A Heart Revealed Part 7

Amber dared look up at her mother. "I am to leave today?"

"We need to regain a sense of normalcy and decorum about this house," her father said. "There is no reason for delay now that I have finished all the correspondence that must attend you. This has not been a simple arrangement to make, and I should think you would express adequate grat.i.tude for the difficulties we have gone to for your care."

Amber nodded her acceptance of his investment but could not speak. Her throat was dry with fear for what awaited her. She had never lived apart from her family, her siblings at least, and to do so at such a distance in a cottage she'd never seen before was shocking to accept. She could not help but feel as though she were being discarded as any other belonging no longer of use to its owner.

Lord Marchent continued, "Despite the intervention of your sister's story to explain it, the horrific scene you created has most certainly come under the attention of London gossips. As long as you remain here, none of us can recover from the burden you have placed upon us."

"You sound as though I did this with purpose," she said, feeling a wave of strength, though she kept her hands tightly clenched in her lap and her eyes fixed on the rug. "As though I would bring this upon us of my own will."

For the s.p.a.ce of several breaths the room was silent, then Lord Marchent stood from his chair. "There is no s.p.a.ce for blame in this." She could hear the fatigue in his voice; oh, but her parents were a pair for one another with their disregard. The thought did not bring the emotion it once might. Perhaps she had spent her emotion and was left empty of any feeling at all.

Lord Marchent continued, "There are circ.u.mstances in life that happen regardless of our will. All we can do is react as best we can so as to have as little impact on the comfort of others as possible. That you have to endure such a thing is unfortunate indeed, but I should think you would not want your family to suffer along with you. I should think that as a woman of feeling and sound mind you should want to protect us from such derision, not ask that we share it with you."

"The country will be a good place for you to be restored," her mother offered. "And we shall all hope for your return to London next season."

Amber shrank away from the thought. Could she expect that anyone would have forgotten her humiliation by next year? She could not imagine it so she focused on the restoration her mother had mentioned. That would be her reason in agreeing to this. She could do anything so long as it would help her find her true self once again. Besides, her father was right. She should trust that her parents wanted what was best for her and not create further difficulty by arguing selfish concerns.

"As your mother said, your maid is attending to your trunks and preparing to ready you for the journey."

There seemed nothing else to say. "Yes, my lord." She stood, curtsied stiffly, and left the room feeling apart from what was happening around her. All of this because she was no longer the perfect debutante, the perfect daughter? She had never before imagined that one aspect of a person could have such power as to change every detail of their existence.

When Amber returned to her bedchamber she found Suzanne doing exactly what Lord and Lady Marchent had said she would be doing-preparing Amber's trunks for the journey north. Upon a closer inspection, she noted the maid's red face and swollen eyes. "What is wrong?" she snapped. Suzanne wasn't ill, was she? That would make the journey even more difficult.

Suzanne shook her head and continued folding Amber's nightdress into the smaller trunk, the one that would attend her at the inns they would stay in along the way. Amber did not know if they would stop over for one night or two, but the thought of staying in an inn at all made her s.h.i.+ver in repulsion. She had heard tales that made her wish they could drive straight through the night, though she had never done that either. She had never had the need to cover such a distance.

"I thought you might want your yellow traveling dress today," Suzanne said. "Which dresses should I set aside for the rest of the journey?" Her voice broke and she sniffled with the last part.

Amber realized that it was not illness causing her maid's disposition. Rather, the woman was . . . sad?

"Did you not agree to attend me?" Amber asked, annoyed and strangely hurt by the idea, which made no sense at all. Suzanne was just a maid and Amber cared not for her opinion.

Suzanne continued pulling items from the wardrobe and laying them on the bed. Amber noted that none of her ball gowns or fancier pieces were being packed, but then she'd have no need for them in Yorks.h.i.+re. Should she return next season-still a difficult prospect to consider-she would need a new wardrobe to fit the current fas.h.i.+ons.

"I asked if you did not agree to attend me?" Amber said when Suzanne still did not answer, not disguising her irritation at having to repeat herself. "I've no mind to deal with a sullen maid amid already difficult circ.u.mstances."

Suzanne looked up and her eyes flashed as her hands gripped the gown in her hands. "What choice do I have?" she said, her voice controlled but pa.s.sionate. "I have been told that should I not attend you to Yorks.h.i.+re I shall never find employ in this city again. I have lived in London all of my life; my family is here. Forgive me my sullenness, Miss, but 'tis not only your future being changed."

Amber backed up a step. She'd never had a servant address her with so much feeling and did not know how to respond. As she thought on the words again, however, she felt a different manner of discomfort. "Who said you wouldn't find employment if you did not attend me?"

