Page 49 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
The servant introduced herself in the same no-nonsense tones of before. “My name is Constance.”
Cressida stretched her fingers out. “I am Cressida.”
A look of stunned surprise filled the woman’s sun-bronzed cheeks as she studied Cressida’s palm as if it were the first ofits kind she’d ever seen. In the end, the maid quickly slipped her fingers into Cressida’s and then pulled them back even more quickly. Upon closer inspection, Cressida determined the servant to be nearer in age to Cressida.
Constance gave a little grunt. “No, you’re not.”
Cressida blinked slowly. “I’m…sorry?”
“You’re a lady.” The maid shoved a damp red curl that’d escaped her plait back behind her ear. “Ladies don’t have first names.”
Ah, now I began to make sense. “Rest assured, I have a first name.” For a second time, Cressida began to play with her silverware. Funny. The servants in the kitchen were permitted silver. She caught herself with that distracted movement and instantly stopped. She set it back down. “Maybe I have a first name on account I’m not a lady,” she confided.
Expressionless, Constance stared at Cressida. The gruff but surprisingly kindly servant burst out laughing until tears coursed down her narrow cheeks. “Gor,” she said between her bouts of hilarity. “I ain’t heard one like that in a long time,” she said, wiping the moisture from her face. “Not a lady.” She gave her head a rueful shake. “Gel, you were born with lady stamped all over your fine person.”
Cressida’s small smile faded. “Well, you would be the first to think so,” she murmured.
“If you’re not a lady born, as you say, it certainly explains your need for food, and the reason you should be eating when you’re able.” The woman spoke with a surprising gentleness, and then Constance pushed the plate nearer Cressida’s fingers.
If those weren’t the truest words spoken about Cressida’s life. This sudden and unexpected kindred connection with another person managed to penetrate her misery and soften her defenses.
She wanted to take a bite, for Constance’s benefit, but Cressida’s stomach churned so great, she feared she’d not keep even a bite down.
“Come now, Cressida,” Constance said in that kindly way she’d already revealed. “I’ve gone ahead and made my first meal for Lord Dynevor. Try some for me. Let me know how it is.”
That was when Cressida truly had no choice.
The sparkle in the servant’s pretty hazel eyes said she knew it too.
She’d never been able to hurt a person’s feelings. It was a great irony, considering her loathsome brother excelled in that endeavor, but not Cressida. As such, she found herself collecting the silver knife and carving the smallest piece out of her eggs. Hesitant, Cressida took a bite.
The minute the food touched her tongue, all the worry she’d get sick in front of Lord Dynevor’s staff vanished.
Her eyes slid shut on a wave of glory. “Bloody hell,” Cressida whispered, her mouth full. “This is exquisite, and not just because I’ve forgotten how good food can be.” As soon as Cressida let that revelation slip, her entire face burned hot.
Cressida’s eyes went flying open. “Not that I don’t eat. Despite your earlier concern, I d—”
Constance reached over and, with an even more callused palm than Cressida’s, patted the top of Cressida’s hand.
“I know,” Constance said quietly. “I know.”
They shared a look as two women who’d experienced similar troubled existences that bound them.
Constance didn’t say anything more than that, and while Cressida ate, neither of them exchanged any further words. With every piece of the delectable breakfast meal she consumed, Cressida’s strength—and resolve—grew.
Last night happened, but last night had also come and gone. She’d never been one to wallow in her miseries, on account of the fact she’d never had the luxury to do so.
Once she’d polished off every last crumb from her plate, she pushed it away.
Constance gave another one of her increasingly familiar little grunts—this one, the approving sort. “Good. You ate all your food.” Despite the similarity in their ages, Constance spoke the way she might to a small child.
“How could I not?” Cressida scoffed. “You were correct. I needed but one taste, and there’d have been no other course for me but to devour your fare. Lord Dynevor is going to have you cooking for him and his customers every night,” she predicted.
“Yes, well, that is certainly the hope,” Constance confided on a whisper.
Funny she’d been so eager to leave, and now she found herself lingering. It felt so very good talking with another woman. For a moment, Cressida had forgotten about Benedict’s horror and— “Trudy,” she whispered.
Cressida shot to her feet.
