Lady In Waiting (12 page)

Jenny pranced into the kitchen, her mood as light as
i
gossamer overdress.

Well, today she'd celebrate by engaging Mrs. Mar
s
hall to craft a French-inspired gown. She'd even pay
the
modiste to rush the order, since goodness knows she c
o
uld well afford the extra fee now. She still had a
w
eek's worth of cream supplies after all, and could a
lw
ays pay down her shop debts later. What difference wou
l
d a few days make anyway?

Besides, rushing the gown to completion was not just
in
indulgence. It was a bleedin' imperativ
e
—
f
or who

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knew when the Featherton ladies would grow tired of their game and put an end to her forays into society?

Her eye touched upon the girlish lavender gown atop her sewing basket. She'd better get started on that frock right away. As she snatched the pile up, Jenny was immediately reminded of her tiredness, for with each step forward the meager heft of the sewing basket sent painful spasms into her back.

Then an idea exploded in her mind. Of course! Now that she had a couple guineas, maybe she could steal a little time from the Widow McCarthy's sewing girl next door. Yes, she could pay her to repiece the gown, to her own specifications of course.

Opening the door to her small chamber, Jenny didn't dare look at her bed for fear it would woo her between its warm covers. Instead, she picked up her boar's bristle hairbrush and her small looking glass, intending to tidy up a bit. But when she smiled into the mirror, all lightness and cheer drained away at the glimpse of the dark circles ringing her eyes, and the sickly pale pallor to her skin.

Criminy,
she looked positively ghastly. Why didn't she keep one of the pots of facial cream for herself? Surely, no one needed its rejuvenating effects more than she this morn.

Jenny raced from her chamber, through the kitchen, and flung open the service door. Her gaze dove into the basket.

Blast!
The two spare pots were gone.

Instead, two homespun coin bags lay insid
e
—
a
long with
nine
stones. Gads, not more orders!

She moaned at the thought of another sleepless night.

Slipping her fingers around the basket handle, Jenny

 

87

trudged through the kitchen, past the two nosy scullery maids, and back to her chamber.

She was never going to survive. Why, her eyelids seemed to be just waiting for her to blink, so they could close for a good four hours.

Who would have thought being a lady would be so terribly hard?

******************

By the time the clock struck the tenth hour, Meredith was finally dressed and sitting at the dining table breaking her fast with the two Featherton ladies. Their voices were confined to mere whispers, but with just a little effort Jenny managed to hear enough to know that the matchmakers were busily hatching yet another way to lure Lord Argyll to their house.

By half past ten, Jenny's morning ironing was completed, or at least so it would appear if anyone were to check. In truth though, she'd only ironed three of Meredith's shifts and used them to cover the wrinkled clothing still in the basket.

Still, she'd not be needed again until just before tea, and so Jenny decided to make use of this rare gap in duties to take care of her own most pressing sartorial needs.

Her eyes flashing warily around her, Jenny stole her mother's woolen cape from the hook near the service door and laid it around her shoulders.

It itched against her arms and neck like a marching army of ants. But she had to borrow it, for the cape concealed the huge, puffy bundle of Meredith's hand-me-

 

88

down lavender frock long enough for her to slip next door.

Lud, the cape was so hideous. Jenny could hardly bear to see herself clothed in it. And so, before leaving, she pulled from her wardrobe the satin hatbox from Matilda's and placed atop her head the most splendid velvet bonnet she owned. That way, she reasoned, if someone saw her, their gaze would be so riveted by her lovely bonnet that they'd never ever notice the horrid cape.

Stealthily, she made her way next door and through the service door where she met Molly, the widow's sewing girl, who, as Jenny had hoped, was more than eager to earn a few coins beneath her employer's notice.

With that task undertaken, Jenny headed next for Trim Street to place her dress order with Mrs. Marshall, and then finally she was off to Bath's center.

Truth to tell, Jenny couldn't wait to near the Pump Room. She wasn't going
in
of course, not dressed as shabbily as she was, but rather she planned to loiter outside, waiting and watching.

She had quite convinced herself that the mysterious woman in red, the one with the scrappy worn-out shoes, and her two gentlemen friends would be there, and some wicked plan to rob Bath's finest would be afoot.

As she walked past the Pump Room, she lingered at the front windows, but there was no sign of the terrible trio.

Keenly disappointed that no entertainment was to be had, Jenny finally spun on her heel in the direction of Royal Crescent. There was ironing still to be finished, slippers to be cleaned . . . and cream to be blended in

 

89

the stil
lr
oo
m
—
s
ecretly of course. Those tasks would have to provide her excitement for the day.

Suddenly, the sky cracked open and a bone-chilling rain began to fall. Jenny tightened her mother's wool cape closer about her shoulders.

The rain was heavy and within moments she was soaked through to her chemise.

Then she smelled something foul. She sniffed the air and realized the smell was coming from herself.

Oh, perdition,
the wet cape was starting to make her reek like a sodden sheep.

She glanced angrily up at the low gray sky as she splashed her way across the Abbey Church Yard. There were no signs of blue anywhere, and if she did not seek shelter, she would soon catch a horrid cold upon her chest. And that would be the end of the grand Lady Genevieve.

