Page 49 of The Heir
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Victoria murmured. “It was only that he looked so very distressed. I wanted to do something for him.”
“Sympathy is not a reason to ignore proper conduct,” said Mama sternly. “Still, that was very thoughtful.” She gave Victoria an indulgent smile. “This has been a good day’s work.” She patted Victoria’s hand. “I’m proud of you, dearest.”
Victoria let herself smile. She hoped she looked modest. She hoped she did not show any sign of the triumph she felt. The truth was she had picked Gerald because the grieving Mrs. Maton and her eldest son were so very clearly working to conceal . . . something.
Gerald Maton, on the other hand, burned to talk.
And now I must arrange a time for him to do so.
Chapter 21
Oslow’s Apothecary was a popular and busy shop. Despite this, Jane was able to procure the lemon cordial after only a short wait.
“We have one more stop to make,” she said as Betty tucked the bottle into her market basket.
She started walking again before Betty could ask where or what it was for.
In Kensington a family’s status could be measured by how close their house was to the palace grounds. The farther away a residence stood, the less consequential it could be considered.
The direction Liza had given Jane was not quite on the fringe of the village, but it was close. Lower Market Street itself was little more than a rutted lane, and the “house” was a cottage that squatted in a tangled yard where a few scrawny chickens were watched by an even scrawnier cat. Two old men occupied a bench under the cottage’s broad eaves but did not rise as Jane approached the door. A crockery jug sat on the bench between them.
Betty eyed the men, the jug, and the house, as if she expected to be snatched up and spirited away to the West Indies.
Steeling herself, Jane knocked on the battered door. At some time in the distant past, someone had painted it a cheery blue, but now the paint was badly chipped, and the color faded by sun and dust.
No one answered. Jane knocked again. The men on the bench watched this performance with great interest.
Jane was ready to turn and ask them if the mistress of the house was at home when the door flew open and she found herself face-to-face with Susan.
Susan was tiny, thin, and watchful, like a sparrow. Mama liked her servants to appear delicate.I cannot abide a rawboned woman. But if you looked closely, you saw the muscle cording her neck and her forearms, as well as the chapped and reddened skin on her palms and fingertips. Her sleeves were rolled up past her chafed elbows. Large brown eyes looked out of a pale face, but everything about her suggested a knife’s sharpness rather than porcelain delicacy. She had little humor about her, and she set her tiny chin in such a way that suggested that any speech would have to be dragged out of her, possibly by force.
But Jane had always liked that determined silence. Long days in the palace had taught her to distrust quick speech and quick wit. She was permanently sore from the jokes made at her expense. Despite that, she found she was unprepared for the contempt that glittered in Susan’s eyes. Jane had always known Susan as a servant. As long as Mother and Father paid her salary, Susan had to be at least polite and attentive to Jane’s requests.
But now that there was no salary to be considered, Susan clearly saw no need for deference or even courtesy. Instead, she folded her arms and glowered.
“What do you want?”
“I wanted . . .” Jane bit her words off. The old men were listening, and so was Betty. “May I come in?”
Contempt glittered like ice in Susan’s brown eyes. Jane thought she might refuse, but in the end, she turned and walked away into the dim house, leaving the door open behind her.
“Wait here please, Betty,” said Jane, indicating the tiny flagstone foyer. She followed Susan into the depths of the house, not bothering about bonnet or coat.
The house was a low, cramped place. The wood was chipped, and the plaster cracked or simply missing over the lath. There were few windows, and the floors were flagstone or dirt. A baby wailed in another room. Jane looked at Susan. There was no sign of a thickening waist or the reddened face that came with pregnancy.
The kitchen was narrow and worn, as chipped and splintered as the rest of the house. The dirt floor was packed hard as macadam. The yard out back was a maze of wash-lines. The acrid smells of bleach and farm animals filled the air. Geese mingled with the chickens, and pigs lounged in their pen. Everything, even the clean wash, was speckled with soot.
Susan stopped in the middle of the room. She didn’t sit and didn’t invite Jane to. “What is it? I’m busy.”
Jane felt as if her tongue were sodden, thick wool. “I wanted to make sure you were all right,” she said.
Susan shrugged. “See for yourself, can’t you?”
She did see. But she also saw the bitterness in Susan’s demeanor. “Is there anything you need?”
“Why? You going to get me a job at the palace?”
“I, no. But I—” She opened her purse and took out the packet she’d made up.
