Love Finds You in Prince Edward Island Page 12

  David Orland placed his canes carefully and bowed with precision before his prince.

  Peter couldn’t hear any words—perhaps none were spoken. Albert Edward nodded, and his expressive eyes filled with sympathy.

  As usual in a public gathering, the prince exuded a modest and caring attitude toward the people. Peter didn’t think it was a ruse. The young man had been trained since birth to know that without the people there would be no empire. As his mother did, he truly cared about his subjects—in so far as he was able to understand their needs. Peter had no doubt that the Orland men had needs of which the prince had no inkling.

  Should he warn the earl that a second member of the Orland family had entered the room? Peter took a step toward the earl. Too late—David Orland was now leaving the governor and prince and speaking to the duke. it would be too conspicuous to grab the earl—the next person in line—and yank him aside.

  Before Peter had closed half the distance between them, Washburn had turned with his smile still in place and surveyed David Orland.

  “Well, now, sir. It’s an honor that you’ve made the effort to be here today.” Washburn extended his hand.

  “Mr. Orland,” said the footman beside the earl.

  Washburn froze for a moment. Then he laughed. “Well, now, that’s an excellent coat you’re wearing, sir. I believe we must have the same tailor.”

  Peter caught his breath. How big a blunder had he made, out of sympathy for a pretty girl?

  David flushed but braced one cane under his arm and took the earl’s hand. “Thank you, my lord. My daughter claims it’s in good taste for the occasion.”

  “Your daughter is right.”

  Peter exhaled. Thanks to Molly’s father’s ready wits, he might get by with his caper.

  David Orland fixed the earl with his gaze, and for a moment silence hung in the room. “You are the Earl of Washburn, sir?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I believe we have a connection.”

  Peter winced. He couldn’t turn away, though something told him he’d regret witnessing the meeting.

  Warily, the earl looked Orland over. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” David lowered the cane’s tip to the floor again and leaned on the two sticks with a slight grimace. “My father has lived on this island for the last forty-five years because of a wrong done by your father.”

  As Molly entered the kitchen from the rear passageway, Allison rushed toward her carrying an armful of table linen. “Hurry. Mrs. Bolton came in here and asked for you by name. Take these into the dining room and help set up for the luncheon. They’re serving twenty-four after the levee.”

  Molly clutched the embroidered table napkins to her chest and scurried for the passage between the kitchen and dining room.

  Mrs. Bolton was just emerging. Molly hesitated, but there was no avoiding the stern housekeeper.

  “And where have you been, Molly?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was held up for a moment.”

  Mrs. Bolton’s creased forehead grew even more furrowed. “Get those serviettes laid out and fill the finger bowls. Quickly now. The guests are being admitted to the levee, and His Royal Highness is receiving them. You are not to be in evidence in the great hall or the passageways the guests use. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Molly dipped a curtsy and dove for the dining room door.

  Rosaleen was holding a vase of flowers, while Mrs. Dundas arranged another just so on the table. Another maid, Pauline, was setting up chafing dishes on the sideboard. Molly hurried to lay out the linens. Mrs. Dundas smiled at her, and Molly felt undeserving of her confidence.

  When the formal dining room was ready, she was sent to prepare the servants’ dining hall. No telling what time the staff would eat today, since the luncheon for the Dundases and their guests would be served late. She prayed silently as she laid out the pewter flatware and thick ironstone plates.

  “Molly.”

  She jerked toward the door. The first parlor maid, Roberts, stood there.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “As soon as you are done here, report to me. The footmen will be setting up in the back gardens for Mrs. Dundas’s lawn party, and we need to arrange the decorations and refreshment tables.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The rain must have stopped, at least temporarily, or they wouldn’t dare begin to set out tables and benches.

  “Though why they want to let everyone and his brother trample those lawns and gardens is beyond me.” Roberts looked at the clock above the breakfront that held the servants’ dishes. “Are you serving at the state luncheon?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I’ve not been told.”

