and-one-half decades, she’d been a mother to nearly seventy girls. All of which she’d raised to be prayerful, moral young women despite their unfortunate beginnings.
“ Each of you are a gift from our Lord . He has a purpose in everything. ‘ All things work together for good to those who love God ,’” Mrs .
Shepherd quoted to her girls from the scriptures.
“ Even your presence at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women is no accident. Never forget it, my dears,” she admonished fondly.
What was more, Mrs . Shepherd and her discreet staff had provided every girl with an education and skills for respectable employment.
Not , however, entirely out of benevolence.
Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women and Mrs .
Shepherd had been well-compensated for her discretion and the girls’ decorous upbringing.
Joy was eternally grateful. She missed the headmistress’s light-hearted scolds and contagious laughter.
Naturally , they corresponded—quite regularly as a matter of fact.
But a piece of paper slashed with tiny, neat script was no substitute for one of Mrs .
Shepherd’s soft, comforting rose and violet scented hugs.
How very different was the plump, genial headmistress compared to the pinch-faced woman across the room blinking sleepily behind her spectacles, her mouth pursed in a perpetual grimace of disapproval.
Or perhaps Mrs . Thackpenny’s turned down mouth was a result of her recent propensity to pass gas with the offensive regularity and unfortunate exuberance of a barnyard animal. A large barnyard animal.
Joy held her breath, hoping her employer would settle back into her nap, which was her habit in the afternoon. She longed to return to her daydream about delicious tea and sweet cakes in a cozy teashop. If she couldn’t actually consume the treats, at least Joy could fantasize about doing so.
A slight nasally snore resonated from the afghan covered lump, and tension eased from Joy’s spine and shoulders. A few more minutes of peace was a treasured blessing.
Mrs . Thackpenny — pinchpenny is more apt —only permitted Joy used tea leaves. Leaves which the difficult widow had already used twice herself. The resulting brew was slightly bronze-tinted water, which scarcely tasted of tea at all.
And no sugar or milk. Ever .
“ A body can never economize too much, Miss Winterborne ,” the rail-thin woman had intoned when she’d first retained Joy as her lady’s companion. “ You’ll learn soon enough that though I’m extremely frugal, I’m not miserly.”
Only tightfisted and parsimonious.
“ Save a penny, save a pound.” As was her wont, Mrs . Thackpenny emphasized the latter colloquialism with a resounding thump of her worse-for-wear cane.
Wasn’t the phrase, A penny saved is a penny earned, anyway? Or was it, Look after pennies, and the pounds will look after themselves?
It didn’t matter. What did, however, was Mrs . Thackpenny’s tightfistedness.
Persuading the woman to part with funds was as difficult as convincing a nun to toss up her habit for a dockside tumble with a salty sea dog—in broad daylight.
Every single month since her arrival, Joy had been obliged to ask for her allowance and carefully count each coin. For her penny-pinching employer had tried to cheat her out of a shilling or two several times.
Honestly , there wasn’t any need for her excessive thrift either.
Mrs . Thackpenny’s husband, a successful banker, had left her a considerable fortune. Yet the decades-old worn and quite threadbare carpets, draperies, and outdated furnishings remained as a tribute to the long-dead Mr . Ephraim Thackpenny .
The widow owned precisely seven gowns—one for each day of the week. Every one entirely black from collar to hem and as plain as unused paper, without so much as a shiny button to break the bleak monotony.
Head canted, Joy listened for her employer’s drowsy murmurings, and when no more sounds came from the woman, decided Mrs . Thackpenny had, indeed, been mumbling in her sleep. A common enough occurrence, in truth.
Joy happily turned her musings toward her half-day off once more.
Mayhap , she’d indulge in all three activities this Saturday .
The merest rebellious smile bent her mouth
Yes , that was precisely what she’d do.
Visit The Vines , the bookstore, and the tea shop.
Pure heaven.
A small frown pulled her eyebrows together as she inserted the needle into the fine linen fabric, another handkerchief for her mistress— Mrs . Thackpenny’s one indulgence besides her pampered pets.
That was her plan if Mrs . Thackpenny actually permitted Joy the half-day she’d been assured of each week when hired by the difficult woman four years ago—no five years next week. There’d also been promises of exciting trips to Bath , the Continent , routs, musicals, soirees, the theater…museums.
None of which had ever manifested. If Joy managed a single, short walk outdoors every week, she counted herself most fortunate.
An unintended sigh slipped past her lips.
All fabrications to entice a young girl with stars in her eyes and dreams of a different, more exciting life clouding her common sense.
Little had Joy known that she was the latest in a long queue of lady’s maids retained and dismissed since Mrs .
Sabella Thackpenny had taken a fall a decade before.
Hence the need for her cane, and upon the advice of her then physician, Doctor Daggat , she’d conceded the need for a live-in companion.
Companion was a generous term for what Joy was to the woman. She was expected to be on hand for whatever the difficult widow demanded every hour of every day and night.
In truth, Mrs . Thackpenny seldom allowed Joy her half-day and never compensated for the deliberate oversight.
How Joy craved a few hours of desperately needed reprieve from the demanding, cantankerous, never satisfied woman’s presence. There was never a word of thanks or appreciation. Just scolds, complaints, reprimands, and the occasional threat of dismissal.
And dash it to ribbons, that was what Joy could look forward to until Mrs .
Thackpenny departed this earth, unless she was somehow able to procure another position.
With considerable effort, Joy quashed the wave of frustration billowing up from her middle that her errant, uncharitable thoughts brought on.
She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer.
Lord , give me the strength and patience I need. Keep me from complaining and help me be grateful. My life could be so much worse.
Her eyes drifted open.
It could be better too.
But , this was her lot in life, and she ought to be appreciative. In truth and much to her astonishment, despite her employer’s contentious nature, Joy had grown fond of the impossible woman.
At least she held a position, albeit one that paid poorly and consumed all of her waking hours.
But a roof over one’s head and food in one’s belly, even if the fare was bland and unappetizing, accounted for much.
That was more than most young women born on the wrong side of the blanket could say or even hope for.
Of course, Mrs . Thackpenny didn’t know that particular scandalous detail about Joy’s paternity.
Nor would she ever. The very notion made her ill.
A shiver skittered the length of her spine.
For God help her, Joy’s position and reputation depended upon that scandal remaining a secret. As did Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women’s , and the many girls who had ever called the place home.
Mrs . Shepherd made absolutely certain her girls’ unsavory origins were diligently guarded and hidden. She created respectable faux backgrounds and prepared them for various positions appropriate for gently-bred young ladies.