Page 105 of Dukes All Night Long

O wen could hardly carry Annie through the hedge and over the window; he hurried toward the rear of Woodglen where the kitchens lay and the upper servants’ quarters were situated. He pounded on the door. And pounded again, shifting her weight to one arm.

A mumbled “Hold yer horses,” told him Marshall would respond. Moments later the door flew open and Marshall, in hastily donned breeches and wrinkled shirt, glared out at him.

“What have you done?” Marshall demanded.

“She’s hurt. She needs help,” Owen said, as Marshall stepped back to let him in. Owen spied the housekeeper hovering in the shadows wringing her hands.

“Mrs. Morrit! Thank heavens you are here,” Owen said, hesitating helplessly.

“Bring her to the kitchen. Marshall, get some candles. Or oil lanterns. We’ll need light,” the housekeeper ordered, snapping briskly into command. “And fan up the fire. The girl is shivering.”

Owen followed, relieved to follow orders.

Mrs. Morrit had him set her in an upholstered chair near the fire.

The housekeeper brushed him away and knelt by Annie.

“Heat water,” she ordered over her shoulder and began a gentle examination of the woman.

Owen did as he was told while Marshall set candles around the room.

“Did your uncle do this?” the housekeeper asked gently.

“I’m so ashamed,” Annie replied, nodding. “He told me I can’t go back.”

“You have no cause. A cur who would hurt a woman half his size is the one to bear the shame,” Mrs. Morrit said. She glanced back at Owen. “And we’ll talk about your part in this later.”

Three-quarters of an hour later, Annie, clean and wrapped in a blanket, sat by the fire.

Mrs. Morrit rose and wiped her hands on a towel. “No broken bones or knock to her head. Just bruises, and not all of them recent.”

Owen knelt in front of the patient, bringing a candle close. He gasped. He no longer had any doubt. “Lucia,” he whispered. He raised a shaking hand to her cheek.

“Lucia is dead,” she replied, pulling her head away and casting her gaze toward her hands twisting in her lap. “There is only Annie Potter.” She began to weep again.

Mrs. Morrit loomed over him. “Leave her be. She needs rest. You can deal with this ‘Lucia’ business in the morning.” She gazed down at Annie. “I’ve heard you’re a hard worker. Your hands show it too. We can find you a place here, never fear, but for tonight, I want you to rest. Sleep heals.”

Annie nodded, closed her eyes, and sank back, drowsy.

“Gave her a drop of laudanum. She’ll sleep the night. May as well leave her as she is,” Mrs. Morrit declared. And, soon enough, it was obvious Annie slept.

Marshall tipped whisky into Owen’s tea, raised his brows at Mrs. Morrit, and, at the housekeeper’s nod, into hers as well.

“Now, lad, explain yourself. I warned you not to cause her trouble,” Marshall said. Both of the servants glared at Owen.

“I didn’t! At least I don’t think so. He accused her of meeting me, but he had no reason. How did he even know I was here?” Owen said.

“Word gets out in small villages. No reason he would guess you’d follow her though,” Marshall answered.

“Why did you?” the housekeeper asked through tight lips.

Owen explained as well as he could. He told them all of it. About meeting Madame Castellano and her daughter seven years ago. About the disappearance. About the music. He left out his foolish offer of marriage. And his own confused feelings after seeing her again.

“You’re sure it is the same woman?” Marshall asked.

“I wasn’t until tonight when I got a good look at her. But the music has been telling me it is her. You’ve heard her. She is brilliant and talented. She didn’t learn that in Nether Abbas. It didn’t fit.”

“I wonder what she’s doing here,” Marshall mused. “The mother must have disappeared. Or died.”

“Leaving the poor duck with the worthless uncle.” Mrs. Morrit glared at Marshall. “Don’t look at me like that. He may be a vicar, but he’s worthless all the same. That girl is skin and bones, and some of those bruises aren’t from tonight.”

“Dresses her in rags, too. It makes no sense. Her mother was wealthy. What happened to it all?” Owen asked.

“If there was any, the old reprobate took it. I’d bet my best bonnet,” the housekeeper said.

They sipped their tea silently for several moments. “You’ll keep her on?” Owen asked, at last breaking the silence.

Marshall peered at the housekeeper.

“I can always use a good worker,” she said.

