Jane volunteered to steam the curtains in the foyer and direct traffic. There wasn’t time to wash everything (“A party only every two years, and he can’t be giving us more notice than two days?” moaned Cook), but there were plenty of ways to freshen with dusting and carpet beating and steaming.
The steamer was one of Poule’s inventions: a copper and iron contraption on spoke wheels. Jane dragged the awkward machine into the foyer and poured her full kettle into it. The heavy velvet drapes were nearly wrinkle-free, but she felt oddly satisfied as she freshened the plush, uncrushed the nap of the velvet. Maybe it was because this was a simple task, she thought, not like her open-ended struggle to turn Dorie into something she was not. Steaming the curtains fixed the curtains, and that was satisfying.
She directed several men and women to the side door to apply to Creirwy for the temporary work. Most often the villagers arrived in pairs—unwilling to brave Silver Birch Hall without a friendly face in tow, she thought. They peered in cautiously or stoically, wiping damp palms on their cleanest black-and-whites, fingering iron charms fastened over their pulse points. Jane smiled at them, but she knew her unveiled face with its contoured iron wasn’t likely to set them at ease.
She was nearly done with the last set of curtains when the twisted doorknocker sounded again. Jane opened the door. “Side door on the south,” she said automatically, but then she looked more closely at the visitor. “I’m sorry,” she said, for the woman at the door was clearly no servant. Jane wasn’t embarrassed for herself, but she didn’t want her employer to lose a client because she’d been too informal to her. So she bobbed an unfamiliar curtsey by way of apology. “An’ ye be human—oh, just come in, please, with my apologies.”
The woman laughed, her head thrown back till her throat caught the muted morning light. “I’ll have you horsewhipped,” she said, and she swept past Jane and into the house.
Jane looked at her sharply, uncertain as to whether the woman seriously thought that was a possibility, or if she merely had an odd sense of humor. Oddly cruel, perhaps. She wished she could take back the curtsey.
The woman was amused by Jane, judging from the expression in her snapping black eyes. She was not attractive, but Jane had to look twice to see that. The woman was tremendously distinctive, due to the fire in her face, the light in her eyes. She had clear olive skin and masses of black hair, and she knew how to dress to her advantage—she was clad in folds of black satin that slashed dramatically past her shoulders and clung to her hips, accentuated at the waist by a sunburst diamanté pin. She took the plum silk wrap from her shoulders in one fluid motion and tossed it to Jane, who fumbled for it. “You may tell Edward that Nina is here.” As if there was only one Nina in the world.
“Oh, I’m not the—,” said Jane, but Nina looked her up and down in a way that said she couldn’t possibly be interested in what Jane was or wasn’t.
Her attitude got under Jane’s skin. “Is he expecting you?”
“Oh yes,” Nina said, with a significant smile. “He’s expecting me.”
“And yet I regret to inform you,” Jane said coolly, “that he’s not here.” Score one for the governess.
Nina’s eyebrows raised, but her retort was forestalled by a movement behind the second floor railing. She elegantly inclined her head to study the small figure above.
Jane knew her words would have no effect when confronted with one of the “pretty ladies,” but still she said to the small figure: “Go finish your nap, Dorie. I’ll be right there.”
Dorie didn’t obey. Her legs pushed through the banister railings and her head leaned against the rail as she stared down at them. Her curls were limp and matted; her iron-gloved hands hung loosely at her side in a now-familiar gesture of tired defeat. Even her eyes seemed dull.
“That child needs castor oil,” said Nina. “Or a pony.”
Temper rose and with it sarcasm. “I’ll make a note on her charts,” Jane said. “Mr. Rochart will be back the day after next. Would you like to leave him your card?”
Nina’s eyebrows met along her low forehead. “I would,” she said. “With a note. You wouldn’t have an ink pen, would you?” Something about her tone implied that Jane would be unlikely to have anything related to literacy.
“In here,” said Jane. She drew aside the freshly steamed garnet curtains and ushered Nina into the small red room.
Nina’s gaze immediately snapped to the rows of masks and she studied them, touching jutting chins and hooked noses. “The Varee chirurgiens can’t compare to him,” she said in a low voice.