room felt quiet and empty without him. Patience sighed and picked up the dress. The tear was small and wouldn’t take her long to repair. There was no mirror in her room, but as she held the dress up to herself, she decided yellow wasn’t a bad color after all. After two years of wearing black, she could use something cheerful and bright. She spun in a circle, and the fabric of the skirt belled out around her. She would need a petticoat. Hopefully whoever had loaned him this dress would also be able to provide one. Tomorrow she would dance. She would even dance with the strange Mr. Woodsworth, and hopefully when in public he wouldn’t flinch away from her touch.
There was a soft knock once again, and Patience threw the gown on the bed and hurriedly touched up her hair. She concentrated on breathing in and out.
“Come in,” she called when the door didn’t open right away.
Once again Mr. Woodsworth poked his head in. His eyes flashed to the bed, where the dress was obviously in a different position than the wild mess he had left it in.
“I forgot to tell you. Meet me in my study tomorrow morning at ten, sharp. I need to introduce you to my sister and her two children. My sister, Mrs. Jorgensen, will have her maid help you both get ready for the Simpsons’ ball. After tonight, you will begin your duties helping with her children.”
He shut the door quietly.
For several minutes Patience watched the door, waiting for his knock, but it never came. She sat back on the bed, once again picking up the yellow ball gown. Mr. Woodsworth unsettled her, with his surprising smile and his desire to please her with a dress. No matter how worried she was about being discovered, she would need to make certain Mr. Woodsworth felt that he had made her happy. She had seen him try to please his father in his choice of bride and try to please his choice of bride by signing up for this charade. The last thing he needed was one more person who was hard to please.
Chapter 7
The next morning, after leaving the dress, repaired and folded as neatly as she could manage, on the wooden chair in her bedroom, Patience approached Mr. Woodsworth’s study. She turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door. Mr. Woodsworth sat at his desk, and a woman in her day dress sat at a chair just to his side, her back as straight as Mr. Woodsworth’s and her frown just as severe. Miss Morgan?
No, his sister.
Mr. Woodsworth had told Patience she was here to meet his sister. This must be Mrs. Jorgensen. Her eyes were the same startling pale blue as Mr. Woodsworth’s. She was a female version of her brother. Was Miss Morgan like this woman—slender and serious? It would mean no laughter in their home, but not all homes had to have laughter in them. More often than not, hers didn’t.
But she missed it.
She waited for Mr. Woodsworth to rise at her entrance, but of course, he didn’t. What did maids do when they entered a room? Bow?
She lowered to a curtsy but stopped halfway down. She was quite certain no servant had ever done a low curtsy to her. She hastily stood up straight and just caught the end of a look between the siblings.
“This is the beautiful maid you told me about?” Mrs. Jorgensen said in French. Her eyebrow was raised even though her mouth stayed the same.
French. A maid wouldn’t speak French. Patience concentrated on not reacting to the woman’s words.
“I didn’t call her beautiful,” Mr. Woodsworth said in bored tone. “You guessed that she was beautiful.”
“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, but I hardly see your point.”
Patience smoothed each of her fingernails with the pad of her thumb. How was one supposed to act when one’s looks were being tossed back and forth like a shuttlecock? Like she didn’t know what they were talking about, she supposed.
“Don’t fall for her,” Mrs. Jorgensen said.
Patience nearly choked.
“Enough about her looks. You should know me better than that.” The frown lines around Mr. Woodsworth’s mouth were even deeper than usual. He switched back to English. “She can’t look like this at the ball anyway. We wouldn’t want anyone to recognize her as my maid.”
“So you mean not only to dress her up but also to disguise her?” his sister asked, voice rising an octave.
“Yes, a wig will