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Wasn’t the phrase, A penny saved is a penny earned, anyway? Or was it, Look after pennies, and the pounds will look after themselves?

It didn’t matter. What did, however, was Mrs. Thackpenny’s tightfistedness.

Persuading the woman to part with funds was as difficult as convincing a nun to toss up her habit for a dockside tumble with a salty sea dog—in broad daylight.

Every single month since her arrival, Joy had been obliged to ask for her allowance and carefully count each coin. For her penny-pinching employer had tried to cheat her out of a shilling or two several times.

Honestly, there wasn’t any need for her excessive thrift either.

Mrs. Thackpenny’s husband, a successful banker, had left her a considerable fortune. Yet the decades-old worn and quite threadbare carpets, draperies, and outdated furnishings remained as a tribute to the long-dead Mr. Ephraim Thackpenny.

The widow owned precisely seven gowns—one for each day of the week. Every one entirely black from collar to hem and as plain as unused paper, without so much as a shiny button to break the bleak monotony.

Head canted, Joy listened for her employer’s drowsy murmurings, and when no more sounds came from the woman, decided Mrs. Thackpenny had, indeed, been mumbling in her sleep. A common enough occurrence, in truth.

Joy happily turned her musings toward her half-day off once more.

Mayhap, she’d indulge in all three activities this Saturday.

The merest rebellious smile bent her mouth

Yes, that was precisely what she’d do.

Visit The Vines, the bookstore, and the tea shop.

Pure heaven.

A small frown pulled her eyebrows together as she inserted the needle into the fine linen fabric, another handkerchief for her mistress—Mrs. Thackpenny’s one indulgence besides her pampered pets.

That was her plan if Mrs. Thackpenny actually permitted Joy the half-day she’d been assured of each week when hired by the difficult woman four years ago—no five years next week. There’d also been promises of exciting trips to Bath, the Continent, routs, musicals, soirees, the theater…museums.

None of which had ever manifested. If Joy managed a single, short walk outdoors every week, she counted herself most fortunate.

An unintended sigh slipped past her lips.

All fabrications to entice a young girl with stars in her eyes and dreams of a different, more exciting life clouding her common sense.

Little had Joy known that she was the latest in a long queue of lady’s maids retained and dismissed since Mrs. Sabella Thackpenny had taken a fall a decade before. Hence the need for her cane, and upon the advice of her then physician, Doctor Daggat, she’d conceded the need for a live-in companion.

Companion was a generous term for what Joy was to the woman. She was expected to be on hand for whatever the difficult widow demanded every hour of every day and night.

In truth, Mrs. Thackpenny seldom allowed Joy her half-day and never compensated for the deliberate oversight.

How Joy craved a few hours of desperately needed reprieve from the demanding, cantankerous, never satisfied woman’s presence. There was never a word of thanks or appreciation. Just scolds, complaints, reprimands, and the occasional threat of dismissal.

And dash it to ribbons, that was what Joy could look forward to until Mrs. Thackpenny departed this earth, unless she was somehow able to procure another position. With considerable effort, Joy quashed the wave of frustration billowing up from her middle that her errant, uncharitable thoughts brought on.

She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer.

Lord, give me the strength and patience I need. Keep me from complaining and help me be grateful. My life could be so much worse.

Her eyes drifted open.

It could be better too.

But, this was her lot in life, and she ought to be appreciative. In truth and much to her astonishment, despite her employer’s contentious nature, Joy had grown fond of the impossible woman.

At least she held a position, albeit one that paid poorly and consumed all of her waking hours. But a roof over one’s head and food in one’s belly, even if the fare was bland and unappetizing, accounted for much. That was more than most young women born on the wrong side of the blanket could say or even hope for.