Suzanne went back to her work, her cheeks pink but her mouth tightly shut.

"I asked you a question," Amber said harshly.

Suzanne whipped her head up, once again full of pa.s.sion Amber did not expect. "What does it matter? My fate is bound to yours, Miss, but I shall get none of the sympathy."

"You think anyone is regarding me with sympathy?" Amber said in angry surprise. "I am a pariah. I have lost everything."

"As have I," Suzanne said boldly. "What am I to do in Yorks.h.i.+re? There shan't be fine clothes to attend to, fas.h.i.+ons to style. You haven't even any hair for me to care for, nor anywhere to go. I have already been set about as a chambermaid these last weeks, which is far below my training, and now I shall attend a woman without hair and without kindness in the wilds of the north country and leave behind me every person I've ever loved as well as any prospect of a greater position. I have lost as much as you."

The concept of Suzanne having lost anything at all was overwhelming, and Amber sat on a chair at the small table brought up for her meals as she looked upon her maid . . . no, as she looked upon this woman. With Amber's fall from grace, Suzanne had become an unintended casualty.

Suzanne had likely invested all the years of Amber's life in rising to this point of attending the ladies of the ton. She surely expected to attend Amber long enough to transition into the full position of a lady's maid. And now she was to be exiled. Amber thought of Suzanne's words: "Leave behind me every person I've ever loved." Amber had never thought of servants having a life outside of the house they worked for. But of course they would.

"Who do you leave behind, Suzanne?" Amber asked, her voice surprisingly soft even to her own ears.

Suzanne had gone back to packing, though she wiped her eyes a time or two. Amber waited for an answer. Finally, after several seconds, Suzanne took a breath. "I have two sisters in London, both with families of their own. My mother is in ill health and living with my youngest sister. We all a.s.sist her when we can. Eliza is expecting her fourth child in a few months' time and has had quite a time of it."

Another remark Suzanne had made came back to Amber's mind. "I shall attend a woman without hair and without kindness." Why Amber should be affected by a servant's opinion of her she did not know, but realizing how Suzanne regarded her made her feel heavy inside.

Suzanne turned to the wardrobe and removed Amber's stockings and underthings from the bottom drawer. Amber watched her smooth out each piece, fold it carefully, and tuck it into the trunk. Even with her anger and devastation at being forced to leave London she was attentive to her tasks, attentive to Amber.

"I am sorry, Suzanne," Amber said, seized by an emotion she was unable to define. Her best attempt labeled it as regret for Suzanne's circ.u.mstance and guilt for being the cause of it. Surely she had come about these feelings naturally at some time in her life, as there was a familiarity to them, but not recently to be sure, as they were foreign too. Suzanne looked at her with hesitation, and Amber took a breath. "It is not right that you should be affected by this after you have served me so well these last weeks. I shall talk to my mother and ask that she find you a position worthy of your station. She has many connections, and I will insist she ensure you a solid post."

"Who would then attend you?" Suzanne asked, hesitant but eager too. "You can't travel to Yorks.h.i.+re alone."

No, she couldn't travel to Yorks.h.i.+re alone. Amber looked at the rug beneath her feet as she sought a solution in her mind, then met her maid's eyes. "The groomsmen attending me will be returning to London after I am settled. You could come with me to this estate and return with them to London. You will be gone but a week."

"And leave you there alone?"

"I'm sure I can find a maid in Yorks.h.i.+re," Amber said, ignoring the fear springing up in her chest of having to show herself to someone new. "Or perhaps I am not in need of an abigail." The idea of not having anyone to care for her person was frightening, but she attempted to keep from showing the emotion. The other servants could be kept at such a distance so as to not even know of her condition. "If you only pack the simpler dresses rather than those with the more elaborate fastenings about them, I could dress myself without a.s.sistance. As you said, I have nothing to ready myself for and no hair to be attended."

"I spoke out of turn, Miss," Suzanne said, humbled now that her fervor had pa.s.sed. Or perhaps because she'd been pardoned from the fate Amber could not escape from herself.

"No, you did not," Amber said. She looked up to see sincere sympathy on the face of her maid. It nearly undid her, and she blinked back the emotion. "Will you attend me to Yorks.h.i.+re if I convince my mother to help you find a new position upon your return to London? I shall see that you are financially compensated for the sacrifice as well. Perhaps you could send the payment to your sister so that she might procure additional help for your mother during your absence."

