The Lady in Disguise

Chapter Eight (part 1)

Wednesday evening...

"Every bit as tardy a lady's maid as she is a lady. Certainly not how I do things!"

After a muddy day like today, Emilia Finch would have been here to attend to things an hour ago. Emilia Finch would have insisted her charge have a proper bath. But she was not Emilia Finch today. She was Prudence Crewe and, in that role she had now taken so long to wriggle her way out of this wet dress alone that there was no time to do more than a slapdash wash with a cloth. But what other choice did she have?

"Have to be Miss Crewe and her maid," she muttered.

Mopsy yelped from the bed, as if in solidarity — that or protest. Once Emilia realized that everything she pulled from the closet was considered his newest toy, she had little choice but to restrain the poor love to the bedpost until he learned. Since she could use the sympathy, she decided to interpret his yelp as agreement.

"Someone tell me how I'm to do all this and that, to boot!"

That being yet another supper where she was out of her depth, surrounded by people above her station, and expected to pretend to enjoy the whole thing. To add another layer of humiliation, there was sure to be dancing tonight. Emilia fanned her face, which she could see was in high color even a dozen feet away from the mirror.

It wasn't only anticipation of tonight that had her so agitated. Remembering her behavior this afternoon, she felt as if she was in a constant state of embarrassment. Mr. Byrne probably thought her a complete simpleton, from her falling on her bottom in the stream to her ogling him and giggling.

Considering his rather smug, high-handed behavior and ill-natured teasing, she'd rather have stayed annoyed, but things had become more friendly as they talked — perhaps too friendly on her end, the way she gawked at him and his tanned arms and wet shirt. How far did the tan go? And how did a gentleman, an Irish one at that, get so tan?

Then again, he hadn't always been a gentleman, had he? And the way he talked of the English, which really should have offended her as a born-and-bred Yorkshire girl, he probably didn't deserve the title. Yes, he was very uncouth and she'd much rather remember those bits of the afternoon. Wasn't he too low-born for Miss Prudence anyway? A snobbish thought, but so long as she was Prudence Crewe, remembering that might help her avoid making a fool of herself like a silly, swooning housemaid. 

This was all very unlike her.

Back at Hartley Hall, the other maids might sigh and whisper over the more handsome footmen or even the guests, but Emilia had always considered such things foolhardy. She thought they'd do better to keep their eyes on their work and stay on their guard and her caution had served her well. Even if a girl wasn't let go for wanton behavior — and didn't it always seem to be the girls? — many had ended up in tears or even brawls upon finding their sweethearts were kissing half the other maids in the house and a good many in the neighboring houses. 

She'd stayed vigilant, but it wasn't as if she hadn't been cornered quite a few times — whether by other servants or the so-called gentlemen visiting Mr. Hartley, who seemed to misunderstand what needs a maid was meant to tend to. She'd managed to escape unscathed, whether by luck, timely interruptions, or a well-placed knee if all else failed -- something only to be used on the other servants, of course.

How nice it had been at Crewe House in comparison. When she'd first come, most of the servants were too old for such dramatics. She certainly couldn't see Old Dawes going about pinching her bottom and Thomas might as well be her uncle. Cook and Sally were both faithful old retainers as well, and married, so there was no swooning over the footmen for them.