“I don’t know what provoked the vicar to follow her tonight. She’s been sneaking over here for months from what you told me. One good thing has come out of it, though,” Owen muttered.

They both waited for him to explain.

“She’s out of that house and where she’ll be treated with respect. Will you let her practice her music?”

Mrs. Morrit shrugged. “In her free time. Someone may as well use that big piano. We polish it often enough.”

Owen nodded then, his mind filled with ideas for the future—concerts, teachers, agents, sponsors. Other more personal ideas warmed his entire body, but he pushed them aside. Her welfare came first. There would be time to see what developed later.

*

Annie came awake slowly, gradually aware that it was light.

Uncle Virgil will be angry I slept late. She blinked and stretched. Uncle Virgil !

Memory flooded back and she jerked upright. Pain shot through her shoulders, stiff from a night in the chair, and, she knew, from the shaking her uncle had given her.

She stayed down, overwhelmed by the events of the previous night, and gazed around the room. A kitchen maid smiled back at her.

“Mrs. Morrit said as how we weren’t to wake you. I hear’d what happened—that awful old man. You’ll like it here,” the maid said, studying her closely. Collecting gossip, Annie suspected.

Annie didn’t respond. “Morrit” must be the housekeeper. Annie vaguely remembered the woman offering her work here at Woodglen. As a maid, no doubt. Her mother would be mortified, but what choices did she have? She’d been the lowest sort of servant in Uncle Virgil’s house anyway.

The maid sucked in a breath. “I best tell them you’re awake!” The curious maid scurried away, leaving Annie to pull herself together before they—whoever “they” were—came to question her.

She knew one person likely to do so. Owen Pritchard. The moment he knelt in front of her the previous night and whispered the old name, like a ghost from her past, she had no doubt it was he. What on earth is he doing at Woodglen?

Memories, good and bad, flooded in, but she forced herself to focus on her present situation. Did I really overhear him ask that housekeeper if I could practice my music? Or did I dream that? Music alone would make her place here more bearable than her life before.

But Owen Pritchard! Her heart beat rapidly. Her first love. Her only love. But what now?

Annie tossed off the blanket and rose to her feet, glancing around frantically. Her dress was rumpled and muddy, her hair a rat’s nest, and her face… She lifted a hand to her cheek and winced. The bruise must look horrible . At least her face felt clean. The housekeeper had been kind.

As if conjured by the thought, the woman herself bustled into the room, the kitchen maid on her heels. Mrs. Morrit studied her up and down.

“You’ll want to freshen up. Will you need to rest yet today?” the housekeeper asked. The woman’s manner wasn’t unkind, but she had the look of someone who didn’t smile often.

“No, ma’am,” Annie murmured, her emotions and thoughts in a maelstrom.

The housekeeper nodded approvingly. She turned to the little maid. “Show Miss Potter to an empty place on the servants’ floor, Suz, and find her a gown and pinafore—two sets. She’ll be joining us as an upstairs maid,” Mrs. Morrit said.

Before Annie could ask questions or even follow the kitchen maid, Owen Pritchard strode purposefully into the kitchen.

“You are up!” he said without preamble. “Are you well?”

“Well enough. A few aches,” she said, darting a glance at Mrs. Morrit. Annie had no idea what his role was here. An upper servant? Unlikely. A guest, she presumed. Maids don’t converse with guests in aristocratic houses.

“Lucia—” At her frown, he broke off and changed tack. “Miss Potter, we need to talk.” He reached out as if to take her hand, faltered, and pulled it back.

Annie turned to Mrs. Morrit, unsure of what to say.

“The young woman will want to freshen up, Mr. Pritchard. If she’s ready—” the housekeeper peered closely at Annie, “and if she is willing, you may speak with her in the servants’ dining room. With me present.”

He looked as if to object, but then he nodded and stepped back. It reinforced Annie’s awareness of her role here. No grand drawing rooms for conversation with an upstairs maid.

With a gesture, the housekeeper directed Annie to follow the maid who led her to the servants’ stairs, a dark, narrow flight to the back of the house. Annie suspected that, like all great houses, Woodglen would have a maze of hidden passages through which workers could pass unnoticed.

I’m sorry, Mama, how far I have fallen. If only— Annie clamped down the thought. Regrets, she knew from harsh experience, solved nothing. Neither did hope. She would thank Owen Pritchard for his assistance, then he would go on his way, and she would make a place here.