to bed. Everything seemed to dance in front of her eyes. After Angela had settled herself primly in the middle of the bed and closed her eyes with the smooth movement of a china doll, Lucy turned down the gas and leaned her head wearily against the wall. Damn MacGregor! She would not go. But MacGregor was her boss and not to go would be an act of disobedience. She slowly made her way back to the kitchens, hoping against hope as she pushed open the green-baize door that he would have forgotten all about it.
But the elderly butler was already there, his eyes shining with excitement. “Come in, come in, and sit yourself down,” he said, fussing over her and pulling a chair up to the table.
She sat down and put her head in her hands.
“Now, then,” he said, drawing her hands away from her face. “I know you’re dead tired. We all are. But your troubles will soon be over. Do you realize, girl, that you’ve got a fortune at your fingertips? Do you realize we could escape from this drudgery?
“See here,” he inched his chair closer. “My plan is this. You and I could go to France or Germany and you could play the casinos. We could win a fortune, change our identities, and set ourselves up in London and be the lord and lady for a change. Think of it, Lucy! No more ‘yes, my lord’ and ‘no, my lady.’ I could pose as your father and even launch you on a Season. Present you at court.”
MacGregor got to his feet and began to pace up and down. “D’ye want to spend your life pandering to that wax image upstairs? D’ye want to die stitching her drawers? What d’ye say, Lucy?”
Lucy looked at him in tired dismay. “I think it’s wicked,” she gasped. “Downright wicked.”
She got to her feet and faced the butler. “I am proud of my job here, Mr. MacGregor. We will forget you ever suggested such a thing.” She moved toward the door.
MacGregor gave a harsh laugh. “Wait till the end of this house party, Miss Balfour, and then we’ll see whether you’re singing the same tune or not!”
CHAPTER THREE
The house party rioted its way from morning till night as the guests played and danced and the servants grew more moody and fatigued. Hollows were beginning to show in Lucy’s cheeks, her thick hair was losing its luster, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep and constant sewing.
But never in her weakest moment did she consider MacGregor’s offer. She refused to touch the cards again despite all the pleadings of MacGregor and the other servants. She celebrated her eighteenth birthday in a miasma of lace undergarments and fatigue.
On the last Friday of the house party, Lady Angela began to show signs of unusual animation. She failed to don her white cotton gloves and hunt for dust. With tired, heavy arms, Lucy assisted her into a tea gown of blond lace, delicate as a cobweb. The long lunch was over and Lucy planned to deliver her mistress to the drawing room door and then escape to the Pug’s Parlor to snatch a few moments of much-needed sleep. But that day, Lady Angela had other plans.
“I am taking my embroidery to the drawing room. You will accompany me and hand me my silks as I need them,” said Lady Angela, her beautiful face slightly flushed.
With aching legs, Lucy followed her mistress down the main staircase and into the drawing room. MacGregor was fiddling with decanters and glasses in the corner and various guests were sprawled in a state of after-luncheon somnolence. The sun shone through the latticed windows, slicing the heavy, musty air of the room into diamonds of light. Lucy sat dutifully down on a small sofa beside Lady Angela. One of the guests yawned and the clock ticked relentlessly on. “I’m
tired,”
said the grandfather clock and the little French clock replied with its hurried message, “Tired,
tired
, tired …” Lucy felt her eyes beginning to close and jerked them open.
A burly young man with a military air stood rocking back and forth on his heels in front of the
But the elderly butler was already there, his eyes shining with excitement. “Come in, come in, and sit yourself down,” he said, fussing over her and pulling a chair up to the table.
She sat down and put her head in her hands.
“Now, then,” he said, drawing her hands away from her face. “I know you’re dead tired. We all are. But your troubles will soon be over. Do you realize, girl, that you’ve got a fortune at your fingertips? Do you realize we could escape from this drudgery?
“See here,” he inched his chair closer. “My plan is this. You and I could go to France or Germany and you could play the casinos. We could win a fortune, change our identities, and set ourselves up in London and be the lord and lady for a change. Think of it, Lucy! No more ‘yes, my lord’ and ‘no, my lady.’ I could pose as your father and even launch you on a Season. Present you at court.”
MacGregor got to his feet and began to pace up and down. “D’ye want to spend your life pandering to that wax image upstairs? D’ye want to die stitching her drawers? What d’ye say, Lucy?”
Lucy looked at him in tired dismay. “I think it’s wicked,” she gasped. “Downright wicked.”
She got to her feet and faced the butler. “I am proud of my job here, Mr. MacGregor. We will forget you ever suggested such a thing.” She moved toward the door.
MacGregor gave a harsh laugh. “Wait till the end of this house party, Miss Balfour, and then we’ll see whether you’re singing the same tune or not!”
CHAPTER THREE
The house party rioted its way from morning till night as the guests played and danced and the servants grew more moody and fatigued. Hollows were beginning to show in Lucy’s cheeks, her thick hair was losing its luster, and her eyes were red from lack of sleep and constant sewing.
But never in her weakest moment did she consider MacGregor’s offer. She refused to touch the cards again despite all the pleadings of MacGregor and the other servants. She celebrated her eighteenth birthday in a miasma of lace undergarments and fatigue.
On the last Friday of the house party, Lady Angela began to show signs of unusual animation. She failed to don her white cotton gloves and hunt for dust. With tired, heavy arms, Lucy assisted her into a tea gown of blond lace, delicate as a cobweb. The long lunch was over and Lucy planned to deliver her mistress to the drawing room door and then escape to the Pug’s Parlor to snatch a few moments of much-needed sleep. But that day, Lady Angela had other plans.
“I am taking my embroidery to the drawing room. You will accompany me and hand me my silks as I need them,” said Lady Angela, her beautiful face slightly flushed.
With aching legs, Lucy followed her mistress down the main staircase and into the drawing room. MacGregor was fiddling with decanters and glasses in the corner and various guests were sprawled in a state of after-luncheon somnolence. The sun shone through the latticed windows, slicing the heavy, musty air of the room into diamonds of light. Lucy sat dutifully down on a small sofa beside Lady Angela. One of the guests yawned and the clock ticked relentlessly on. “I’m
tired,”
said the grandfather clock and the little French clock replied with its hurried message, “Tired,
tired
, tired …” Lucy felt her eyes beginning to close and jerked them open.
A burly young man with a military air stood rocking back and forth on his heels in front of the
Similar Books
(LB2) Shakespeare's Landlord
Charlaine Harris
The Wrathful Mountains
Lana Axe
Strands of Starlight
Gael Baudino
Betrayal
Lee Nichols
i 51ddca29df3edad1
Unknown
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
John le Carré
Burning Man
Alan Russell
The Lightning Bolt
Kate Forsyth
The Busy Girls Guide to Cake Decorating
Ruth Clemens
Sellevision
Augusten Burroughs