and peered at the unruly curls peeking out from under her cap. “Silver,” he said. “Like moonlight, I think.”
She burst into laughter then, and Ash knew he’d won. It wasn’t flirtation—no sense of awareness had passed between him and the housekeeper. It was something sweeter and friendlier. He’d seen her as a person, rather than as a servant, and she knew it.
“There,” Ash said. “It’s settled. You’ll dine with me.”
Mrs. Benedict acquiesced to Ash’s upsetting of a social order older than William the Conqueror with a nod.
Ash turned casually. As he did, he saw Miss Lowell. He started and consciously widened his eyes, pretending he’d been unaware of her standing two feet off. Her head was turned to regard him, her eyebrows drawn down, as if she were uncertain what he and Mrs. Benedict might have to laugh about. She didn’t know he’d already identified her by the faint hint of roses that trailed around her, filling the entryway with her subtle perfume. That, and he’d known no other house servant would have dared to come down the main staircase with the housekeeper watching.
“Ah,” Ash said, “and this solves the other half of our dilemma, Mrs. Benedict. Our numbers are still uneven. My brother and I couldn’t possibly sit down to table with just you. We’d overwhelm you with our idiotic masculinity.”
“Oh?”
“Oh,” Ash said, with great finality. And then he let out a great sigh. “There’s only one possible solution. I suppose Miss Lowell will have to join us, as well.”
CHAPTER THREE
MR. TURNER’S ILL-FATED supper invitation actually went a long way towards easing Margaret’s fears. He had seemed so persuasive, so glib, that she had begun to worry he would soon lead all the servants astray. But he could, after all, make mistakes. This one would prove enlightening.
There was a reason servants did not sit with their masters at table, and it had nothing to do with pride or condescension. Margaret folded her hands primly in her lap, as the footmen served the soup course. She was in for what promised to be an evening of very awkward conversation.
What was Mr. Turner to do, after all? He couldn’t very well ask Mrs. Benedict about the course of her day. What could the woman possibly say in answer? “Well, I pressed your laundry, polished your silver and then oversaw the preparation of your meals.” No doubt Mr. Turner thought this meal would be a perfect opportunity to impose upon Margaret. She suppressed a grim smile.
The classes didn’t mix.
At one time, she might have thought that with haughty self-assurance, content in her own superiority. Now, she understood it as a bleak truth. Every lady of her acquaintance had stopped answering her letters—even Elaine who had once clung shyly to her side.
The walls of the dining hall were decorated with the portraits of dukes from ages past. Even her own ancestors would look down their noses at her, if they could see her through their painted eyes.
But she hardly fit with the servants. She was both mistress and supplicant, nurse and daughter of the house. She was isolated from everyone. It might have been petty of her, but she was glad that Mr. Turner was about to taste some of that same bitter solitude.
There was not the slightest indication on Mr. Turner’s face that he knew the tangle that awaited him. His valet had arrived in the servants’ coach and had turned him out splendidly. Those broad shoulders were only emphasized by his navy blue coat. His dark hair was rumpled almost perfectly, and the crisp lines of his cravat formed the perfect contrast with his easy manner. He was far too handsome for his own good.
Handsome or not, he’d soon discover that the boundaries of rank and privilege could not be superseded by decree, no matter how warm the accompanying smile. It didn’t matter where anyone ate. Servants were still servants. Bastards were still bastards.
But nobody had informed Mr. Turner of this incontrovertible fact. As the footmen placed wide bowls of celery soup before them, he turned towards Mrs. Benedict. The housekeeper was seated at his honored right. When Margaret had dined with her family, they’d used the entire expanse of their long dining room table. Mr. Turner, apparently, had asked for other arrangements. This table had been procured, and it felt small and close and uncomfortable, as if they were attending a crowded dinner party. Without the party.
“Mrs. Benedict,” Mr. Turner said as the footmen whisked the covers off the green soup, “I was thinking of investing in cotton, and I wished to ask you a few things.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Benedict’s face turned red. “Mr. Turner, I know how to dose a goose with castor oil, and I have a secret formula to get the shine back into silver. Investment—” she pronounced the word gingerly, as if holding up a dirty handkerchief “—that’s not for the likes of me.”
Inwardly, Margaret nodded.
“You want to talk to one of your peers, or a solicitor. I’m just a simple housekeeper.”
Mr. Turner picked up a spoon. “Nonsense. It is precisely your opinion I want. Men of my station would simply sniff and tell me nobody of good breeding wears cotton, and not to bother with it. But there’s money to be made if I ignore the gentry’s prejudice. I could sell five hundred times the amount to people like you. You are important.”
As Mr. Turner spoke, Margaret could see a change pass over Mrs. Benedict. She unfolded her arms. Her eyes widened. By the time Mr. Turner favored her with his final, brilliant smile, the woman had a soft, foolish grin in place.
“Well.” She fiddled with the cutlery and looked up. “There’s rags to start. Cotton—it absorbs water, and so I’ve used it for dishcloths.”
Mr. Turner nodded. “Go on.” He tasted his soup and looked back at Mrs. Benedict, focusing on her as if she were the only person in the universe. She continued, tentatively at first, and then with greater confidence. As she spoke, Mr. Turner leaned towards the housekeeper, his gaze riveted on her. Every aspect of his face said the same thing: You matter. You are important. Your observations are valuable.
It stung. Not just that Mr. Turner ignored Margaret; her pride had been beaten down enough over the past few months that such a slight would hardly even tickle. No. It stung that she was wrong. It stung that he could transition from a man who could court votes in Parliament, to someone who could sit down and talk to a servant and find his welcome. That he should belong everywhere with everyone, while she had no place with anyone.
Mr. Benedict and Mrs. Turner progressed from the topic of cotton to the mill in the village, and from there to tenant farmers. Margaret was so used to her father’s style of autocratic demand. Every word he voiced was a command. It came out a shout, as if he had to rail to be heard above the cacophony of a wide and clamorous world. Mr. Turner spoke quietly, but everyone strained forwards to hear his words.
Even Margaret.
He was good at winning others over, she realized. It did not augur well for her future. What would happen when he brought this smiling bonhomie to bear on the members of the House of Lords who would decide the question of legitimacy? Richard might scream and protest and threaten, but it was not often the lords got to choose their own members. Had she no personal stake in the matter, she would have chosen Mr. Turner, too.
She stared grimly ahead of her. Her soup was replaced with creamed peas; peas were followed by fresh-caught fish, and fish by roast beef.
