The brown fabric was threadbare and coarse enough to appear like burlap—until she pulled the fabric out to straighten the creases and realized it had been burgundy in color. Amber rubbed the fabric between her fingers. She had sewn shifts and aprons and, now, a dress. Could she not create curtains that would cheer this room? There were so many dark and heavy items in the cottage that a splash of green, or even yellow, would certainly lift the overall mood.
She spent half an hour going through the excess linens stored upstairs—none of which matched the idea she had for the curtains—and then looked through her own dresses that she had brought from London. There were three gowns she had not worn even once at the cottage, not wanting to soil them, and although she doubted her need to keep them—when would she ever need such fine clothes again?—she did not want to destroy them.
The four gowns she had worn until having the winter dresses made were stained and quite ruined, unless you were a cook and a cleaner. Which she was. Because they were still serviceable and spring would be arriving some time—she hoped—she did not want to destroy them either. But that left her without fabric for the project that had captured her attention and distracted her from her growing worry about Suzanne’s return.
It was then she remembered the trunks that had at one time been in Suzanne’s bedchamber. At the time Mr. Dariloo had come and moved them to the servant’s quarters, Amber and Suzanne had talked of going through them at some later date. Yet, they hadn’t. Instead Suzanne had learned to read quite well and play loo. Perhaps it was time to examine the contents of the trunks. Perhaps there would be some garment that would prove acceptable as curtains and thus spare Amber’s own dresses.
With that goal in mind, Amber was skipping down the stairs when the front door opened. She froze, put her hand on her cap-covered head, and turned to run back up the stairs, her heart in her throat and her lungs refusing to fill with air.
“Amber?”
At the sound of Suzanne’s voice, Amber relaxed, but she still peered around the edge of the frame to make sure Suzanne was alone. Suzanne had always come in through the kitchen on prior trips to town. Why had she come through the front? Was she alone?
When the door shut behind Suzanne, Amber dared come around the corner. “You scared me near to death.” Amber took in the maid’s disheveled appearance and tired expression and hurried to the bottom of the stairs. “Suzanne, are you all right?”
Suzanne looked at the floor and tried to hide the mud on her boots and the hem of her dress. “The gig slid off the road two miles from town. I had to walk back and ask Mr. Larsen for his help. He freed the gig, but it took some time and . . . the left wheel was broken.” She looked up. “I’m so sorry, Miss. I don’t know how it happened.”
“It is of no trouble,” Amber said. “But are you hurt? How did you return?”
“I rode Sally back after Mr. Larsen loaned me a saddle and said he would look after the gig. I feel like such a dunce.”
Amber shook her head at Suzanne’s self-recrimination. “We knew we were taking a risk having you drive to town before the roads firmed up. It will all turn out, but let’s get you into the kitchen and warm you up. I’ll see about heating some water for a bath. You must be half frozen.”
“Thank you,” Suzanne said, showing the level of her fatigue as she let out a breath. “I had to leave my purchases in town, as well as your traveling trunk—I’m sorry.”
“It’s no mind at all,” Amber said, ushering Suzanne into the kitchen. Dried mud fell from her hem to the floor; Amber would have to sweep up later. “Stop apologizing.”
She pulled one of the stools from the table closer to the fire and set Suzanne upon it. Suzanne leaned forward, soaking up the warmth and seeming to relax. Amber put a pot of water on to boil for tea, then a larger one to heat for a bath, added more coal to get a better blaze, and then led Sally the rest of the way to the stable, where she combed her out and treated her to a full bucket of grain.
By the time Amber returned to the kitchen, Suzanne had poured her own tea and the larger pot was heated. She poured the hot water into the tub, filled the pot again before putting it on to boil, and set the screen around the tub.
“I’ll not having you attending to me,” Suzanne said when Amber attempted to help her out of her dress. “It isn’t right.”
“Don’t be a goose,” Amber said, pushing Suzanne’s hands away. “You’re only making it harder.”
