Why do I get called by my last name? It was a stupid thing to let bother her, but it did. Just another way to keep her separated. She followed the other maids and stood behind them as Mrs. Harper doled out duties for the day.
The preparations took forever, but they passed by in such a whirl of activity that it was hard to really gauge the passing of time. There were tablecloths to be ironed, flowers to be arranged, china to clean, silver to polish, and enough other things to keep a platoon of Mr. Cleans busy for a good month. But with the army of maids and footmen from both Tunstall Place and Granville House, all of it got done in time for the party.
“Now,” Mrs. Harper said in an excitedly hushed voice, “we must be ready when the guests arrive.
Henrietta, Sara, you remain in the entry hall to assist with hats and coats and the like. Teresa, you can assist with the trays when they’re rung for. Henry, George, do go and help Cook.” She turned to address the butler.
“Um, Mrs. Harper?” She hated to speak, but she was tired of being ignored. She’d been standing there for twenty minutes waiting for her assignment. “Where do you want me?”
“Oh, anywhere, girl, do find something.” Mrs.
Harper dismissed her with a wave of her hand.
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Stung, Leah turned toward the large drawing room that would see the most action. Maybe there was a tablecloth to straighten or a settee to dust or a chamber pot to empty.
She shuddered. Approaching footsteps made her turn.
“Miss Ramsey, I have but a moment, but do let me apologize for my behavior toward you this morning.”
Avery’s voice was nearly a whisper.
“What is your problem?” Leah hissed back to him, picking up a vase of flowers and straightening the cloth beneath it. “You act like you don’t give two shits about me and then you treat me like I’m some kind of helpless female who needs you. Which is it?”
His jaw worked silently for a moment.
“Russell, you’re needed in the drive. His Grace has arrived,” the Tunstall Place butler called.
Without another word, Avery gave her a quick look and strode away.
“Stupid man,” Leah mumbled beneath her breath.
She plucked a wilted leaf from a daisy. “What am I saying? They’re all stupid.”
The guests started to arrive. Backing into a half-hidden corner, she pretended to dust some figurines while she soaked in her first glimpse of true London gentility.
It was like being a guest at William and Kate’s wedding, only without all the tabloid reporters.
There were beautiful women, wearing insanely decorated hats and beautiful, ornate gowns. The footmen took turns showing the ladies in, one by one. Their escorts, gentlemen dressed in tight breeches and colorful waistcoats, followed, straightening their jackets and laughing with one another.
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Leah sighed with happiness as she pressed up against
the half-wall that shielded her. God, this was beautiful.
The gowns, the clothes, it was straight out of a dream she’d had in college— the one that almost made her go into theatrical costume design. It was only her inability to survive as the permanent houseguest on someone’s futon that prevented her from chasing that dream all the way to Broadway.
But here, seeing such opulence firsthand? It brought back the feelings full force, and she happily swam in them.
Polite chitchat and laughter swirled around Leah as the guests made their way into the sitting room. The other maids and footmen scurried around in the background, but Leah didn’t really pay them any attention. The real show was the lords and ladies, and she intended to enjoy it as much as possible.
She did until Henrietta, buried under several ladies’
cloaks, shot Leah an evil glance as she passed. Startled, Leah dusted furiously. Whoops. She’d almost forgotten her charade. She’d have to be more careful when the dowager appeared. Speaking of which, where was the esteemed old dragon?
As if her thoughts had conjured the lady up from the underworld, the woman herself descended the staircase.
“Wymond, my dear sweet boy,” she crooned in a deep voice that made Leah jump. Holy shit, it was an eighty-year- old Bea Arthur with a British accent.
Leah smothered her surprised laugh with a half-choked cough. The dowager was tall, with a long face, pursed lips, and jowls, just like the Golden Girl— down to the mostly-salt- and-barely- pepper hair and everything. But who was Wymond?
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“Mother,” a soft male voice responded.