had always prided herself on her ability to settle people into niches she personally carved out for them, deriving satisfaction by aiding her fellow human beings.
Her maid, Goldie, was a prime example of the success of her humanitarian endeavors, and so she proceeded to inform the scoffing earl. “She was totally hopeless in the dairy, you understand, being mortally afraid of cows.”
“Sad,” Kit commented, clucking his tongue in commiseration.
“Poor Goldie. She felt herself to be an abject failure, and her mother, a widow and dependent on Goldie for her support, came to me and begged me to take her daughter in hand.”
“Naturally you agreed,” Kit interjected cheerfully.
“But of course—how could anyone so petitioned do anything else?” Jennie countered emphatically. “We tried Goldie in the laundry, but the soap made her sneeze, and even I could find little to praise in her needlework. She was so dejected we could scarcely catch a glimpse of her grandest possession, for she smiled so seldom. She has a truly magnificent gold tooth smack in the front of her mouth, you know, which is why we call her Goldie even though her name is Bertha.”
“This is a most affecting story. I can only wonder if I am strong enough to hear the rest,” lamented the grinning earl, earning himself a killing glance from his new bride.
“I’ll disregard your sarcastic attempt at humor, if only to prove my point,” she told him crushingly.
“Oh? There’s a point?” Kit exclaimed in disbelief. “How gratifying.”
“Of course there is. The point is that there is a place for everyone if one but takes the time to seek it out. In Goldie’s case the search was a bit longer than usual, as she soon proved incapable of serving at table without overturning the soup tureen or losing her grip on a stack of dirty plates. But I really had hopes for her as a kitchen assistant—you know, peeling vegetables and chopping things and such—until Papa’s silly French chef threatened to hand in his notice if Goldie wasn’t permanently removed from his sight.”
“Got on the bad side of the fellow, I assume?” Kit opined, and Jennie vigorously nodded her agreement.
“I still don’t see what all the fuss was about,” she ended, her expression one of sublime innocence. “After all, it wasn’t as if his mustache wouldn’t grow back eventually. He removed the rest of it after Goldie’s little accident with the knife, you see, which was just as well considering he looked rather lopsided with half of the droopy thing gone.”
That did it. Kit was unable to contain his mirth any longer, and his full, masculine laugh reverberated inside the closed coach as he gave voice to his amusement.
Within seconds Jennie’s delicious-sounding giggles blended with her husband’s throaty chuckles as the two leaned against each other for support as they enjoyed the joke—causing the coachman to remark later to the postilion that Lord and Lady Bourne seemed to be taking to each other right quick-like, which was a good thing considering they was bracketed like it or nay.
After a quick stop for luncheon Jennie allowed herself to be talked into resting her head on her husband’s broad shoulder, and the rest of the journey passed with Lord Bourne alternately gazing dolefully at the scenery passing by outside his window and doing his best to ignore the soft, warm bundle nestled so trustingly against his chest.
JENNIE FELT she had somehow been transported to another world. It wasn’t as if her father’s house had not been comfortable, and she had run tame at Bourne Manor for as long as she could remember, but nothing in her experience had prepared her for the opulence of the Bourne mansion—no stretch of the imagination could convince her that this massive structure was any ordinary townhouse.
Bourne Manor had been furnished with an eye for comfort rather than elegance, but the many-storied dwelling in Berkeley Square was crammed cellars to attics with furniture and accessories that intimidated her with their grandeur.
Even the walls and ceilings, festooned as they were with intricate stucco designs and painted Cipriani nymphs, seemed to mock her as she roamed aimlessly from room to room, feeling smaller, less significant, and increasingly more insecure as she encountered Sheraton sideboards, Darly ceilings, Shearer harlequin tables, Zucchi pilasters, arches, and panels, Thomas Johnson clocks, Chippendale parlor chairs, and even an Inigo Jones chimneypiece that had been carted there from heaven only knew where.
“Love a duck, miss, ain’t it grand?” Goldie gushed for the hundredth time, her eyes nearly popping out of her head as she followed in her mistress’s wake, nearly cannoning into Jennie before she realized the girl had stopped dead at the entrance to the master bedchamber.
“Th-there’s no need to go poking about in here,” the new Countess of Bourne stammered nervously before beating a hasty retreat back down the wide hallway to her own chamber, closing the door behind her, and leaning against it as if to block out the rest of the world.
“Is that any way for a countess to enter a room, racing and romping and slamming doors behind her?” Miss Bundy, never raising her eyes from the trunk she was in the midst of unpacking, asked in her best stern-governess voice. “And what is that infernal banging?”
Jennie opened the door an inch, saw Goldie’s hand raised for yet another assault on the heavy door, grabbed the maid’s arm, and hastily pulled the plump form inside. “Land sakes, missy, what didya see in there ta set ya off like a cat in a fit?” the maid asked, darting a quick glance out the crack in the door as if to catch a glimpse of some horrifying creature barging down the hallway.
“I didn’t see anything, Goldie,” Jennie responded a lot more coolly than she thought possible. “I just suddenly remembered that we left poor Bundy alone all morning to unpack while we gadded about the place gawking like country bumpkins, that’s all.”
As Goldie had been more than aware that Miss Bundy had spent the morning toiling while she, in a very un-maid-like way, had done nothing more strenuous than inspect her mistress’s new digs, and as Goldie had secretly delighted in this unaccustomed freedom, her only answer to this damning statement was to flash her gold tooth at Jennie and wink broadly before picking up a paisley shawl and making a great business out of folding it over her arm.
Thank goodness, thought Jennie, releasing her pent-up breath in a long sigh. They’re both too busy either working or avoiding work to tax me further. I’ll just have to learn to control myself better and not do anything else to arouse their suspicions. Why, if Goldie knew I’d been frightened by a mere bed she’d tease me to death, while Bundy would see it as ample reason for yet another blistering lecture on the punishment of “Evil”—the evil in this case having more than a little bit to do with “giving false witness” only to “reap what you have sown.” Hummph! Jennie thought with a toss of her blond curls. I need another lecture like that like I need another freckle on the tip of my nose!
Snatching up a book from a nearby table, Jennie made her way past opened trunks and pieces of her personal belongings Bundy had divided into various towering piles, the purpose of which only she knew or cared to know, and took up residence in the deep, robin’s-egg-blue velvet-padded windowseat that overlooked the square and the statue that depicted a much younger, trimmer Prinny on horseback—the royal frame all rigged out like some long-dead Roman emperor for reasons only Princess Amelia, who had commissioned the piece, knew.
The book spread open on her lap (she never did take notice of its title), Jennie let her thoughts drift to the preceding evening and what she knew had been the markedly less than regal London debut of the new Countess of Bourne—considering
