Rags-To-Riches Wife. Catherine Tinley

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 foolishly and her insides were melting with a curious warmth. It was, she recognised, to do with Mr Kendal’s proximity and the way he had looked at her mouth just now.

       What is happening to me?

      Since Henry Grant’s assault upon her person she had never felt this way. Of course she had encountered attractive men on occasion, but her appreciation of them had been impersonal, almost scholarly. Never visceral.

       Never like this.

      Before she could gather her thoughts the innkeeper appeared in the doorway, leading a procession of three maids and a manservant, all bearing dishes.

      In the ensuing fuss, she found her equilibrium again, and not long afterwards her appetite.