Page 19 of A Mismatch Made in London

When calling hours were over, I noticed the upstairs maid, Rebecca, looking pale.

“Are you well?” I asked her.

“Yes, miss, I’m very well.” But she looked frightened, as if afraid she would get in trouble for looking unwell.

“If you need to lie down, I’m sure the housekeeper will not mind. I will even tell her—”

“No, miss, I beg you not to tell Mrs. Smith anything.”

“Very well. I would not wish to cause you trouble.”

“Thank you, miss. You are very kind.” There were tears in her eyes as she turned away and hurried from the room.

The poor girl. Mrs. Smith must be very hard on the servantsfor her to look so frightened. But I made it a point to keep my eye on her.

In the next two days, the pale look did not leave her, and I even heard her retching in the servants’ washroom.

On the third day, I was walking past a guest room where the door was slightly ajar, and I heard Mrs. Smith’s voice, sounding more strident than usual.

“This will not be tolerated. If you are with child, I will have no choice but to dismiss you immediately. And do not expect a letter of reference from me. Disgraceful.” She hissed that last word.

I hid myself in the next room and watched Mrs. Smith hurry down the hallway while making huffing noises.

I stepped out into the hall and heard sobbing coming from the next room. The door was open. Rebecca was standing there, bent over, her face in her hands.

“Are you all right?” I moved closer. “Is there anything I can do?”

“There is nothing that can be done.” Rebecca looked up at me, then wiped her face with her apron. Her voice was muffled by the apron as she said, “I know very well, there is nothing that can be done.”

She was a very pretty girl, with large brown eyes, long eyelashes, and a heart-shaped face. My heart squeezed in empathy.

Perhaps I should have been horrified by her plight, but the same thing had happened to our kitchen maid. My mother found her to be with child, and my parents spoke with the father. He was one of our tenant farmers, and he was persuaded to marry her. I saw her at church on occasion, and she seemed happy enough, with a little boy and another child on the way.

“Can you marry the father?” I ventured.

“No,” she said, such agony in her voice, as she shook her head. “It is impossible.”

“Do you have any family who can help you?”

She shook her head. “Only my younger brothers and sisters, and they depend on me. There is no one else.”

“And who is the father of your child?” I kept my voice low.

“He was a guest here, a friend of Mr. Beaumont’s, a gentleman, too high to ever marry me. I should have known better. I should have known.” Tears were streaming down her face, and she let out a sob, which she stifled with a fistful of apron.

“Can he not be prevailed upon to help you?”

“He left here three months ago, and I haven’t heard from him since. I tried to write a letter to him, but it was returned to me. He wants nothing to do with me.”

“What is his name?” I tried to sound as emotionless as possible, shoving down what I felt.

“No, miss, you mustn’t—”

“Give me his name, Rebecca. I promise, I shall not make things worse for you. I just want to know his name.”

She protested a bit more, but in the end, she said, “Johnathan Skeffington.”

“I shall do my best to help,” I said, leaning down to look her in the eye. “Let me see what I can do, and in the meantime, don’t despair.”