“Yes.”“Yesnt>
“Ah.” Harold looked at his wife. Gertrude stared back at him, quite obviously at a loss for words. He turned to Melisande. “Are you quite sure? Might you have mistaken a look or . . .” His sentence trailed away. It was probably quite hard to think of what else might be mistaken for a marriage proposal.
“I am sure,” she said quietly but clearly. Her words were steady, though her heart was singing inside. “Lord Vale said he would call upon you in three days to settle the matter.”
“I see.” Harold stared in consternation at his boiled English beef, as if it had turned to Spanish stewed squid. “Well. Then I offer my congratulations, my dear. I wish you every happiness with Lord Vale.” He blinked and looked up at her, his brown eyes uncertain. He’d never really understood her, poor man, but she knew he cared for her. “If you are sure?”
Melisande smiled at him. However little they had in common, Harold was still her brother, and she loved him. “I am.”
He nodded, though he still looked worried. “Then I shall send a missive informing Lord Vale that I will be glad to receive him.”
“Thank you, Harold.” Melisande aligned her fork and knife precisely on her plate. “Now, if you will excuse me, it’s been a long day.”
She rose from the table, conscious that the minute she exited the room, Harold and Gertrude would discuss the matter. The skitter of claws against the wood floor trailed her as she entered the dim hallway—Gertrude’s economy of candles prevailed here as well.
Their amazement was only to be expected, really. Melisande had shown no interest in matrimony for many years, not since her disastrous engagement to Timothy so long ago. Strange, to think now how devastated she’d been when Timothy had left her. All that she’d lost had been unbearable. Her emotions had been sharp and burning then, so awful that she’d thought she might die from his rejection. The pain had been physical, a deep cutting thing that had made her chest ache and her head pound. She never wanted to feel such agony again.
Melisande rounded a corner and mounted the stairs. Since Timothy, she’d had few suitors and none of them serious. Harold and Gertrude had probably long resigned themselves to her living with them for the rest of her natural life. She was grateful that they had never shown any aversion to her constant company. Unlike many spinsters, she’d not been made to feel a burden or out of place.
In the upper hall, her room was the first around a curve to the right. She shut the door, and Mouse, her little terrier, jumped onto the bed. He turned three times, then lay down on the counterpane and looked at her.
“An exhausting day for you as well, Sir Mouse?” Melisande inquired.
The dog tilted his head at her voice, his black bead eyes alert, his button ears—one white, the other brown—pricked forward. The fire was burning low in the grate, and she used a taper to light several candles around the small bedroom. The room was sparsely furnished, yet each piece was chosen carefully. The bed was narrow, but the delicately carved posts were a rich, golden brown. The counterpane was a plain white, but the sheets hidden underneath were made of the finest silk. There was only one chair in front of thshun fronte fireplace, but the arms were gilt, the seat richly embroidered in gold and purple. This was her refuge from the world. The place where she could simply be herself.
Melisande went to her desk and contemplated the pile of papers there. She was nearly done with the fairy-tale translation, but—
A knock sounded at her door. Mouse sailed off the bed and barked wildly at the door as if marauders were without.
“Hush.” Melisande toed him aside and opened the door.
A maid stood outside. She bobbed a curtsy. “Please, miss, might I have a word with you?”
Melisande raised her brows and nodded, stepping back from the door. The girl eyed Mouse, who was grumbling under his breath, and made a wide berth around the dog.
Shutting the door, Melisande looked at the maid. She was a pretty girl, with gold curls and fresh, pink cheeks, and she wore a rather elegant green printed calico gown. “Sally, isn’t it?”
The maid bobbed again. “Yes, mum, Sally from downstairs. I heard . . .” She gulped, squeezed her eyes shut, and said very quickly, “I heard that you’ll be marrying Lord Vale, ma’am, and if you do that, you’ll be leaving this house and going to live with him, and then you’ll be a viscountess, ma’am, and if you’re a viscountess, ma’am, then you’ll be needing a proper lady’s maid, because viscountesses have to have their hair and clothes just so, and begging your pardon, ma’am, but they’re not just so right now. Not”—her eyes widened, as if fearing she’d just insulted Melisande—“not that there’s anything wrong with your clothes or hair right now, but they’re not, not—”
“Exactly like that of a viscountess,” Melisande said dryly.
“Well, no, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am. And what I wanted to ask—and I’ll be ever so grateful if you let me, truly I will, you won’t be a wit disappointed, ma’am—is if you’d take me with you as your lady’s maid?”
Sally’s flow of words stopped abruptly. She simply stared, eyes and mouth wide, as if Melisande’s next words would decide her very fate.
Which well they might, since the difference in station between a downstairs maid and a lady’s maid was considerable. Melisande nodded. “Yes.”
Sally blinked. “Ma’am?”
“Yes. You may go with me as my lady’s maid.”
“Oh!” Sally’s hands flew up and it seemed she might grasp Melisande’s in gratitude, but then she must have thought better of it and merely waved them excitedly in the air. “Oh! Oh, thank you, ma’am! Oh, thank you! You’ll not regret it, really you won’t. I’ll be the best lady’s maid you ever did see, just you watch.”
“I’m sure you will.” Melisande opened the door again. “We can discuss your duties more thoroughly in the morning. Good night.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. Good night, ma’am.”
Sally bobbed into the hall, did a half-turn, bobbed again, and was still bobbing as Melisande shut the door.or.