Page 22 of Dearest Beast
Suddenly, the prospect of appearing downstairs—albeit in a gown not of her choosing and fresh from the humiliation of her former display—was not so unappealing.
“I’m sure she misunderstood,” Marguarite said, looking nervous, bordering even on frightened over the potential retaliation from this revelation. Her screaming earlier must have been quite fearsome. Something for which she should probably be a touch moreembarrassed. However, power was power, and given her predicament, she’d take what she could get, no matter the form.
“I’m sure she—” the maid started.
“I’m sure she did not,” Rebecca muttered. She rubbed the back of her neck. This was going to be a long few weeks. “Marguarite, would you be good enough to assist me in getting ready after my bath?”
“Of course, Miss,” the woman said quickly, then hesitated. “Though you should know, the master rarely dines at home.” Her tone was a touch disquieted.
Not that it shouldn’t be as, even she, who was often accused of rudeness, understood such an act was insulting and certainly not appropriate when one had a guest.
“Ah” was all Rebecca could say in response.
“But the staff is quite pleased to serve you. We’re seldom able to present formal dinners anymore and miss the excitement,” Marguarite added, her tone now overly bright. “And I am sure the master will be sending his regrets as we speak.”
“I’m sure he’s not,” she returned with a sniff.
The woman peered at her, her lips pressed tightly together. “If you are not comfortable eating in the dining room, we could send up a tray,” she offered. “Even though we’ve prepared to serve you and the footmen practiced their roles for an hour.”
Oy.
All Rebecca wanted to do was tell the woman to send up the tray. After all, the idea of being served formally, while dining alone, was both embarrassing and wasteful. However, it was demonstratively not the staff’s preference, and displeasing them would not only be rude but would also solidify the household against her. Not a clever idea considering she was practically at their mercy.
“No.” Rebecca shook her head. “I’d be pleased to be served in the dining room. Alone.” She forced eye contact with the woman.
“Very good.” Marguarite smoothed her skirts. “The bath should be—”
She turned to the door, likely eager to finish the task so she could leave, only to step back as eight footmen entered the room, each carrying two buckets. “And here it is.”
“Perfect,” Rebecca said, before indicating her injured arm. “I’ll need you to unwrap me, and then I’ll just go undress behind the screen.”
“What about me?” Fannie whined, glaring between the two.
“What about you?” Rebecca asked, working hard to keep the triumph out of her voice. Yes, she was about to best a Berab, but a nine-year-old one and thus not really something about which to boast. Especially as she was no child-rearing expert—even if she had spent most of her childhood minding those younger and had a decent sense for managing their frustrations even without official authority.
“You aren’t going to tell me to leave?” the girl asked, clutching the cat so close the thing yelped, though surprisingly did not scratch.
“That’s your choice. What you do is not my concern,” she said as Marguarite finished. Before she even had a chance to fiddle with the ties of her chemise, child and cat exited, slamming the door behind them. Leaving her in a more promising position, compromises be damned.
Almost two hours later—a ridiculously long time in Rebecca’s opinion—she’d been brushed and combed and primped and fluffed, pushed into stays that were not her own and thus fit incorrectly, then encased in the least dramatic of the gowns, a burgundy with only a few beads and no sequins or small pearls. But she was dressed and thus able to attend dinner.
Alone.
Oy.
Punished. She must be being punished for something. That was the only explanation. Perhaps this was what happened to people who refused to suffer fools and held others in the community to the actual standards they’d set for themselves.
She should’ve been born simple. Then none of this would’ve happened.
That or she’d be at the proper intellectual level to converse with children and win more alliances in the household. One or the other.
Clutching the banister with her good hand, she crept down the staircase and, following Marguarite’s directions, counted three doors on the left. She reached for the knob, but the entry swung open itself, the work of a footman, who’d been standing just inside.
Stepping aside, he permitted her to enter.
And there, standing by a large, porcelain-laden wooden table, was the last person she’d expected or wanted to see that evening.
She should’ve chosen the tray. Exaggerated her injury—oy—why had she not thought of that in the first place?
