Authors: Lawana Blackwell
Her eyes locked with Bethia’s. “Can you ever forgive me?”
Bethia nodded, unable to speak.
“Let’s go down and get a pot of tea to go with our treats,” Miss Lidstone said to Mrs. Hamby.
“But we already have—” Mrs. Hamby said, then nodded owlishly. “Yes, a pot of tea, ha-ha.”
When the seamstresses were gone, Bethia found her voice. “You’ll never know what this means to me, Lady Holt.”
Muriel smiled again and advanced to where they stood just two feet apart. “I blamed you for what happened to Douglas, as if that would bring him back.”
Bethia’s eyes teared. “If only . . .”
“Now, now.”
Suddenly Bethia found herself in Muriel’s arms.
“We must put all that behind us,” Muriel said, patting her back.
“Thank you,” Bethia choked. She had known love all her life: love from God, from her family, from Guy. Being on the
receiving end of forgiveness felt almost as sweet. “With all my heart, thank you.”
****
Muriel’s eyes watered, and in that instant it seemed that some inexplicable cleansing freedom stretched its arms out to her, urging her to release the hatred and put it away forever.
Douglas would still be alive . . .
seeped again into her consciousness from the hard knot of resentment lodged in her mind. Bethia Rayborn needed to experience the same loss her family had suffered.
Or at least as devastating a loss.
As bitter as Muriel’s feelings were, she was no murderer. But she had experience with breaking up a marriage. How difficult could breaking up an engagement be?
Minutes later she was stripped to her chemise and standing on the rug. The seamstresses clucked over the pastries like two hens over corn, with Mrs. Hamby inserting that ridiculous laugh that made Muriel wish she could walk over to the table and slap her.
“Please don’t hold your breath, Lady Holt,” Bethia said, winding the ribbon around her waist. “Hmm. You’ve lost an inch.”
Grief will do that to you
rose to the tip of Muriel’s tongue, from habit. But she checked the impulse. She had been so clever, waiting over two weeks since dress rehearsal to extend the olive branch, just in case Mr. Birch happened to blather about her inquiring about the fiancé. Timing was of utmost importance, whether acting onstage or off. She would wait another week to take her revenge up another notch.
Two weeks,
Muriel amended.
“Oops . . . sorry,” Bethia said.
“Mmm?”
“I believe I pricked you.”
Muriel looked down at the muslin pattern pinned together at her shoulders and sides. “I didn’t feel a thing.”
****
“Every little noise the house makes,” Muriel’s mother said over the telephone that afternoon, “I think it’s
him
coming through the door to say it was all a big misunderstanding.”
“I know, Mother,” Muriel said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I do the same.”
“But he’s never coming back, is he?”
“No, Mother.”
“I wish I could die.”
Muriel swallowed. “Don’t say that.”
Her mother’s voice became smaller, almost lost. “Please come back home, Muriel. I need you.”
“Mother, please . . .” Muriel kicked herself mentally for not putting the call off until tomorrow. She had to get some rest before tonight’s performance. As much as she desired to comfort her mother, it was draining every bit of her energy. “We’ll come up for a long visit when the show’s had its run.”
When she hung up the telephone, her nerves were so wound that she went to her room and lay across her mattress. She heard the door ease open, then Evelyn’s hesitant voice.
“Shall I take off m’Lady’s boots?”
“No.” Muriel grabbed a pillow and shoved it under her chin. “Leave me alone.”
Her thoughts were beginning to meld into each other like the colors on a child’s water painting when a sound like a mewling kitten floated through her open window. She sat up and cocked her head, listening. The sound came again, and this time she got to her feet.
Mrs. Burles was coming from the front hall with the mail when Muriel reached the foot of the stairs.
“Lady Holt?”
“Georgiana. Is she in the garden?”
“Why, yes, your Ladyship.”
With the housekeeper on her heels, Muriel hastened down the corridor and through the back door. Nanny Prescott was seated on one of the stone garden benches, an open book in her hands while Georgiana tugged at her apron, weeping as
if her little heart would break. When Muriel was just a few feet away, the nursemaid lowered the book, gave her a startled look, and got to her feet. Georgiana let go of the apron and rushed toward Muriel, still weeping.
“Lady Holt . . .” said Prescott.
