Page 95 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Twenty-three

“Miss, you’ve been rubbing that finial a long time now,” said Lily.

“Finial?” Genevieve ceased her polishing.

“The carved piece you’re cleaning.” Lily Dutton pointed at the urn-shaped carving atop the stair’s bottom rail. “It’s called a finial.”

“Seems like a housekeeper’d know that.” Ruby smirked. “A proper one, leastways.” The maid slouched in the parlor doorway, the ash pail in hand. “Gossip in the village says you were born on the wrong side of the blanket. Daughter of anactress.”

“Ruby!” Lily gasped.

“You heard it too. It’s why that foreigner and his friend came north. Word is he wants his fancy girl back.” Her insolent gaze swept over Genevieve. “Some in the village is scratchin’ their heads on her runnin’ from the Beckworth cottage to here so quick-like.”

Genevieve’s spine straightened. She’d seen that sneer all her life on the faces of proper girls with proper parents. Time had thickened her skin and sharpened her tongue.

She stepped forward, and brazen Miss Dutton shrank against the doorframe.

“I hope they keep scratching till they find something in those heads of theirs. Until then, finish cleaning the hearths. All of them.” She pointed at the ash pail. “From this day forward, the chore is yours.Ifyou want to keep your position.”

The maid’s lips pursed.

Genevieve smiled, cool and brittle. “Off with you now. Dump those ashes and fill the woodbins for the whole cottage.”

Ruby Dutton grabbed her cloak and left the cottage in a snit.

“Please don’t mind her, miss,” Lily said.

Genevieve went back to the finial and took her time dusting a pristine crevice. “Why take her venom out on me?”

“It’s the way his lordship watches you. She’s jealous, is all.”

“What do you mean?” Genevieve dropped her rag in the cleaning bucket.

“She’s got it bad for Lord Bowles.”

Lily took the bucket from her and went to the kitchen. Genevieve followed because there was no use cleaning. Her mind wasn’t in the work. Since Herr Wolf’s visit, she’d burned the noonday meal, knocked over a bucket of soapy water, and mistook a lump of beeswax for butter.

She touched a new taper to the kitchen fire, craving calm from the storm inside her. She usually liked this time of day, lighting the household and the peace that came from a full day’s labor. She couldn’t say what bothered her more. Herr Wolf? Or that her sins were unraveling for gossips to pick at? Perhaps she wasn’t so thick-skinned.

Charred flares marked the whitewashed wall above the kitchen’s plain iron sconce where she set the lit taper. She wiped the smoky haze for good measure, accepting the truth. The jig was up. The people of Cornhill-on-Tweed knew where she came from, or at least had a good idea.

The whitewashed wall was no more pristine than her. Charcoal smeared the limestone. Like her, the damage was done. She’d never truly erase what had made her who she was today. Behind her, Lily Dutton’s heels clicked across the flagstone. Water splashed in the scullery. His lordship’s bath. Evening was nearly upon them, the whole day a blur because another question went round and round in Genevieve’s head.

How many days before she had to leave Cornhill-on-Tweed?

She’d have to start fresh somewhere, but Pallinsburn and all the pretty horses had grown on her.

Or was it Pallinsburn’s master with his lazy smile and fast quips?

And his hands with their expert caresses?

Her hand brushed her hip, sliding into the folds of her skirt. She rubbed her thigh, same as he had last night. Heat prickled her hairline despite the chill emanating from the stone. She could seek him out and climb into his bed at midnight. To be with him in his chamber would be far safer than her tiny room with its garden window. And more desirable than being alone in her narrow bed.

Herr Wolf could sneak in during the dark of night.

“Miss, want me to take the pea soup off the fire? I think it’s done,” Lily called from the scullery.

“The soup. Yes, please.”