“I’ll speak to the housekeeper and make it stop.”
That was amusing. Was Dawson really so naïve? “Who says she doesn’t already know?”
His mouth gaped.
“Mrs. Young has been indifferent to my happiness for a long time,” she remarked in a soft voice. Matilda suspected it was not just because of the time she’d spent alone with the captain. They did not rub together well—never had from the very beginning of her employment. Since those early days of gratitude, Matilda had come to see the housekeeper as a lazy old woman who lived well off the captain’s largesse. The woman did as little as possible and never noticed Matilda did the work of two maids. Now the captain was recovered, it was only a matter of time before Mrs. Young found a way to be rid of her for good. Or was the woman hoping to overwork Matilda to the point she would leave without a reference or die of exhaustion? More than likely.
Dawson glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll speak to the captain.”
“And make things worse.” Matilda shook her head firmly. “You’d better not.”
“What will you do then?” He stared at the contents of the cup before upending it in the sink. “This must stop. You cannot wait until someone makes you ill.”
She shuddered, knowing he was right. “It won’t come to that. I have a plan.”
Dawson paled. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”
She didn’t answer him at first. Who knew who could be listening around the corner? A servant had no privacy and certainly wasn’t allowed too many secrets. As it was, she always ran the risk of being caught scanning the newssheets for an alternative position. The only reason she stayed was because Harry Lloyd knew he’d find her here.
However, her lingering over the papers might be grounds for instant dismissal if she was found in one part of the house when she was meant to be elsewhere. If she allied herself with another servant, she might do a better job of finding other employment. And she would know, one way or the other, if Dawson could be considered a friend or foe. “I would never leave until Harry returns.”
“Harry? Harry Lloyd?” Dawson said slowly. “What is he to you?”
“He’s a very good friend.”
“Surely not?”
“I’d best get on with my work.” Matilda tossed her head defiantly, fetched her bucket of rags, and then inched past him. “Excuse me.”
Too bad if Mr. Dawson did not care for the connection. Matilda did. She would be a bride and have a home of her own.
Since she had no appetite left for the fare of the dining room, she left the servants’ hall and climbed the stairs to the first floor. With only Captain Ford in residence, the upper floor was as still as the grave. A peaceful place where time dragged, sometimes pleasantly.
She liked these rooms best of all, having spent so much time here while the captain recovered. The drawing room boasted a set of four tall windows that drowned the room in lovely soft light, and she took a moment to enjoy the view.
She barely went outside anymore. She missed long walks in the park, the comfort of greater society, and the occasional butterfly to follow through a field of wildflowers. Their delicate beauty fascinated her, but they were never seen in the great city.
She absently brushed dust from the back of a deep, upholstered armchair and looked about her.
Matilda was almost certain the captain’s younger sisters would arrive any day. She imagined the house filled with feminine laughter. A rare commodity here. She could not afford to dawdle when there was so much to prepare for. It was a surprise they’d stayed away so long, though they had mentioned in their early letters that the duke had forbidden them to pester the captain until he sent for them.
Since the captain was on the ground floor in the library, Matilda chose to attend to his bedchamber first. Just in case he had returned unexpectedly, she tapped lightly on his door and then slowly eased it open. The large room was empty. The fire had burned down to embers, so she attended to that quickly, resetting it in readiness for the captain’s return later that day. She had spent a great deal of her days in this room until recently and was very familiar with the way the captain preferred it kept—neat to the point of severity.
Absolutely no flowers or feminine touches allowed.
She shook his heavy linen sheets, smoothed them back into place, and plumped his single pillow. He always slept in the exact center of the bed, so she returned the pillow to its expected place. As she turned to gather an empty glass from a side table, her gaze landed on the headboard and then dropped to the locked boxed beneath.
She had nothing to fear from this room, but she still thought of that afternoon last year with mixed feelings. Anger certainly. Embarrassment often. Why did he keep those things and hidden away? Why had touching them made him so angry that he’d spanked her like a misbehaving child?
There was no way to find out without humiliation. The captain was no longer kind to her.
She glanced around the room, checking that everything was in order, and then backed out to the dressing room. She dusted the mantel and side tables, flicked dust off the windowsills, then lifted the window sash high.
She breathed in the thick scents of London, then quickly slammed the windows shut. Today wasn’t the day to air the captain’s rooms. Perhaps tomorrow the smoke of thousands of fires would have blown away.
The work of a servant never ended, and it had been a savage week spent on catching up on forgotten chores, so she moved to the drawing room.
Dawson was waiting, holding a tray. “Fresh tea.”