“What’s going on here?” Muriel demanded, hefting Georgiana into her arms.
The nanny’s plain face pinkened. “I beg m’Lady’s pardon, but it’s not how it looks.”
“Sh-h-h, Mother’s here,” Muriel said, holding Georgiana out a bit so that Mrs. Burles could wipe her little face with a handkerchief. To Prescott she said, “Then, what is it?”
“Miss Georgiana demands my attention every waking minute. I thought if I didn’t give in to her for a half hour or so daily, she would learn to amuse herself.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Muriel said over her daughter’s howls. “Why should she amuse herself when she has you?”
“The very idea!” said Mrs. Burles. “You’re not paid good wages to ignore the child.”
“I was keeping one eye on her.” Prescott motioned toward a basket on the grass beside the bench. “And I brought out some toys.”
Muriel had suffered just about enough frustration for one day. Georgiana continued to weep, her little face crimson, though no more tears dampened her cheeks.
“Well, you’re never to do that again! Your job is to look after my daughter, not indulge yourself with novels!”
“Yes, m’Lady,” Nanny Prescott said with head lowered.
Muriel turned and carried her daughter into the house, Mrs. Burles hastening ahead to open doors. She settled on a parlour chair, kissed the top of Georgiana’s head and soothed, “There there, now.”
After inhaling a couple of shaky breaths, Georgiana leaned against her. Muriel was not accustomed to holding her, for the child’s restless energy made her nervous. Nanny Prescott had been the one to hold Georgiana in her lap most of the time
during the train journeys to and from Sheffield, to prevent her from climbing over to the window and pitching herself out.
But this was rather nice, Muriel thought, resting her head against the back of the chair. Drowsiness from her unfinished nap settled over her, slowing her breathing and draining the tension from her muscles.
When she opened her eyes later, Georgiana was making faint snoring noises, and Nanny Prescott was seated on the edge of the Hepplewhite chair just inside the door. She was wearing the washed-out dark gown she had worn to apply for her position last fall, gloves, and a felt hat with a sad little cluster of drooping flowers above one ear. A faded and lumpy carpetbag listed to the right at her feet.
“Where are you going?” Muriel said softly.
“I can no longer work here, Lady Holt. But Mrs. Burles asked me to speak with you first so . . .”
“You’ll abandon us without giving me time to replace you?”
“You have others here who can watch Miss Georgiana until you find someone. And as you sacked the last nanny just for giving notice, I figured I’d be leaving today anyway.”
I should sack the lot of them for gossiping,
Muriel thought, lips pressed tight. She did not need more strain upon her nerves. “Have you also heard that I didn’t give the last nanny a reference? You saw how many others applied for your position. Just how do you expect to find another one?”
Nanny Prescott closed her eyes briefly, nodded. “I have that other letter from Mrs. Godfrey. I’ve saved my wages. I’ll get by until I find something.”
Muriel was all set to dispute that point when Georgiana drew in a deep breath and shifted in her lap. With a pointed glance down at her sleeping daughter, Muriel said, “Do you care nothing for
her
happiness?”
“More than you can know, Lady Holt,” the nursemaid said calmly. “And that’s why I must leave. I’m with Miss Georgiana every waking minute. But I can no longer in good conscience stay here as simply her older playmate. I taught her to use a
fork and brush her teeth. May I not teach her some strength of character?”
Strength of character indeed!
Muriel thought. A lofty term, coming from a woman whose only previous experience was rearing siblings and pigs. “She’s but three years old, Prescott.”
Nanny Prescott’s sloping shoulders rose, fell. “I learned from my own brothers and sisters that it’s the lessons we learn young that stick with us. How will Miss Georgiana develop patience—and a keen imagination—if she’s not left to her own devices now and again? How will she cope with having to share a schoolmistress’s attention?”
It was only because her child slept in her lap that Muriel was forced to keep her temper in check. Somewhat. She was drawing breath to inform Prescott, but calmly so, that she did not appreciate a lecture on child-rearing from someone who had never parented her
own
child, when memories of her miserable friendless two years at the Ryle Day School gave her pause. She had marched through the gates expecting the same royal treatment she received at home, only to discover she was not the only Princess of Belgravia.
Some of the logic of what she was hearing slipped past her defenses.