Suzanne held Amber's gaze for some time, looking equal parts relieved and regretful. Amber sensed that she wanted to speak but did not know how to address her mistress now that they had both stepped over the unseen lines of station and address. "I will attend you, Miss," she finally said, her expression softened. "Which dresses would you like me to pack in the small trunk?"

Amber went to her wardrobe to look over her dresses and in the process saw the black coat that had hung there since Carlton House. She pulled it from the closet and looked it over with only a vague memory of the man who had given it to her.

One man amid the hundreds gathered there had given her aid. A man Amber did not believe she was acquainted with, and yet he had been kind to her. She wished she knew how to return his coat to him and thank him for that kindness, but to try to find him would mean reigniting people's memories of what his kindness had intended to hide.

She was to disappear today, slip away from London and people's thoughts, taking with her the shame and embarra.s.sment she had brought upon her family and perhaps this man too-he'd have been left at a ball without a coat. Perhaps he would not want it back anyway after it had been about her head.

She let out a breath and pushed the coat into the back of the closet before fingering through her day dresses and morning gowns. He was without a coat. She was to be without far more than that.

Two hours later, Amber closed the curtain inside the traveling coach, not wanting to see London and all it symbolized fall away from her; not wanting anyone of her acquaintance to see her leaving in shame. She feared she would never come back, and yet she was relieved to be parted from the place of so much heartache. She rested her cap-and-bonnet-covered head against the cus.h.i.+ons of the seat and spent the first five miles attempting not to cry. There would be plenty of time for that when she was settled in the country house-Step Cottage, her father had called it-in Romanby, North Riding, Yorks.h.i.+re.

Alone.

Unattended.

She could only hope she would not call this cottage "home" for long.

Chapter 16.

They stopped overnight at the Crimson s.h.i.+eld Inn, arriving late and leaving early. Suzanne and Amber took their meals together in the room they shared rather than join the other guests in the coaching house. The proprietor said it was the finest room the inn had to offer, but it smelled sour and the sheets were rough.

Once back in the carriage for the second day of travel, Amber could stand the silence no longer and asked Suzanne about her family. The maid was hesitant to talk at first, but Amber continued to prod her with questions until eventually Suzanne disposed of the one-word answers.

Both of her parents had worked in service, but Suzanne's younger sisters had married into the merchant cla.s.s and were not employed outside of running their household and caring for their children, though her one sister did mending for a few gentry families. Suzanne's father had retired five years ago after an illness left him unable to keep up his duties as a gardener of a grand estate outside of London. He died in his sleep the following summer, leaving their mother to work in the kitchens of a London house until being let go two years ago this August.

"I fear she may not live another winter. The cold is increasingly hard on her." She paused, then looked at Amber and forced a smile. "Which is why I must thank you for talking with your mother of my return to London. I could not bear being away from her or my sisters at such a time. The additional funds you procured will be of great help to them both, for which I thank you too."

"Your affection for them is a credit to all of you," Amber said, not liking the reflection her own family cast through the prism of Suzanne's. "I certainly hope all is well until your return and that perhaps the summer will result in an increase of health for your mother."

"As do I, Miss," Suzanne said.

Amber wondered if she would she be missed by her family. When she had parted the London house, her mother had given her a quick embrace and said she would come to Yorks.h.i.+re when the season was over. Seeing as it was May, it would be several weeks until the gentry who gathered in London returned to their country estates. Perhaps by then her mother would have missed her and they could start afresh.

A fear nagged her that Lady Marchent wouldn't come, but surely her mother would not abandon her completely. There was such a difference in age between herself and her brothers that she knew they would not notice her absence; they had always been kept to a different schedule as they were sons instead of daughters. It was Amber and Darra who had always been the most closely aligned, both in age and in their equal desire for the attention of their parents. Amber did not want to think of Darra right now. It stung to do so.

"How many nieces and nephews do you have?" Amber asked, eager to keep Suzanne talking as it took her out of her own thoughts.

Suzanne told of her endearment toward her sisters' children, which brought another lump to Amber's throat. Amber had grown up privileged and, in her mind, envied by the lesser cla.s.ses she interacted with but rarely. The more Suzanne spoke of her family connections created through the affection they shared, the more envious Amber felt. Did anyone within her own society love their children the way Suzanne's family did?

Amber had never seen or experienced such bonds and began to wonder if Suzanne were making fun of her. She eventually stopped asking questions, not wanting to be made a fool of by believing such stories of parents playing with their children, or teaching them the skills of daily life without the help of servants. She struggled to make sense of the jealousy she felt toward Suzanne's situation; she was loved and she knew it. Was Amber loved by her parents? Did she love them?

