Page 31 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“Well, Miss Bluebell,” he drawled, “what’s reasonable in the country and reasonable in London seems to be a bit different.” Spoken by anyone else, Maybelle could have taken offense. But he stood there covered in mud. The only part of himnotbrown was the white of his smile and the twinkle in his eye. His tone was kind with no hint of censure in it, just a rueful charm that took the sting out of his words.
Though the widow’s next comment stung. “I see you’re well acquainted with Miss Bluebell’s ways. Come on, sir. I’ve got some extra clothes if you like. Will trade you free o’ charge for what you got on, mud ’n’ all. But I ain’t got a coat—”
“It’s done for anyway,” he said as he shrugged out of it. “Cantankerous beast chewed on the sleeve.”
“It must have tasted of the ale. Mr. Periwinkle wouldn’t touch cloth otherwise.”
“It likely did,” he said. Then he frowned in her direction. Maybelle had only moved a step or so away before stopping to watch the discussion. “How much is a bath going to cost me?”
“Oh, don’t you fret now, Mr. ’Allowsby,” the widow said with a laugh. “There’s a creek right down there. See them trees? They’re shadowing it so it’s cool in summer. You go on and wash there.”
That meant that she had the hot tub with the lye soap. “It’s a mite cold,” she said hopefully. “You can have the wash tub ’ere, and I’ll—”
“I’ll take the cold, thank you,” he said, the twinkle in his eye telling him he knew about washerwomen and their soap.
She grimaced. “Or we could take turns.”
“Listen to ye,” the widow scolded. “Washing in the stream like a gypsy girl. Off into my tub.”
She had no choice. It was the proper thing to do, or at least, less improper than bathing in a stream. And yet her feet dragged as she thought about times when she had happily bathed outside and wondered if she really wanted to be a lady.
She did. So it was the lye soap for her.
She walked around the outside of the house. There were bathing screens set up for customers, a copper a bath. But no one had been expected today, so it was the washing tub with its boiling water and lye soap for her.
She stripped out of her clothes, grimacing at the mud and the tears. Even the corset was filthy. She had to wait while the water cooled off, so she helped the widow with her work, though she couldn’t do much more than fish clothing out of the water and do her best not to get mud on the freshly laundered attire.
“That’s a finely made man, that is,” the widow said, her gaze sharp on Maybelle’s face. “If I were a mite younger, I might set my cap at ’im.”
“Oh?” she answered, doing her best to sound casual. She didn’t think it worked. Fortunately, the widow didn’t talk unless it was important.
“I like some hair on a man. Keeps a woman warm in winter.”
Maybelle frowned at the widow, not understanding what the woman could possibly mean. Certainly, she understood the male form. She’d seen workers strip out of their shirts, so she knew that some had thick pelts of hair, others not as much. But didthat mean Mr. Hallowsby was hairy? And why would a woman like that? She’d never thought twice about a man’s chest hair, but suddenly, she was anxious to see Mr. Hallowsby’s. What exactly did his torso look like?
“Water’s cool enough,” the woman said, a quirk to her lips that might be a smile. “In you go.”
Maybelle hissed as she climbed in. It wasn’t nearly as cool as she wanted, but she adjusted. She wanted to be washed and out as soon as possible. She had an idea of sneaking down to view Mr. Hallowsby, and she couldn’t do that while being scrubbed here.
So she hurried when she might have lingered just to tease the widow into sharing some gossip. Then she pulled on a dress that was too large for her, billowing around her body until she tied a heavy rope around her waist. Looking in the mirror, she couldn’t look less like a lady. Her wet hair stuck limply to her skin, and her dress was a dull brown, pulled in to fit her. But she didn’t have to be a lady just yet, right? Not until London.
Still, her heart ached that Mr. Hallowsby would see her like this.
“Like a girl dressin’ up in her mama’s clothes,” said the widow. “Fresh and clean—”
“And looking like a child?” She inhaled deeply, seeing her full breasts stretch the fabric. Well, at least in that regard, she wasn’t a little girl.
“Not like a child,” the widow chided softly. “Like a fairy girl trying on—”
“Other people’s clothes,” she sighed softly. “Someday, I’m going to have fine things. I’ll never use a rope as a belt, I’ll have silk slippers for every day of the week, and people will curtsy to me.”
“Oooee,” the widow whistled. “And don’t you have fine plans? Nothing comes of dreaming big except heartache.”
Maybelle lifted her chin and tried to look like an aristocrat. “I am a lady. You’ll see. I’m—”
“That’s your mum talking. Lord knows her passing was a sad day for us all, but don’t be letting her dreams ruin your living.”
This was an old refrain from the widow, as well as everyone else in town. Maybelle was tired of it. “I got my plans.”
