Page 17 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
As for dinner, well, it was late morning so she had several hours to decide how she would handle that. Bread and butter perhaps. Only retrieving the butter meant dealing with the pheasant’s beady eyes again. Bread only then.
The man needed to hire a cook. She could not be expected to manage the house and the kitchen, although apparently she had. She sank back down onto the chair. None of this made sense, none of it felt right.
She supposed she could sit here all day in the uncomfortable chair, pondering, but perhaps he had the right of it. Once she began seeing to her duties, everything would fall into place.
Rising, she glanced around for her apron. She peered behind doors, examined the pantry, looked into drawers. It was not to be found. In her bedchamber perhaps. As she was truly in no hurry to begin scrubbing and polishing, she ambled through the hallways and rooms, searching for anything familiar. She failed to find it as well, but she could see the potential in the rooms, imagined the furniture that should inhabit each one, the paintings that would delight, the sculptures that would add ambiance. How did she know art?
Where was she before she came to work for him? Who was her family? Did she still see them? Did she send them her wages? How much did she earn? Obviously not much when her clothing was so terribly prickly and didn’t fit quite right.
She wandered up the stairs and came to a stop outside Darling’s bedchamber. He was sleeping in the massive bed. Was it appropriate for her to be alone in the residence with him? Did no one care about her reputation?
The longer she was awake, the more she wondered, the more questions arose. She carried on down the empty hallway, her footsteps echoing between the walls. He needed carpets, wall hangings, something to absorb the sound. She couldn’t be expected to creep around all day. Still, she lightened her footfalls. As he had apparently saved her from drowning, she supposed she should show more consideration.
Walking into her bedchamber, she was once again taken aback by the simplicity of it and lack of anything personal. Sitting on the edge of the cot, she was struck by how hard it was. Surely she should remember sleeping on it. On the other hand, its discomfort was cause for not remembering.
Reaching down, she examined each piece of clothing that seemed to be awaiting her inspection. None of it seemed to be to her taste. Other than the fact that everything was quite plain, it was not made to her standards. Sitting back, she stared into space. What precisely were her standards?
Her head began to ache. Blast it all! Not remembering was quite a nuisance. She couldn’t imagine where else she might have placed an apron. Had she been wearing it last night when she’d tumbled into the river? Had Darling tossed it with the remainder of her ruined clothing?
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though she was going to get filthy with her chores. As far as she could tell, she didn’t have a great deal to keep her busy. Dust, he’d told her. She’d begin in the library where furniture and shelves would attract motes and cobwebs.
After returning to the kitchen, where she found a rag, she went to the library. In spite of the room’s sparse furnishings, it contained a masculine quality. She could see him working behind the large, dark desk, his head bent in concentration as he wrote diligently in ledgers. The lamp on the desk would cast a glow over his work. Did he seek her advice on matters? Did he care about her opinion? She couldn’t see herself not offering it if she had one.
Edging around the desk, she sat in the thick leather chair and sighed with pleasure. Lovely. Just like his bed. It seemed he didn’t skimp on his own comfort. In the future she would take her meals in here. Or perhaps she would eat in his bed.
She furrowed her brow. She’d eaten in bed before. Probably when he wasn’t here. She could get away with a lot when he wasn’t about. If she cleaned up after herself he would never know that she made use of his possessions.
Walking over to the shelves, she slapped the rag halfheartedly at the shelves that were empty of everything except dust. She couldn’t say much for her housekeeping skills, although to be fair she found it rather difficult to take battling dirt seriously. No joy was to be found in the action. No fun. However had this become her life?
She narrowed her eyes as an image flashed through her mind. Leather volumes. Dickens. Austen. Shakespeare. She could see them lined up, one after the other. Gold embossed lettering. She lifted her fingers as though she could touch them. She’d read these authors and more. She liked to read. No, she loved to read! She enjoyed being carried away into a world different from her own, with characters who did not sit in judgment of her.
As she considered what her life was, she could well imagine wanting to escape it. But who judged her? Those better than she. But who were they?
If books were so important to her, why weren’t any in her room? Because they were costly. Again, another tidbit that she knew.
She swung away from the shelves and the room seemed to circle around her in a blur. Her life contained other blurs. She began to hum a familiar tune. Lifting her arms, she swayed, then began moving her feet in time to the music that only she could hear. She knew the song, knew the movements, knew that a gentleman had swept her over a floor.
And she was convinced with every fiber of her being that she did not belong here.
“Iknow how to waltz.”
Squinting against the sunlight pouring into the room, Drake stared at the woman standing near the end of his bed. She’d awoken him with her pronouncement. Why was he not surprised that she would think nothing of interrupting a man from his well-deserved rest? “Pardon?”
“I know how to waltz. I can hear the music. No, it’s more than that. Iknowthe music. I daresay, if you had a pianoforte, I would be able to play it. Chopin. Beethoven. Mozart. I can see my fingers flying over the ivory keys. I can see myself dancing with a gentleman. I can read. Dickens. Austen. Browning. I can quote passages.”
He shoved himself to a sitting position, not caring that the covers fell to his waist. “Your point?”
She blinked, stared at his person, somewhere along his chest, he thought. Her lips parted slightly, and he didn’t know why he felt a need to inhale deeply, expand his chest and beat on it like some great ape in the zoological gardens. He’d never cared about impressing her. He wasn’t about to start now.
Swallowing, she grabbed hold of the bedpost as though she needed its sturdiness to support her so she could remain upright. “I don’t believe a servant would know all those things.”
“You don’t think a servant could watch others dancing and pick up the steps? Memorize the music? Read? I assure you that valuable servants can in fact read.”
“I’m not doubting that a servant can read, but that one would have time to read as widely as I have.”
“You haven’t been in service all that long.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How did I come to work here at all?”