As daylight began to slip away, they stopped in the village of Topcliffe. Amber a.s.sumed it was to change horses, and it was, but then she saw the groom talking with a man who he then brought toward the carriage. Amber shrank back against the cus.h.i.+on, alerting Suzanne, who leaned forward to see the men approaching.

"Who is that man with Jeffery?" Suzanne asked. "Do you know him?"

"Of course not," Amber snapped. "I know no one this far north. Why is Jeffery bringing him over?" She pulled at the lace edging of her cap as she watched the men getting closer. She looked to her bonnet lying beside her on the seat-she'd removed it while it was only her and Suzanne's company she needed to accommodate. She quickly put on the bonnet, her fingers fumbling to tie the ribbon.

"Act your part," Suzanne said, drawing Amber's eyes to her. The maid mimicked sitting straight, folding her hands in her lap, and lifting her chin. "You're your own mistress, now. Act the part of a Lady and everyone will treat you as such."

Amber straightened as Suzanne had indicated, prepared to encounter this man, then snapped her gaze back to Suzanne. "Is he to address me directly, then? Should he not be speaking with you until I invite his attention?"

It was Suzanne's turn to look startled, but she nodded quickly and straightened her own posture moments before Jeffery knocked on the side of the carriage. Suzanne unlatched the door, which Jeffery then pulled wide. The man with him was older than Amber's father and dressed in the simple attire of a workingman. He took off his hat to reveal thinning gray hair. He bowed, then looked up with a sincere smile that seemed incongruent with his country clothing and mottled teeth.

He glanced at Amber but then turned his attention to Suzanne. "I am but right pleased to meetcha, Miss. My name be Paulie Dariloo. I take care of tha cottage where his lords.h.i.+p dun says you be staying this next while. Asked me to meet yer carriage in Topcliffe, he did, and I done been waitin' jus 'alf an 'our's all. Made right good time, yer driver did."

"Yes, he did," Suzanne said nervously.

Amber kept a polite smile on her face but found herself very much on edge. She was as unprepared to take charge of this situation as Suzanne was, but she was no longer a daughter or a debutante with someone speaking for her. She would have to take the position she had left to others all her life or she should have no order and respect here in the North.

"You are too kind to have met us, Mr. Dariloo," Suzanne said after an awkward delay, glancing at Amber who nodded to confirm that she should continue. Suzanne returned her attention to Mr. Dariloo. "You're to give direction to the coachman in finding the cottage, I presume?"

"I'm to lead you in, Miss," he said, waving over his shoulder toward the road that ran in front of the inn. "These country roads can get a might bit ragged an' the road to the cottage ain't an easy one to navigate in the dark. Mr. Jeffery here"-he nodded toward the driver-"says you be wantin' to get there tonight despite it being a late 'our that you'll arrive. That set right with ya?"

"My mistress would like to arrive at the cottage tonight, Mr. Dariloo." Neither of the women had any desire to stay in another inn like the one from last night. Amber had barely slept at all for the strange sounds and odd smells of the place, and Suzanne had had to sleep on a straw pallet near the door.

"And ya shall, ya shall," he said, nodding. "The horses are 'bout changed an' then we'll make us a procession, if ya will, to the cottage." He glanced at Amber, who glanced at Suzanne, who lifted her shoulders in confusion. She did not understand this situation any better than Amber did. Amber fumbled for what to do and then accepted that her time to be mistress had come.

"You may address me directly, Mr. Dariloo."

His smile broadened, confirming that she'd read his unspoken request for her attention correctly. "Yer father's man a'business found me just yesterday, he did," Mr. Dariloo said. "To give me the 'structions. But my missus and I got the cottage set to rights fer ya in time. Everythin's in place, it is."

"You're very good, sir," Amber said.

His bushy eyebrows went up. "You don't need to be calling me sir, Miss. I ain't so fine as that, just a caretaker, that's all I is. Glad to be of help to ya for your holiday."

Holiday? Is that how her father had explained it? Amber pulled at the strings on her bonnet. "Shall we go on, then?" she asked, nervous and wis.h.i.+ng she could have the confident demeanor expected of her. Why should an underling such as Mr. Dariloo put her out of sorts?

"Right ya are," Mr. Dariloo said, backing away, his hat still in hand. "We be ready to go in five minute."

Jeffery shut the carriage door, and Amber leaned back against the cus.h.i.+on, her heart thumping. "How odd that I should be so anxious over an exchange of that sort," she said out loud, then looked to Suzanne after pondering a few moments longer. "Neither of us are who we were in London, are we?"