  Roberts clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I’ll find out. If you are, you’ll need to be back in the dining room soon. I’ve never seen such disorganization.”

  She turned away with a swish of her skirts. Considering the short time the staff had between events, Molly thought they were doing quite well. So far they’d stayed one step ahead of the aristocrats. Quickly she laid the plates and went back to the shelves for cups and saucers.

  The earl’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated. He looked around with an air of impending disaster, his face turning an odd shade of mauve. His gaze settled on Peter.

  “Stark.” It came out like the caw of a crow calling a warning. “How may I help you, my lord?” Peter stepped up beside him so that the earl would feel the support of his physical presence.

  Washburn drew an unsteady breath. “I fear I’m indisposed. Would you please make my excuses to Mrs. Dundas at the luncheon?”

  “Certainly. Would you like me to help you to your chamber?”

  “No. No, thank you.” Washburn nodded curtly in David Orland’s direction. “Forgive me, sir. I’m not well. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

  He walked unsteadily toward the folding doors. Peter longed to run after him and assist him. Perhaps he could ask Dr. Acland to go and take a look at his master, to be sure he was all right.

  He inhaled and extended his hand to David. “I’m sorry, sir. My apologies for His Lordship. We’re delighted that you came today.”

  Orland eyed him keenly as he took his hand. “You’re Stark—the earl’s man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m thinking my family owes you a word of thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir. I was happy to lend my aid, although”—Peter cast a glance toward the doorway through which his master had disappeared—“I fear my impulse may have done more harm than good in this matter.”

  “How much did our Molly tell you?”

  “Nothing except that your father wished to speak to the earl.”

  David nodded, leaning heavily on his canes while holding onto the hat’s brim. Other gentlemen moved around him toward the exit. Peter knew he neglected his duty, but one of the equerries stepped up in his place and guided the visitors toward the door.

  “It’s just as well,” David said. “I wasn’t coming in today. My leg frets me, so I was going to stay in the wagon. But then Da came out and said the earl wasn’t in here. So I—” His eyes twinkled. “You may laugh, sir, but I borrowed his finery and took my turn, hoping to see if I could learn what happened to Washburn. My father has waited many years for this, you see.”

  Peter lowered his voice. “For what, sir? Surely he doesn’t mean to harm the earl?”

  “No, never. Only to ask for justice. It wasn’t this earl who wronged him, but his father, what’s now dead.”

  “I understand that. Perhaps I understand more than you think. But why is your father so adamant about seeing this Lord Washburn? You must realize, sir, that part of my job is to protect him.”

  “You like your master?”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. His father was a rascal, by all accounts I’ve heard.” David glanced behind him. “Well, I’m in the way. I’ll go tell my da I managed to see His Lordship. But I can’t say I got very far
with him.”

  Peter walked with him toward the folding doors. “Sir, no matter what’s passed between the Orlands and the Washburns, I’m pleased to meet you.”

  David looked him full in the eyes. “And I to meet you, Mr. Stark. You’re one man I’ve heard nothing but good about.” He nodded. “Good day.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Molly served at luncheon without making a single mistake. She wasn’t as nervous as she had been the evening before, but part of that might have been due to the fact that neither Peter nor the Earl of Washburn was present in the dining room.

  Once or twice she again saw the prince looking at her down the length of the room, but she pretended she didn’t notice and gave extra attention to the people she served. They ignored her most of the time, but one of the equerries thanked her when she refilled his water glass, and the local magistrate asked if she wasn’t David Orland’s girl.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” she replied with a smile.

  “And you’re in service here?”

  “Temporarily, sir. For the royal tour.”

  “Of course.” He went back to his meal and his conversation with the legislator on his right and ignored her from then on.

  The next time she glanced toward the head of the table, the prince was speaking to Mrs. Dundas. Molly relaxed. He was still hardly more than a boy. Perhaps he was looking for people his age among all these middle-aged denizens of high society.