It was nearly an hour before Suzanne was warm and clean and had fully given up her fight. Amber found the reversing role rather humorous, mostly because it so discomfited her maid, and she therefore took extra measures for Suzanne’s comfort. When Suzanne was dressed in fresh clothing, Amber attempted to take the tub out of the kitchen but found it far too heavy. Suzanne had been the one to attend to bathing previously, and Amber had not once considered how it was done and was lost as to how to complete the task.
“You have to empty it in portions, just as you filled it,” Suzanne said as she jumped to her feet. “I shall do it.”
“You shall not,” Amber said, fixing her with a hard look. “After all the effort it took to get you dry, I shan’t risk starting all over because you soak yourself with bathwater.” She took the pot and removed a portion of water, dumping it out the back door. Once she’d removed enough water for the tub to be moved, she took the tub to the yard and finished emptying it.
“Now, what do we do with your clothing?” Amber said, eyeing the pile of sodden and muddy fabric. “Perhaps I shall hang it to dry until it can go to the washerwoman in town.”
“I shall hang it,” Suzanne said, rising to her feet again.
“You will not!” Amber retorted, quickly gathering the soiled fabric and hurrying into the yard. If it did not rain, the articles could dry outside, which seemed a far better course than hanging them on the line that stretched across the kitchen. The sun had been down for some time, and she shivered in the cold. Maybe a little rain would help clean the wretched things.
She was in the process of shaking out Suzanne’s coat when she heard the crinkle of paper from one of the pockets. Of course—Suzanne had retrieved the post while in town, but as she had said she’d left her parcels behind in the gig, Amber hadn’t thought to ask after any letters.
With eager hands Amber retrieved a letter addressed to Mrs. Chandler, the name written in an unfamiliar hand. She set it aside, then checked the rest of Suzanne’s pockets before returning inside.
“Was this in the post?” Amber asked, closing the door behind her and trying not to sigh in relief at the kitchen’s warmth.
Suzanne looked over her shoulder. “It’s from Mr. Richards. I meant to tell you of it as soon as I came in.”
Suddenly eager, Amber broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Dear Mrs. Chandler,
Thank you for your kind letter. I simply did what any other gentleman would do, but I am glad it added to your comfort for Mrs. Miller to be returned. I hope it is not too forward of me, but in your letter you said that if there was some way to repay the kindness you would be obliging. In the process of searching your library for the record I found last November, I noticed that you had a volume of John Donne’s early poetry. I am a great lover of his work and wondered if I might borrow the book and copy from it a few of his more poignant verses. I promise to take great care of it and return it quickly.
If this is acceptable, I should like to come Tuesday next, assuming the roads are clear, and promise not to bother you for long. There is no need to prepare anything on my behalf, I shall only retrieve the book and be on my way.
Sincerely,
Thomas Richards
Amber read the words through twice, quite forgetting that Suzanne was awaiting a report until she turned back to the fire and saw the woman standing there. “My apologies,” Amber said. “He would like to come on Tuesday and borrow a book.”
“Would he now?” Suzanne said with a grin.
“Apparently there is a rare book of poetry in the library.” Her stomach fluttered. “Do you object to his visit?”
After a slight pause, Suzanne shook her head. “Not at all. Mr. Larsen is coming for Sally and myself on Sunday in the vicar’s carriage so I may attend church. I can return with the gig on Monday. Tuesday is acceptable.”
Amber smiled, relieved, and gave into her building excitement. “Is it not rather invigorating to have someone in the cottage?” she said. “It is as though it brings new air into the very rooms, does it not?”
Suzanne simply inclined her head. She must not feel the same invigoration Amber did, but then, Suzanne interacted with townspeople on a regular basis. For Amber a possible visit from Mr. Richards was new and exciting, even though she knew she should be uncomfortable and anxious. Her jumbled feelings only underscored how strange her life had become. She had not
interacted
with Mr. Richards at all, but still, she had enjoyed his previous visit and had spent a great deal of time thinking of him and wondering about him. She liked very much that he felt welcome here. In fact, she realized, she was eager to have him come.
