she removed her cloak, folded it, and left it on the pallet.
The thought of seeing Mr Kendal again made her heart skip momentarily. She could not quite divine why it was behaving so erratically.
As she descended she could feel the air getting warmer. By the time she had reached the ground floor there was a welcome warmth which danced on her skin and heated the air in her lungs.
One of the chambermaids showed her to Mr Kendal’s private parlour. He had not yet arrived. Jane made straight for the fireplace, which boasted a small but cheerful fire. Hurrying across the room, she held her frozen hands out towards it. It surely was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen!
The door opened and closed behind her, sending a puff of smoke billowing out into the room. It must be him! Briefly, the heat reached all the way to her elbows, then subsided again.
She turned. ‘Good evening, sir.’ Her voice sounded normal. Good. At least her stuttering heart had not revealed itself in her tone.
Mr Kendal had changed his clothing for dinner. She could not resist running her eyes over his fine figure.
‘Good evening, Miss Bailey.’
He frowned, causing her to run a nervous hand over her hair, wondering if she were untidy. There had been, of course, no looking glass in the attic. At her back, slight heat from the fire began to penetrate through her dress and thin shift. Strangely, and most inconveniently, she now began to shiver. But she was warming up. It made no sense.
He strode towards her, peering into her face. He was still frowning. ‘Miss Bailey,’ he announced. ‘Your lips are blue.’
She brought a hand up to touch her mouth. ‘Th-they are?’
He nodded grimly. ‘Give me your hand.’
She obeyed instinctively. He took her right hand, then the left, but she could barely feel his touch. With a muffled exclamation he wrapped both his hands around hers, rubbing gently.
‘You foolish girl! You are half-frozen!’
‘Oh, n-no!’ she lied. ‘I am j-just a little chilled.’
‘Your teeth are chattering, your hands are like ice, and your lips are as blue as—as your eyes,’ he muttered. ‘How on earth did you get so cold? Have you been outside?’
‘No! Of course not!’ His eyes bored into hers. ‘I have been in my chamber.’
His lips pressed into a single angry line. Releasing her hands, he walked to the table and drew forward a stout wooden chair. The stiffness in his spine and the set of his shoulders displayed his irritation. Arranging the chair directly in front of the fire, he bade her sit.
She did so, anxiously aware that she had displeased him. Schooled her entire life to be complaisant, obedient, and most of all unobtrusive, she was aware that right now she was being much too visible.
Without a word, he left the room, closing the door gently and carefully behind him. She shuddered at this evidence of his carefully banked anger.
Oh, no, he meant to speak to the landlord!
Unhelpfully, at that precise moment her mind decided to entertain her with the memory of a previous occasion on which she had caused trouble for those around her. It had been four years ago, when Lady Kingswood—then living under a false name—had been working as governess to Lady Cecily, Lord Kingswood’s ward. Jane had inadvertently revealed that the governess was not, as His Lordship had believed, Anne Bolton, but Miss Marianne. This had led to Miss Marianne leaving in great distress and no one seeing her for weeks afterwards.
Overcome by shame, Jane held her head in her hands. From what she knew of Mr Kendal he seemed generally mild-mannered and calm. Her instinct told her he was not the type of gentleman who customarily challenged innkeepers or expressed displeasure with their services. Yet, because of her, he was forced to leave his warm parlour to take issue with his host. She felt terrible to have caused this much inconvenience.
The door opened, admitting a different serving maid. ‘Good evening, miss. Dinner is almost ready, so I am here to prepare the table, if you will permit?’
‘Of course! Mr Kendal has asked me to dine with him. I am honoured, but I am used to dining with the other servants.’
‘Ah! So you are the maid who will sleep in our attic tonight?’ The maid began setting out crockery, cutlery and carving knives on the clean table cloth.
‘I am.’ Jane paused. ‘I was upstairs earlier. It was very cold.’
‘That’ll be the gap in the eaves. When the stuffing falls out it gets powerful cold up there.’
‘The stuffing?’
‘Aye, me and the other girls have stuffed an old mattress into the hole. It works a treat, but now and again it falls out, and the wind whistles through like the very devil!’
‘That explains it! I did wonder how you managed to survive, sleeping in such a cold room.’
The maid laughed. ‘It’s not perfect, but we are glad to have a roof over our heads and an honest day’s work. Though I shan’t get the chance to nip upstairs and stuff the mattress back in place until after dinner, and even then we might be busy in the taproom.’
She moved around the table competently, arranging everything in neat formation. Watching her, Jane was struck by the similarities in their station—and the differences. They were both servants, but Jane was used to rather more luxury than a cold attic bedroom with holes in its walls.
‘Is that your master in the taproom?’
Jane raised an eyebrow at the maid’s question.
‘The good-looking gentleman as is giving my uncle an earful about something?’
Jane closed her eyes briefly. ‘Er...yes.’
The maid departed, satisfied with her work, giving way to Mr Kendal in the doorway. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Not at all.’
He is considerate towards servants, Jane noted.
He moved towards her and she searched his face for hints as to his mood. The earlier irritation had gone. What she saw now was—Was that an air of satisfaction?
‘How do you now, Miss Bailey?’
‘I am perfectly well, thank you, sir.’
He threw her a sceptical look. ‘You are still shivering. And yet—’ he leaned forward to inspect her more closely ‘—your lips are returning to their normal rosy hue.’
He paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on her mouth, then he seemed to shake himself out of it.
He took a step back, stating in quite a different tone, ‘I wonder what delights our landlord will offer us for dinner?’
Food was not uppermost in Jane’s thoughts. She was freezing, exhausted, and still stiff from a full day stuck in the carriage. Yet, strangely, her heart was fluttering
