Page 165 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

Chapter 33

“You are still quite pale. You are not suffering a relapse, are you Martin?” the countess demanded the following morning, peering at Stacia through suspicious, squinty eyes. “Or is it reveling with rustics that has left you so hollow-eyed?”

“I feel fine,” Stacia lied. She was exhausted. And miserable. She had tossed and turned in her bed until after eight o’clock, alternately shedding tears and cursing Shelton’s name.

Obviously, he had better things to do.

Lady Addiscombe gestured to the bed tray across her lap. “You may take this, Martin.” She aimed a dissatisfied moue at the nearly untouched coddled eggs. “I don’t recall Cook being so heavy-handed with cream when I oversaw the house.”

Stacia lifted the tray and was about to set it near the door and ring for a servant when her employer said, “No, Martin. I want you to take it down. You may bring me a poached egg and plain toast. Pray tell Cook that eggs do not need to swim in cream.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Stacia was amused to note the number of sleepy, heavy eyes in evidence when she reached the kitchen. So, she was not the only one who’d got too little sleep.

“I don’t see how the swells do this night after night,” Dora was saying to Sally, one of Cook’s helpers.

“They can do it because they don’t have to get up the next morning and set fires,” groused Kitty, another maid, who was scarcely much larger than Stacia but had an amusingly booming voice.

“Any more complaining and I might have to advise the master against such entertainment in the future,” Davis said, coolly surveying the larger than average collection of servants milling about.

Maids and footmen scattered in all directions like mice running from a cat.

Cook glared from the tray to Stacia. “Is something wrong with my food?”

“Her ladyship said it was delicious. It is just that she is feeling a little delicate this morning. She would like a plain poached egg on plain toast.” Stacia smiled at the grim-faced woman. “I will wait and bring it up to her.”

“Plain,” the Cook snapped and then turned on her heel and stormed off.

Davis frowned and hastened after Mrs. Barton, probably to soothe her ruffled feathers.

“Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?” Mrs. Nutter said, gesturing to a steaming pot.

“Thank you.” Stacia took the chair across from her and poured a cup while the housekeeper resumed drawing up a massive shopping list.

She sipped her tea and enjoyed a moment of relaxation, something she knew would be in short supply as Lady Addiscombe had announced that she was going to rejoin her family tonight at dinner to ensure their Christmas antics did not get out of hand.

The door opened and two maids entered burdened with empty breakfast trays that told Stacia Lady Addiscombe wasn’t the only one having a lazy morning.

“—gone to Brighton, is what I heard,” one of the maids said, carefully putting crockery from her tray into a basin of water where a scullery maid was washing dishes.

The other maid chortled. “Or to the village, I reckon. I was in Mrs. Johnson’s shop the day he popped in to have one of his gloves re-stitched. She asked if he wanted to collect his gloves in person from her house later that evening.”

The women laughed.

“She’s always boastin’ about the lovers she had when she lived in London,” another maid chimed in.

The first girl nodded. “Aye, she casts eyes at the master whenever he is—” She stopped abruptly when Davis entered the room.

But it was too late, the intimidating butler had overheard.

He frowned at the gossiping maids, his face a mask of displeasure. “You will not speak disrespectfully of his lordship beneath his own roof, Grace Tilney!” His cold eyes swept over the other two. “If the three of you have nothing better to do than engage in idle chatter you can help Thomas and Anthony carry the rugs from the drawing room. I am sure you will do an excellent job beating them clean.”

The girls fled.

Stacia remembered well the lush beauty of the shop owner. Mrs. Johnson was a gregarious and sensual woman, that much had been clear just from looking at her. She’d also been generous and kind to Stacia, offering to connect her with a friend in London who had a dress shop.

Is that where Shelton had gone last night?