Suzanne's smile was shaky too. "It does not seem so. You handled yourself very well, Miss. You didn't appear nervous but for the pulling on your ribbon." Amber was surprised at how grateful she was for the compliment. Suzanne continued, sounding calmer. "All that breeding will serve its purpose, I'll wager. It's not been lost just because you find yourself in Yorks.h.i.+re."

Amber pondered that comment for the rest of their journey. As night fell, Mr. Dariloo hung a lantern from his saddle, giving the coach ample mark to follow. They still seemed well within the country when they turned from the relatively smooth ground to a more narrow and pitted road that wound through cl.u.s.ters of trees and fields.

Eager to see the cottage, Amber and Suzanne were looking through the windows when Suzanne touched Amber's arm. "I think that must be it," she said.

Amber could see the light from two windows set on a hillside a short distance in front of them. Mr. Dariloo turned onto a drive that took them off the road, and by the time the carriage came to a stop, Amber and Suzanne had their necks craned upward in an attempt to get a better view of the cottage. Amber hadn't thought about why the place was called Step Cottage, but understood when she removed from the carriage and looked up an impossibly long series of wide stone steps-at least twenty-that led to an equally impossibly small gray house complete with a slate roof. If not for the white sections of stone that reflected the light of the half moon, it would have blended perfectly with the landscape around it.

"Right pretty place, ain't it?" Mr. Dariloo said as he joined them. He gazed up at the cottage as though it were a castle. "My missus has some mutton stew at the ready. We knew that you would be hungry." He headed up the rough stone stairs. Amber lifted her skirts and followed, afraid to look anywhere but the next step as they were not equally s.p.a.ced and Mr. Dariloo's lantern did not give a great deal of light. She s.h.i.+vered in the night temperature and tried not to think of the haunted forests and forbidden woods of the fairy tales and fables her governess had read to her as a child. Her traveling boots looked impossibly dainty amid the rough surroundings and anxiety crept up her throat with every step.

At the top, more stones were set together in a small terrace, and there were empty flowerpots near the small inset of the front door. Mr. Dariloo turned the k.n.o.b, and Amber entered behind him. Once inside she came to a stop and then blinked desperately so her eyes would adjust to the dim interior, lit only by a few candles set into sconces on the wall.

Surely the furniture and upholstery looked so dark and heavy because of the lighting. Certainly it was not a braided rug at her feet, or burlap hung as curtains over the windows in the room on her left meant to be a parlor; it was no bigger than a closet.

In front of them was a narrow stairway heading to the second level, while to the right was a corridor that led straight back into what looked like a kitchen-there was no door to hide the functional part of the house from that of the common s.p.a.ce. The area directly left of the front door was complete with a foot bench, umbrella stand, and shelves she imagined were meant for hats and things. There was one other doorway framed by heavy dark wood further down the hall past the parlor.

"It is so small," she said under her breath. It could hardly be called an estate, and she wondered for a brief moment if this were a joke. Perhaps this was Mr. Dariloo's cottage and the finer house was some ways off.

"Is this Step Cottage?" she asked in a frightened voice. "It is not a cottage at all."

"Aye, 'tis a clever t.i.tle to be callin' it a cottage." He laughed as though there were any humor in this situation. "But it's a fine 'ouse and tight as a drum. Not many 'ouses have timber supports on the inside like this'un. You be findin' the library an' parlor 'ere on the first level an' the kitchen to the back."

No dining room? Amber had never been to a house without a well-appointed dining room, let alone lived in such a place.

Mr. Dariloo continued, "The sleepin' rooms be upstairs. Jus' the two though the one ain't properly set up."

Two bedrooms!

Mr. Dariloo rocked back on his heels and grinned widely. "An that smell you be savorin' is Mrs. Dariloo's mutton stew-good hearty tuck for ya at the end of yer journey. 'Ead on down to the kitchen, an' I'll see about 'aving yer trunks brought up before them grooms put up the horses in the stable. It's a bit down the road-not so 'igh on the 'ill o'course." He waved them toward the kitchen.

Suzanne gave Amber a look that prompted Amber to follow her despite wanting to run back to the carriage and insist there was another destination in mind.

When they entered the primitive kitchen, Amber felt her mouth fall open. A short, round woman stood over a cooking pot that swung out from the fireplace on a hook. She smiled at Amber and Suzanne, showing teeth the same shade of brown and gray as her husband's. She began to jabber to Suzanne, but Amber was too overwhelmed to hear much of it and sat on one of the benches set at a small, rough-hewn table in the corner. The servants' quarters of Hampton Grove were better turned out than this cottage, and Amber felt a fire in her stomach at the thought of living here.

This is where my parents sent me?