“It’s just that it breaks my heart to hear her weep so,” Muriel admitted, startled at herself for being so candid with a servant.
Prescott nodded sympathetically. “Rarely has Miss Georgiana the occasion to weep, Lady Holt. The others will confirm that I’m kind to her, if you’ll but ask them. But if shedding some tears early—while I’m close at hand to make sure she’s safe—will save her from more serious tears later, is it not worth it?”
Muriel had no opportunity to ponder that question, for Georgiana stirred, sighed, and sat up. Damp tendrils of her still-baby-fine hair curled about her ear, where she had leaned against Muriel. Blinking, the child seemed to be trying to get her bearings.
“Good afternoon, Georgiana,” Muriel said.
Georgiana turned her little face up, blinked at her, and then looked across the room. “Where nanny going?” she asked with worried tone, pointing toward the carpetbag.
“Nowhere,” Muriel replied, and gave Prescott an imploring look.
“Lady Holt, I cannot stay under—”
“Do you promise you’ll always stay right there with her?”
“Of course I will.”
Any misgivings Muriel still suffered were silenced for the moment when Georgiana climbed down from her lap and hastened across the carpet to tug at the handles of the carpetbag. “Nanny not go. I help nanny put away.”
****
Just before leaving for the theatre that evening, Muriel went up to the nursery. A tray of used supper dishes sat upon the table where the child and nanny ate their meals. Georgiana sat upon Prescott’s lap in the rocking chair while Prescott read from
The Butterfly’s Ball.
The child turned up her cheek for Muriel’s farewell kiss and then fastened her blue eyes again to the open picture book.
“Read story?” she said to her nanny.
Relieved that she had not allowed her temper to drive Prescott away, Muriel was nonetheless struck by the same little pang that came whenever it was obvious that Georgiana was closer to her nanny than herself.
On her way back downstairs she reasoned away the hurt by reminding herself that every child in Belgravia was reared by a nanny. One had only to walk in Green Park on a sunny day for proof. But when Georgiana became old enough to do things with her—to shop, attend theatre, and the like—she was positive that their bond would strengthen. More like friends than mother and daughter. Just like her relationship with her own mother had been.
****
“You’re moving up in the world are you, Mr. Carey?” Miss Lidstone asked on the last day of August, between Mr. Birch’s calling out measurements from behind the screen.
When
The Bells
opened in four weeks, Mr. Carey would be playing the Clerk of the Court in Act III. He would also continue as Mr. Whitmore’s understudy, as Mr. Hicks was still recovering. In the event that Mr. Carey would be called upon to assume the lead role for an evening, one of the utility actors would fill in for the minor role.
“I’m moving up indeed,” the actor called over the screen.
“And his back is as clear as a baby’s bottom!” Mr. Birch volunteered.
“Mr. Birch!” Miss Lidstone scolded, while Mrs. Hamby dissolved into giggles.
Bethia would have covered her face with her hands were she not holding a pencil and notebook. It was time to speak with Mr. Birch about some of his irreverent remarks, as amusing as they were.
“I’m sure your back is just as attractive, Mr. Birch,” she heard Mr. Carey say.
“Ah, now, you wouldn’t want to go laying money on that!”
“Congratulations on your new part,” Bethia said when the actor came back out in his street clothes—a suit of tweed-looking Henrietta cloth.
“Is it a big part, Mr. Carey, ha-ha?” Mrs. Hamby asked.
The actor smiled at her. “Not quite. My lines add up to exactly forty-two words.”
Miss Lidstone walked over to him, reached up to tweak his cheek. “We’re very proud of you.”
“Why, thank you,” he said, blushing but looking pleased.
“I wonder why he’s so poor?” she said after he left. “Surely he made some money on the York stage.”
Mr. Birch shook his head. “Most regional theatres pay the local actors pittance. They wait tables or wash windows between jobs.”
“I have it on good authority that he spent his life savings on
his fiancée’s funeral,” said Mrs. Hamby, but with sentimental expression and no mirth to the trailing “ha-ha!”
“And whom might your ‘good authority’ be?” Mr. Birch asked.
Mrs. Hamby drew up her short stature. “Mrs. Shore overheard Mr. Dalton saying it to Miss Hill, I’ll have you know.”