All
of Bath's service staff would come to her funeral, Jenny mused. Of course they would, and during her burial, not a shirt in the entire city would be ironed, not a meal prepared or a fire lit. At the notion, she smiled a little as she quickened her pace.

The
ton
would be confused and outraged at the work stoppage, and the interest of the mysterious
on-dit
columnist would be pricked.

Jenny's brows raced toward the bridge of her nos
e
—for
th
is event would mark her downfall. Being the curious sort
,
the columnist would no doubt investigate the hushed background of the great lady, who was so admired by those in service. The columnist would dig and pry and snoop. And in the end, he'd expose her for the maid she was. What a horror that would be!

What would Callu
m
think of her then?

 

90

She squinted her eyes and looked around. Bath Abbey was just ahead, though through the gray veil of cold, lashing rain, the peaks of its soaring spires were no longer visible. It was a trick of light and mist, certainly, but the carved angels ascending the abbey's twin ladders to heaven appeared this day to have a chance of reaching their ultimate destination at last.

Since the morning service had concluded at least two hours prior, Jenny slipped inside to prevent her death and ultimate exposure as a lady's maid.

Her boots echoed loudly as she moved forward down the long open aisle. Sitting quietly upon the bench along the wall, Jenny gazed upward at the exquisite fan-vaulted ceiling above the altar, and at the brilliant stained-glass shields in the clerestory above the nave, and smiled.

It was deliciously peaceful here, and quiet. Here she could be alone with her most sacred and intimate thoughts . . . and ponder the cut of her next ball gow
n
— for surely she would need another soon.

The sound of a cough lured her gaze toward the front of the abbey. Through one of the arches, nearly hidden in the shadows beneath the great glass windows, stood a very ta
l
l man.

Good heavens! Jenny leaned over her knees for a better look. Was he wearing a kilt?

With slow deliberation, she rose from the bench, and balancing on the tips of her toes, lest her heels touch the floor and announce her approach, she slunk through the archway toward him.

His back faced her, but as she neared there was no doubt that the imposing figure, with strong broad shoulders and well-muscled legs, was indeed Argyll.

 

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Sh
e
watched curiously as he ran a trembling hand down the names carved in the memorial tablets along the abbey wall.

His finger stopped abruptly upon a phrase inscribed beneath a skillfully carved marble cartouche of a delicate angel perched above a

parted drape. Jenny edged closer to read what had so intrigued him.

I
n memory o
f Ol
ivia Burnett Camp
b
ell,

Lady Argyll of Argyll, Scotland,

who departed
this life in the
flow
er of her age

at Bath on the 3rd of January, 1802

"Your
mother,"
Jenny gasped involuntarily.

Callu
m
whipped around and stared at her. His penetrating gaze was fierce, and his skin was soaked and hair dripping, like Jenny's own.

She reached out to him, wanting to comfort him, but his hand shot outward and grabbed her wrist roughly, preventing her tender touch.

Locked in each other's gaze, his hard and unyielding, hers fraught with compassion, neither moved.

Then something seemed to crumble inside of the great Highlander. His grip loosened, the ferociousness
i
n his eyes disappeared, and he lowered his trembling hand to his side.

It was all Jenny needed. She opened her arms and he tell into them, needing to be held as much as she needed to offer him solace and comfort.

She squeezed her eyes closed and held him tightly, so
cl
ose that even through the layers of wool coat and cape between them, she could feel his heart thumping.

 

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There in the east aisle of the abbey, they clung to one another, their soaked clothing dripping into puddles on the marble floor.

In that moment, something grew inside Jenny and made her warm. Holding Callu
m
in her arms felt so right.
He
felt so right.

Raising her fingers up to his cheeks, Jenny turned his face to her, made him look into her eyes. Droplets of water broke from strands of hair clinging to his forehead and fell upon her face, as she raised herself onto her toes and kissed his lips softly.

Despite the chill and dampness and the shivering of their bodies, his mouth was warm and welcoming. And as they kissed, slowly, gently, Jenny's body heated where they touched, as surely as if she were standing before a fire.

Their mouths parted, and they each gasped a small breath.

Callum stared down at her, and his lips began to move as if there was something he wanted to tell her. But no words came forth.

Instead, he pulled her tight against him once more, and kissed the top of her head. Jenny closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his sopping coat, knowing somehow deep within that as soon as she released him, this momen
t
—
t
heir connectio
n
—
w
ould vanish.

And she didn't want it to end .. . ever.

As if this thought had conjured their parting, she heard from the rear of the abbey the familiar sound of the reverend clearing his throat. "The rain has ended, my children."

Callum drew back from her and stared as if seeing her there for the first time. With a startled look in his

93

dark eyes, he backed away, then turned and hurried from the abbey, leaving her standing in the aisle alone.

Jenny smiled politely at the reverend and bowed her head while passing him on her way outside.

As she exited through the arched doorway, Jenny raised her gloved fingers to her lips and relived Ca
ll
u
m
's kiss in her mind.