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“The English are peculiarly gifted at making young women feel both ornamental and in the way, often at the same time.”

Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner

NOVEMBER 29 1821, LONDON

Molly’s argument with Claudette Dubois began as most of their recent quarrels had. The lady’s maid-turned-companion criticized Molly’s appearance, drawing unflattering comparisons to her late mistress and lamenting her reduced station, now tending to a nobody with not even a title to her name.

Isla Scott, the dowager Baroness of Blackwood, had tragically overdosed the month before. Miss Dubois’s duties had shifted to taking care of Molly, much to the displeasure of them both. But not as irritating as being informed just yesterday that the lady’s maid had been elevated to paid companion so she might serve as a chaperon for Molly.

“It is a necessity,” Simon Scott, her cousin by marriage and de facto guardian, had stated. “We have four bachelors arriving from Italy, and only two of them are relations, and even they are not your blood relations. As you are an unmarried young lady, we must take steps to protect your reputation.”

“You are not a blood relation, and I have lived here with you and your brothers for months since my mother …” Molly’s eyes had prickled slightly. The grief would strike at unexpected times. Sometimes she could speak of her with nostalgic fondness, and other times … she was overcome. “Since Mother was laid to rest,” she finished thickly.

Simon had thrown her a sympathetic glance before replying. “You had my mother for propriety’s sake. We should have appointed Miss Dubois as your companion last month when I went away, but I was distracted by … events.”

“Lady Blackwood was hardly proper.”

“Proper as far as society is concerned.”

“Can we not find someone else? Miss Dubois is an aggravation beyond endurance.”

“Not on such short notice. And not with two recent deaths in a single day … one of them a servant. It has frightened potential applicants away, but I assure you I am working on it. I do not wish to saddle you with the French poodle any longer than necessary, but we do not have a choice at the moment.”

His logic was flawless, which was why Molly had resigned herself to Miss Dubois’s resentful watch … for now, at least. Her musings were cut short by another irascible remark from the French retainer, whom in theory she was permitted to address as Claudette in private, but she clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to shove the woman from her personal space.

I do not wish to encourage familiarity.

Not that this hindered Miss Dubois, who was pretty of face but foul of temperament. Not surprising, considering the wicked baroness had been fond of the termagant who had tended to her flawless appearance.

“Theez mourning gowns are passé. Your mother has been dead many months. It ees time to wear something with more … coulier?”

“Color.”

“Oui, color. You are a drab little … souris?”

“Mouse,” Molly muttered with resignation, gritting her teeth. Attempting to put the maid—no, the companion—in her place would lead to an unseemly quarrel, which she was too weary to endure.

“Oui. Lady Blackwood had to do ze mourning for her husband, but she was still … élégante. A great lady.” Miss Dubois stopped to shake her head as she considered her new mistress with mild disgust. Molly fought the urge to slap her sulky face. The maid—companion—was dainty, with large doe eyes, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin. She liked to wear clothes a little more ornate than the usual fare of women in service. It was a pity her character did not match her exquisite exterior.

Molly glanced down at her lavender velvet gown and repressed a roll of her eyes. It was hardly rags. In fact, she was rather fond of it. But no doubt Miss Dubois found it too plain. The late Lady Blackwood had worn elaborate silk gowns, impractical in Molly’s opinion. Isla Scott and the … poodle … seemed to have agreed on such garments. Perhaps it had secured her position to encourage such indulgences. After all, such attire demanded constant fussing from a skilled lady’s maid.

Unfortunately, Molly’s patience gave way as she considered the hurtful words that Miss Dubois had been hurling at her since she had arisen from bed less than an hour earlier. “I will determine what is the appropriate length of time to mourn my mother, Miss Dubois!”

The maid drew herself up to her full height—it was not much—a familiar expression of haughty recrimination on her youthful face. “I was just tryin’ to help,” she responded reproachfully in her broken English.

Molly swiftly checked herself. This was what happened every time she allowed the other woman to provoke her temper. Claudette would act terribly offended, tugging at Molly’s desire to be kind and respectful to her acquaintances, which left her feeling bleak and guilty despite all the insensitive things the lady’s maid had said to incite the reaction in the first place.

Not to mention, hearing Lady Blackwood held in such esteem after the baroness’s evil deeds was a constant irritation, like a pebble lodged in her slipper. But she supposed Miss Dubois was not familiar with those misdeeds. They had been kept private amongst the family.

“I understand you were trying to help … but I am not ready to end my mourning period.”

Claudette sniffed in wounded outrage. “I do not miss ma mère at all.”

Molly bit back an undignified snort. If Claudette’s mother was at all like her daughter, it was little wonder the poodle did not miss her in the least. Molly would scarcely miss Claudette when Simon assisted her in finding a new position in another household. Her own mother would have been deeply troubled by the situation Molly had found herself in, especially after the criminal activities that had come to light in the wake of Lady Blackwood’s overdose. Certainly, this had not proved to be the home of safety and security that the amusing Mrs. Carter had hoped for her only child.

After doing her best to smooth over her companionship with Claudette, Molly escaped with a sigh of relief to meet Simon’s wife in the garden. Simon had married his dearest friend, Madeline Bigsby, who lived next door. The nuptials had taken place only three nights earlier in the shared garden between the two grand London townhouses.