When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,8
to a solid foundation in Latin. Functional German. Good conversational Russian, though my command of the written language is wanting.”
He had the sense she’d not disclosed the whole of her skills, but she’d said enough. She was either well traveled or well educated, possibly both.
A diplomat’s daughter?
“You are ideally suited to assist me. I’ll have my housekeeper, Mrs. Newbury, give you a tour of the premises, such as they are, and show you to a guest room. We can commence work tomorrow after breakfast.”
Duncan braced himself for effusions of gratitude, though really, what did it matter to him if one more hearth was lit or one more mouth fed? Restoring Brightwell on the terms Quinn had set out was an impossible challenge, and a few coppers in either direction were of little moment. Doubtless Duncan’s new amanuensis would soon decamp for parts unknown in any event.
The lady finished with her lemon cake and drank the last of her tea. “I can find my way to the kitchens, Mr. Wentworth. I’ll doubtless locate the housekeeper somewhere in the same vicinity. Was there anything else you wanted to say?”
How extraordinary. She, who likely hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, was dismissing him.
“I have two questions, and you will answer them honestly or my offer of employment will be rescinded.”
She put another lemon cake on her plate. “Ask.”
“Are you married?”
“I am not.” Thank God. The words hung in the air, a world of relief unspoken. She’d run from her own family, then, or from the king’s justice.
“What is your name?” Duncan asked.
She rose, and the tea cake was no longer on her plate. In her pocket, then, and Duncan hadn’t seen her purloin the sweet.
“You may call me…Miss Maddie.”
“As in Madeline?”
“Miss Maddie will do.”
Duncan got to his feet as well, because a gentleman did, and because he wanted to beat her to the door. “I can’t write out a bank draft to Miss Maddie.”
“Then pay me in cash.” She twisted the key, slipped through the door, and was off down the corridor.
Duncan stood outside the parlor long enough to make sure Miss Maddie took the steps to the kitchens, then he returned to the table, collected the remaining tea cakes, and prepared to locate some of the notes he’d taken while touring the Continent.
They were on the premises somewhere—had he instructed the staff to put them in the estate office?—and he had until tomorrow morning to find them.
* * *
The staff was either well trained or desperately attached to their wages, because thirty minutes after stuffing herself at the lunch table, Matilda sank into the first hot bath she’d had in far too long. She even washed her hair, because God knew when such an opportunity might befall her again.
Mrs. Newbury, a statuesque woman of African descent, had declared that touring the premises could wait until Mr. Wentworth’s guest was properly settled. She’d left Matilda a brown velvet dress with an old-fashioned high waist. What the garment lacked in stylishness it made up for in sheer comfort and warmth.
A tap on the door interrupted Matilda’s inspection of her guest room. “Come in.”
“Beg pardon for intruding, ma’am,” the maid said. “I’m to see if you need anything, and set them buckets out in the corridor for the footmen.” Her speech carried a hint of the Dales: set ’em bookets out in t’corridor.
“You’re not interrupting anything,” Matilda said. “You’re from Yorkshire, aren’t you?”
The girl, a sturdy blonde, scooped two buckets from the tub. “Aye, ma’am. Mrs. Newbury says them as are from the north are good workers. Mr. Wentworth were raised in Yorkshire.” She carried the water out and returned with a pair of empty buckets.
“Mr. Wentworth has only recently acquired Brightwell?”
“Aye. Had it from his cousin, who had it from the old duke. Place went to rack and ruin, Mrs. Newbury says, but Mr. Wentworth will set it to rights, see if he don’t. The tenant farms are right enow. Mr. Manners’s ma’s knees say we’re in for snow.”
She brought in two more empty buckets, filled them, and placed them in the corridor as well.
“Do you know when the laundry will be finished with my dress?” Matilda asked.
“We do laundry on Monday, like a proper household. Mrs. Newbury is in the attics now finding you some more outfits. We’ve dresses up there to clothe half of London. I’ll send along a tea tray, shall I?”
She pushed the wheeled tub toward the door, going slowly enough that the remaining water wouldn’t slosh.