  Later, as she went to have her own meal in the servants’ hall, Molly made a conscious decision not to inquire about Peter and his master among the other staff—that would be unseemly. But she kept her ears open to see if she could learn anything.

  “I took lunch up to that fancy earl,” Rosaleen told her in a low voice as they began passing the dishes around the table.

  “I noticed he didn’t come to lunch,” Molly said. “Is he ill?”

  “I’m not sure. Mr. Stark was in his chamber with him when I carried the tray up, and he took it from me at the door. Such a well-mannered young man! But I saw the earl pacing about by the windows, so he can’t be too sick.”

  Molly thought about that as she ate. She enjoyed the food at Government House, and Cook seemed to be making a special effort in her meals for the staff while the New York chef was in residence and cooking for the family and guests. Allison had given her opinion that Cook was trying to show the chef that she was every bit as good a cook as he was…and to keep him from completely taking over her kitchen. Whatever the reason, the staff ate well that week, and they also got a few leftovers from upstairs.

  She reported to the first parlor maid after the servants’ lunch was over, expecting to be given more to do for the afternoon party, but instead Roberts told her, “Mrs. Bolton wants you in her sitting room.”

  Molly raised an eyebrow, but Roberts only nodded, so she turned and hurried up to Mrs. Bolton’s rooms. As she went, her heart began to pound. This couldn’t be the result of their earlier encounter, could it? Was it possible Mrs. Bolton had learned that she’d gone out to meet her brother during work time? Even worse—had the housekeeper somehow heard about the clothing she’d borrowed for her grandfather? Perspiration broke out on Molly’s forehead, and she paused on the landing to dab at her face with a handkerchief.

  An even more dire possibility struck her—maybe the prince had complained about her barging into the room where he and the duke were sitting that morning. Perhaps she was about to be fired. With all her missteps today it might be justified, but even so, she didn’t think she could bear the shame. Breathing was suddenly very difficult. She forced herself to walk down the hall and around the corner to the wing where Mrs. Bolton lived.

  The cook and butler had their living quarters on the second floor with Mr. and Mrs. Dundas, while other live-in servants had rooms in the cellar or attic. Molly went to the housekeeper’s sitting room and tapped on the door.

  “Enter.”

  She turned the knob and crossed the threshold.

  “Ah. Molly Orland.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She curtsied, angry at herself for allowing her voice to tremble.

  Mrs. Bolton’s eyes narrowed as she looked Molly up and down. “I received rather an odd request from one of our guests.”

  “Yes, ma’am?” It came out almost a squeak, and Molly cleared her throat, wishing desperately that she could be elsewhere.

  “Yes. The Earl of Washburn has asked me to see that you were invited to this evening’s ball.”

  Molly’s chin jerked up involuntarily, and she stared as the housekeeper continued. A heavy weight seemed to have settled on her chest, making it nearly impossible to draw another breath.

  “I checked with Mrs. Dundas, of course, and she didn’t see any harm in it, since you’re not a regular employee and your father was at the levee this morning.”

  Molly swallowed with difficulty, trying to think what Mrs. Bolton’s words meant. The ball? It was impossible. And why her? And especially, why did the Earl of Washburn make the request? Had Grandpa Anson spoken to him at the levee and told him that his granddaughter was temporarily in-service in the house? Added to that, her father had made an appearance at the levee after all.

  “I—I don’t understand, ma’am.” She looked down at her shoe tips as heat rushed into her cheeks.

  “Don’t let it go to your head, girl. The royal party wants to be sure there will be plenty of pretty young women for the prince to dance with.”

  Molly gulped. Had the request from Washburn originated with the prince? The humiliating memory of her unexpected encounter with the prince flashed across her mind. But Washburn wasn’t with him then—the Duke of Newcastle was. What had he said about wanting dance partners? This request must have come from that suggestion she’d thought was a jest.

