paper gave him pause. Rose didn’t know how to read, or at least she hadn’t when he’d known her. Perhaps she’d learned in the past nine years, the same as he had acquired new skills and bettered himself.
He picked up his pace. “Rose!” he shouted, drawing startled looks from the other walkers, but he paid them no mind. “Rose!” he called again, dodging several horses as he crossed to the square. No response. Either she didn’t hear him over the activity in the street or he had the wrong woman altogether.
And yet she seemed so familiar. The fluid way she walked, the expressive tilt of her head... The cape she wore made it difficult to tell, but now that he’d had a better look, she seemed shapelier in the hips and bust than his Rose had been. But wasn’t that to be expected? She was no longer a girl of sixteen, but a mature woman of twenty-five.
The mystery lady disappeared down the townhouse steps leading to the servants’ entrance. Sam yanked off his hat and broke into a run. A door slammed just as he reached the front of the house. He moved to the narrow flight of steps he’d seen the woman take and stared at the scuffed black door that led to a basement and the source of the rich aromas filling the air.
Sam slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. He considered inquiring after the woman but discarded the notion. Servants were often a prickly lot with an abhorrence for being intruded upon by outsiders.
Besides, what would he do if he found out his quarry did happen to be Rose? Strangling her wasn’t an option and he doubted she’d come willingly to the door to hear his abysmal opinion of her.
He noted the address. The townhouse boasted mansion-size proportions, wide front steps, imposing columns and lead-glass windows. If he wasn’t mistaken, the edifice belonged to Baron Malbury, a shifty fellow who’d risen to his current status through the untimely death of his predecessor in a boating accident the previous month.
Sam had been reluctant to take on the self-important, nearly impoverished peer as a client, but if Malbury employed Rose, he’d have to reevaluate the situation and determine the best way to use the connection to his advantage.
Sam returned to the corner across the street and called to a newspaper boy leaning on the gas lamp.
“Aye, govna?” the boy rang out as he bounded over to him. A child of no more than seven or eight, he was unkempt with dirt smudges on his cheeks, his muddy-brown hair uncombed. His ragged clothes were too big for his scrawny frame and the hungry look about him reminded Sam of his own miserable childhood. “You wan’ ta buy a paypa?”
Sam shook his head. He’d already looked over The Times at breakfast. “What’s your name, young man?”
“Georgie, sir.”
“Well, Georgie, I have a proposition for you. How would you like to earn a quid for say...ten minutes of your time?”
Georgie’s brown eyes rounded with a hopeful eagerness he couldn’t quite hide. “If it ain’t on the up and up, me mum—”
“Oh, it’s honest, all right. You needn’t worry. I want you to go to the servants’ entrance of that residence—” he pointed to the Malbury mansion “—and ask if there’s a maid by the name of Rose employed there. If so, ask if her name was Rose Smith before she married. Do you think you could do that for me?”
“That’s all I ’ave to do for a ’ole quid?”
Sam nodded. His gaze slid back to the mansion. His eyes narrowed on the glossy front door. Curiosity burned in his veins. “Yes, and if you hurry I’ll give you two.”
Georgie took off at a flat run.
* * *
Praying she’d come to the right place, Rose knocked on the kitchen door. Ever since she’d become a Christian eight years ago, she’d relied on the Lord to direct her path. Relying on His guidance eased her mind when the shifting letters and numbers others seemed to read with ease made little sense to her.
The scuffed black door swung open. “Ye’re late,” said a young, frowning kitchen maid.
She blinked, surprised to see a woman instead of a footman answer the door. “I know. I apologize. The coach from Paddington station suffered a broken wheel.” Her heart racing from the mad pace she’d kept in her failed attempt to arrive on time, she switched her battered valise to her other hand and descended the final step into the basement. A blast of heat assaulted her along with the aroma of roasted fowl. “I had to walk the last few miles and I lost my way a bit. I came as quick as I could.”
The door slammed shut behind her as the dour-faced Scot ushered her farther into the entryway. A stone arch separated the small space from the ovens and activity of the kitchen beyond. The harried staff reminded her of the frantic crowds in the maze of streets outside.
“Then yoo’d best get settled an’ tae work straight awa’,” said the maid. Dressed in a column of black wool and a sullied white apron, the young woman inspected her with a quick, unimpressed glance. “I don’t ken how ye bumpkins in th’ coontry work, but our cook, Mrs. Pickles, isna a body for tardiness or excuses of any kind.”
Taking exception to being called a bumpkin, Rose bit back a tart reply as she followed the maid down a hallway that led to a spiral staircase. Before leaving Hopewell Manor, the Malbury family’s country estate where she’d been in service for the past eight years, she’d been forewarned of the infamous Mrs. Pickles’s reputation as a taskmaster. It was said the cook ran her kitchen like Wellington at Waterloo and with nearly as many casualties.
The mere thought of losing her job made Rose’s stomach churn. It was imperative that she make a favorable impression on the irascible woman who held Rose’s job in her hands. Rose was on excellent terms with the staff at Hopewell Manor and only in London for a fortnight to help with a shortage of trained servants in the townhouse kitchen, but that did not mean she couldn’t be dismissed. The tragic death of the previous baron and his wife had put the livelihood of every Malbury employee in jeopardy.
Apparently, the new baron had inherited the title and lands with very little coin to sustain the expenses that accompanied the prize. His servants worried he planned to terminate long-term staff in favor of importing cheaper, Irish labor. Nothing could be taken for granted, nor a foot placed wrong. She could not afford to be sacked. Finding another position was nigh impossible for anyone and doubly so for a woman in her precarious situation.
“My name is Rose Smith, by the way,” she said over the banging of pans and calls for more boiling water.
“Ah be Ina McDonald.”
“Have you been in service here long?” Rose asked as they reached the third floor.
“Six months. Five and a half too many if ye ask me. Min’, th’ auld baron an’ baroness were kind enough, but Mrs. Pickles makes every day a sour circumstance.” Ina took a skeleton key from her skirt pocket and unlocked a door across the hall. “Ye’ll be sharin’ quarters wi’ me whilst ye’re here. Keep yer belongings tae yer own side of the room an’ we’ll get on jus’ dandy.”
Rose found the converted attic similar in size to the room she shared with Andrew at Hopewell Manor. Her former employers had always displayed a unique sense of Christian charity toward their servants’ well-being and the snug space was pleasantly situated. Morning sunlight and a cool breeze streamed through two dormer windows dressed with faded blue curtains. Simple white moldings
