Through the Smoke

She hated the very thought of that—it signaled the end of the autonomy she prized so highly—but what could she do?

Nothing. For better or worse, she’d made her decision at the mine.

“Girl? Girl!”

With a blink, Rachel drew her attention to the housekeeper. “Yes, mum?”

“Stow your belongings in that before I give you a good smack.” She pointed at a wardrobe against the wall. “Then return below stairs immediately.”

Rachel had put in long hours at the bookshop, and at the mine, but she had a feeling her days here would be just as long and probably as grueling. Mrs. Poulson confirmed such when, in the kitchen, she handed Rachel a mop and a bucket and told her to remove all the rugs, beat them outside and scrub the floors—a job Rachel knew, with a house as vast as this one, would take her deep into the night, especially because she was getting such a late start.

“By day’s end, mum?” she asked.

“By day’s end.”

Mrs. Poulson waited to see if she would balk at the sheer enormity of the task, but Rachel clamped her mouth shut. After dipping into a polite curtsy, she carried her mop and bucket to the family wing so that she could, hopefully, be finished there before Lord Druridge and Mr. Stanhope decided to retire.

Lord Druridge’s bedroom brought back memories. Rachel held her breath as she entered, hoping those memories wouldn’t crowd too close. But she had to breathe eventually, and when she did, the smell of the furniture polish, his clothes and a hint of pipe smoke brought it all back to her.

Her eyes shifted to the bed, even though she’d been trying to look elsewhere. She’d lost her virginity right there. Maybe she’d thought she was dreaming when it started, but she’d been aware of what she was doing by the end, and the mere audacity of her actions amazed her. No doubt he, and everyone else, would laugh at a poor village girl lusting after the great earl.

Soon, sweet Rachel, soon… Let me savor the taste and feel of you.…

Had he really spoken those words? Or was it a hallucination caused by the laudanum or whatever else Wythe had likely given her?

A noise in the hall jerked her out of her reverie. She had to hurry and get out of here. She’d chosen to start in this particular chamber so she wouldn’t be anywhere close to it by the time night fell. But the door swung wider than she’d left it, and the earl walked in.

He seemed taken aback when he saw her. Obviously, he hadn’t come to his room expecting to bump into her. She thought he might go about his business. She was only a cleaning maid, after all, and would soon blend into the background of his life. But he stopped and stared at her as if he wished he could read her thoughts.

Face burning, she ducked her head. “Excuse me, my lord. I-I will come back when you no longer have need of your chambers,” she murmured and started to leave.

“Rachel.”

Jittery and unsure, she turned back. The bed seemed so large, as if it were taking up all the space in the room. And he was taking up the oxygen. “Yes?”

“Will you be comfortable here at Blackmoor Hall?”

He seemed genuinely interested in hearing her answer, but she couldn’t imagine why. He’d saved her from those men in the mine and put a roof over her head. He’d even taken in her brother. His conscience should be clear.

“Yes, my lord,” she said and hurried away despite the fact that he might have wanted to ask her more.

Rachel didn’t see the earl again for three weeks. Word had it he and his man, Linley, had left for London on business, and it must be true. Otherwise, she couldn’t have avoided him. She didn’t have the energy to do anything so calculated. She was up, blacking fireplaces by five, and didn’t finish her work until eleven or later. She barely had time to eat—usually managed only two small meals a day. Rachel was certain the housekeeper was taking over where Wythe had left off. Poulson was trying to get her to quit so she could prove to Lord Druridge that he never should’ve hired her in the first place.

But Rachel had refused to let Wythe break her; she wouldn’t let Poulson either. She dragged herself out of bed before dawn each morning and performed every chore assigned to her—and she did it without complaint. Unfortunately, she also did it without so much as a smile or a kind word from anyone else. The other maids didn’t want to cross Mrs. Poulson. The housekeeper had made it very clear she found Rachel to be lacking in character and that her “moral corruption” might spread to others if they did not maintain a proper distance. So, isolated, hungry and tired, Rachel faced long, lonely days spent in an endless round of beating rugs and mattresses, spreading the carpets with damp tea leaves to remove the dust and sweeping and mopping and emptying chamber pots.

After what seemed like an eternity of Mrs. Poulson’s unrelenting hatred, she might’ve succumbed to the despair that threatened, especially in her most tired moments. But Geordie was so happy. She didn’t get to see him often, but the few brief encounters her job afforded her had convinced her that he was thriving under the tutelage of the stable master. Geordie claimed he was being treated like the man’s own son and talked on and on of all he was learning and how much he loved the horses. When he slipped her a peppermint drop the stable master had given him and thanked her for bringing him to Blackmoor Hall, she couldn’t let on that she was miserable. In her heart she knew she’d suffer anything to keep him in such a healthy situation. Even Mrs. Poulson’s spite. And Wythe’s occasional baiting. She’d bumped into Lord Druridge’s cousin at least four times since she started in service. As expected, he was determined to continue his persecution. But so far she’d survived their encounters by ignoring the ugly things he said, which always revolved around her lost virtue, even though he was the one who’d deposited her in the earl’s bed.

Late one night, when she dragged herself to the garret especially late, she found a book waiting for her—The Complete Servant by Sarah and Samuel Adams. No doubt Mrs. Poulson had left the tome on her pillow so that she could begin to cure her many shortcomings.

Barely able to lift her eyelids, she set the “rules” aside and crawled under the covers in her clothes. The housekeeper would surely chastise her for not taking a few minutes to undress and say her prayers. Such negligent behavior would be additional proof of her poor breeding. But the blanket she’d been given wasn’t enough to keep her warm. She huddled beneath its thin covering, shivering while she listened to the soft breathing of the other girls, who’d gone to bed at least two hours earlier.