Page 52 of The Wolf of Mayfair
“Lord Wingrave?” Helia repeated, because it really did bear repeating and clarification.
The housekeeper gave an even more energetic bob of her head. “The same.”
His Lordship, who wouldn’t even share his name with her.
Something pricked at the corners of her mind. A murky remembrance danced just out of reach. Hallucinations she’d wailed and moaned through.
Anthony . . .
Through the process of trying to sort out where figment ended and reality began, Helia registered the other woman’s absolute seriousness. “You areserious.”
“Very much so. I know it is hard to believe—the rest of the staff has had a hard time reckoning His Lordship’s actions with his usual temperament.” Color singed the housekeeper’s thin, lightly wrinkled cheeks. “Not that anyone would ever speak ill of His Lordship or any in the duke’s employ,” she added hastily.
“Of course not,” Helia demurred.
And then, as if she feared she’d said too much, the housekeeper cleared her throat. “You must be famished.”
Mrs. Trowbridge didn’t allow for an answer and had already headed for the bellpull.
In an instant, a light scratch sounded at the door. A maid ducked her head inside.
“Please see that a tray is readied for Miss Wallace,” Mrs. Trowbridge said in a no-nonsense way. “And do not tarry.”
The small young woman stole a glance in Helia’s direction, then dipped a curtsy and hurried off.
The moment she’d gone, a now silent Mrs. Trowbridge proceeded to right Helia’s already nearly tidy chambers.
Helia studied the housekeeper as she flitted about the room.
Though Helia would never break the housekeeper’s confidence, she’d known Mrs. Trowbridge but a couple of days—most of which, Helia had been unconscious for—and as such, she understood why the other woman would be wary of being heard speaking ill, or allowing other servants to speak poorly, of a forbidding master such as Lord Wingrave.
In fact, being on her own in the world now, and with her security stripped away, she understood on a level the fear Mrs. Trowbridge would have at the prospect of being turned out.
Desperate to know how a man like WingravebecameWingrave and something about his life, she looked to the kindly housekeeper.
“Have you been in His and Her Grace’s employ very long?” Helia asked.
Over at the walnut recamier chaise longue, Mrs. Trowbridge paused mid-plump of an already perfectly plump gold silk pillow. “I’ve been head housekeeper for nearly twenty years.” Pride shone in her silvery eyes.
One could tell much about a master and mistress’s kindness by the length of service and loyalty of their servants. Between that affirmation and the marquess having let her recuperate here, Helia found hope that maybe, just maybe, the members of this household weren’t so cold and unfeeling as their son had made them out—
“I’m the longest-employed member on the staff, I am,” Mrs. Trowbridge informed, effectively quashing Helia’s earlier optimism.
“Many have left?” Helia ventured.
“Many have left,” the housekeeper confirmed, and went back to her task of arranging the trio of pillows along the back of the chaise.
Which was hardly a testament to any kind of magnanimity from those who lived under this roof.
Pathetically fatigued from the herculean effort it took to prop herself up, Helia rolled onto her side so she could face the housekeeper.
Mrs. Trowbridge dropped the pillow in her hands and hurried over. “Now, now. I’ve warned you that you are not to tax yourself. His Lordship will be most displeased if you fall ill again.”
“Yes,” she said tiredly, as the beneficent servant straightened Helia’s coverlet and then gave it a firm tug up to her chin. “I trust Lord Wingrave would be most cross at my further illness. Not when it would further delay my departure.”
More like my eviction.
Mrs. Trowbridge frowned. “I see why you’re of that opinion, miss. And ... several days ago, I myself would have been of a like one, but the marquess? He’s been quite distraught at your condition.”