The idea of his visit gave Amber a fresh burst of energy as she went about the evening, seeing to Suzanne’s needs and finishing supper. Eventually she remembered the idea for her curtains—she would so very much like to have the new ones in place before Mr. Richards’s visit.
“We said we would sort through those trunks one day,” Amber said to Suzanne, “but we never have. Perhaps we could bring in one trunk at a time and sort it in the parlor. With both of us exerting ourselves on either end it shouldn’t be too difficult. It shall be like buried treasure!” She headed toward the sideboard to put away the dishes, then turned back to put a hand on Suzanne’s arm. “And you must help me come up with another cake! We cannot possibly serve him the same variety on Tuesday as we did the last time he came.”
Chapter 35
As with many things, the
proposition
of removing the four trunks, a wooden crate, and a lidded basket from the servant’s room to the parlor the next morning was far easier than the action it required. It did, in fact, take nearly an hour for the two women to complete the task. The furniture in the parlor was pushed to the walls, and they lit some coal in the grate they had not used all winter. They spent the majority of their time in the kitchen or library, which was why the parlor was the best choice for the project that was becoming more and more exciting to Amber. In the parlor, the trappings of the trunks would not get in the way of their daily activity.
After they had lunched on cold beef sandwiches and apple cake, Suzanne expressed her concerns about completing the other chores around the cottage since she had been gone two days and would be leaving again tomorrow when Mr. Larsen came for her.
“I can delay the sorting,” Amber said, hiding her disappointment. She wanted to see what those trunks held, but she also wanted Suzanne’s company. “I shall have time enough after you go to town.”
“You are more invested in the contents of those trunks than I shall ever be,” Suzanne proclaimed. “I am quite content to do our shared tasks before we go.”
She wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, crossing the ends over her chest and then tucking them into her apron band so as to free her hands as she went about her work. She tied on a rather worn bonnet against the chill wind that had picked up overnight and then pulled on a set of Amber’s leather gloves. They were too fine for stable work but as Amber had no other use for them, they served well enough.
Amber made Suzanne promise to fetch her if she needed help, then removed to the parlor where she was indeed eager to explore the trunks. She hoped to find fabric suitable for curtains, but she also wondered if perhaps the trunks belonged to a former occupant of the cottage. Who had lived in Step Cottage prior to Amber and Suzanne’s arrival?
Surely Mr. Dariloo could answer such questions should Amber have asked, but it had not occurred to her to do so until her mind had been turned to the trunks yesterday. She could hardly contain the intrigue of such a mystery.
Amber settled her attention on the largest trunk first and flipped the clasps, pressing the locks until she was able to pull the lid back with a great creaking. The packing paper had yellowed enough to testify that it had been some time since the trunks had been opened.
She moved the paper aside carefully, and then removed perhaps the most ridiculous hat she had ever seen. It was a large frothy looking thing so heavily adorned with ribbons and feathers—all of which were badly damaged from the storage—that Amber laughed out loud imagining someone attempting to balance such a creation upon one’s head. It was outdated and crisp with age. She set it aside and removed two other equally horrific pieces before moving aside another layer of paper to reveal what she thought was a costume of some sort.
Amber stood and pulled from the trunk a heavy brocade dress of dark red, with buttons of paste diamonds and eight inches of lace at the cuffs. The waist was low to the hip, the cut severe and the skirt billowing enough to accommodate hoops, no doubt. Her mother had worn similar gowns during her season more than twenty years ago, which at least gave Amber an idea of the age for the woman who may have owned this dress.
There was surely enough fabric in the large skirt to accommodate library curtains and the color would complement the room very well. She would feel bad cutting up such a remarkable—though completely unwearable—garment, however.
She laid the heavy dress across a chair before continuing on her pursuits, which resulted in three more equally elaborate and, in the case of two of them, quite hideous gowns. A green velvet thing with flounces and ruffles and a section that moths had gone to work on replaced the brocade for curtain consideration; the green would better suit the surroundings, Amber thought, and she would not be destroying a dress that was not already damaged.