  “From what I’ve heard, the prince can be charming,” Mrs. Bolton went on. “He’ll dance with all the dowagers, but he likes a little fun too. It seems you caught his eye when you were serving at table, and he asked for you especially.” Mrs. Bolton eyed her keenly. “I spoke to Mr. Reynold, and he assured me that you did nothing while serving at mealtime to draw attention to yourself.”

  “I hope not, ma’am.”

  “He tells me you stayed at the lower end of the table and went nowhere near the prince.”

  “That’s true, ma’am.”

  “Yes. Well, since Mrs. Dundas approves, I suppose we’ll have to let you go.”

  “But…” Molly stared at her, suddenly terrified. “But…I can’t!” “Whyever not, child?” The housekeeper’s eyes snapped with disapproval. “The mistress has agreed to fulfill the request. You cannot say no at this point.”

  “But—but I don’t have a suitable gown, ma’am. The ball is tonight, and even if there was time to shop, we don’t have enough money. It’s impossible.”

  Mrs. Bolton shook her head. “Don’t you fret. Mrs. Dundas’s lady’s maid is close to your size, and she has dozens of gowns her mistress gave her. She can lend you something. Mrs. Dundas assured me she would see to it.” She muttered something under her breath and lifted her arm to a bellpull that dangled near her chair. She tugged it so hard that the keys on the chatelaine on her waist jangled. Molly thought she caught the words “…what we’re coming to.”

  The housekeeper fixed her disapproving gaze on Molly once more. “You mind your manners, young lady. There’ll be no one but you to keep your humility and guard your reputation. One slip and you’ll disgrace the entire population of this island.”

  Molly’s heart thudded at the thought, and her throat constricted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “After your gown is fitted, you’ll have to go home and rest this afternoon. It won’t do to have you serve dinner and then go to the ball yawning.” She shook her head. “I shall have to find another footman or parlor maid to serve this evening. This is very irregular.”

  Molly stood still, averting her gaze and trying not to squirm. A moment later a light knock came at the door and it opened.

 
“You wished to see me, ma’am?” Mrs. Dundas’s lady’s maid, Thompson, stepped inside.

  “Yes. The mistress says you’re to outfit this young lady for tonight’s ball.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Dundas told me.” Though Thompson’s features remained impassive, Molly wondered how she really felt about having to lend her personal belongings to a farmer’s daughter.

  “I see Molly is a wee bit taller than you. Do the best you can.”

  The maid looked over at Molly and measured her with her eyes, from her face to her feet and back up again. Thompson’s mouth drooped for an instant before she collected herself. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure we’ll find something suitable.”

  “See that she looks wholesome, won’t you?” Mrs. Bolton’s brows drew down as she peered at the young woman. “Nothing too daring.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” Thompson dipped a small curtsy and looked at Molly. “Won’t you come with me, miss? We’ll have to hurry, as Mrs. Dundas will need me soon.”

  Molly nodded to Mrs. Bolton and followed Thompson out into the corridor. The lady’s maid strode swiftly along the carpeted hallway, and Molly scurried to keep up. How much resentment was seething beneath the surface? Thompson was in her midtwenties, and ladies’ maids served only so long as they remained youthful and pretty. This one probably had five to ten years left to serve her mistress, if all went well. Then she would be put aside for a younger woman. If she had saved enough during her service, Thompson could retire. Ideally, she would find a husband. Otherwise, she would have to take a cut in pay and status to keep working after she reached thirty-five, probably as a parlor maid.

  Around a corner they came to Thompson’s chambers. She led Molly into her bedchamber. The cherry four-poster bed and huge armoire dwarfed them as they crossed the plush carpet.

  “This way.” Thompson opened a door and entered another room with Molly on her heels.

  Molly caught her breath. The entire room was full of racks of clothing. Dresses, skirts, and crinolines hung on padded hangers on the four long racks. One small window admitted light, and several lanterns hung on pegs on each wall.