Page 24 of The Courtship Trap
Evaline gave her a sympathetic glance. “Well, it is a fine tub. Stately, almost. Like its owner.”
“Ha! Stately? It mocked me daily. Sitting there, empty and gleaming, reminding me that I cannot even summon enough hot water for a proper soak.”
“Perhaps you might consider cold baths?”
“Cold? Have you lost your mind? I would sooner spend time with the Boyles.”
Harriet shook her head in disgust at the mere thought of the silly noble family on the next street. She had recently been stuck in a dinner seated next to Lord Boyle who liked to woefully whine about trivial matters. Not that he was as trying as his bacon-brained wife who perpetually spouted vulgar tongue she confused for fashionable colloquialisms—much to the lip-quivering amusement of the other dinner guests.
What was it Lady Boyle had said?
Something about how the Boyles had recently held a dinner with several bachelors, so she supposed they had provided bachelor fare. Everyone present, other than the Boyles themselves, had experienced a sudden need to dab their mouths with their napkins lest they burst into gales of incredulous laughter. One had to assume Lady Boyle was unaware of the true meaning of her words because mentioning doxies in polite company was simply not the done thing.
Harriet turned her attention to the clothing rack, which sagged under a small selection of gowns—muted greens, dark blues, and ivory. Her silks and satins looked dreary in the terrible light. The bright colors of her former wardrobe had been packed away, cut too low for her current requirements, replaced by more elegant tones better suited for her new life.
“Do you see this?” Harriet pointed at the rack. “Reduced to appropriate clothing. How far I have fallen.”
“It is practical for visiting Miss Cooper.” Evaline’s tone was mild. “And you did say you wished for new beginnings.”
“New beginnings, yes. But must they be so missish?” Harriet lifted a gown of powder-blue muslin. “This has all the excitement of tepid tea.”
“You chose it.”
“Under duress.”
Evaline tilted her head. “I prefer this new you. I think you look lovely, and it puts focus on your personality rather than …than …” Evaline’s fair face turned scarlet as she painted herself into a corner.
Harriet chuckled at her friend’s mortification. “My diddeys?”
Her friend blushed anew, her creamy skin turning to blazing red at Harriet’s crude choice of words.
“Just so.”
They both giggled.
Then Harriet spun on her heel, stalking the two steps needed to cross the room and flopping down onto the bench. She gestured dramatically at the copper tub.
“Bah! I have not had a proper bath in weeks. Weeks! Do you know why?”
“The lack of footmen, I presume?”
“Precisely. How am I expected to maintain the refinement of an important viscountess when I am forced to wash in the basement like a maid?”
“You did decide to move it here so that you could access your hot baths once more,” Evaline said with a pointed look. “And you could hire footmen.”
“Ah, yes. Footmen. I suppose that it is time to reintroduce men into the household, but I think that any of the male persuasion who are hired must be mild-mannered enough not to frighten our delicate staff.”
Evaline huffed in humor. “Given their fragile dispositions, we shall need footmen with the temperament of lambs.”
“And the strength of dockworkers so that I may return to dressing in my own bedchambers.” Harriet sighed. “I shall summon Mr. Benton tomorrow. A lady’s maid and at least one suitably meek footman. I refuse to live like this any longer.”
She peered down at the prison of her pelisse. Life had been much simpler with a full complement of staff. But back in August, when she had begun to make changes to her life, it had quickly become clear that her father had corrupted too many ofher servants into reporting back to him. Fearing his interference, Harriet had been forced to release them all—with references.
All except Cook, who was trustworthy, or at least she hoped so. Cook was her last remaining luxury until she finished rebuilding her household, and Harriet was not letting the old woman go. Cook was all that stood between her and a digestive complaint.
“I swear, I shall never wear this blasted pelisse again. It has a thousand tiny, cloth-covered buttons.”
Evaline removed her gloves with practiced ease before setting them aside on a washstand. “It did not look so troublesome when you put it on.”
