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Her friend blushed anew, her creamy skin turning blazing red at the arch remark.
“Just so.”
They both giggled.
Then Harriet spun on her heel, stalking the two steps needed to cross the room and flopping down onto the bench. She gestured dramatically at the copper tub.
“Bah! I have not had a proper bath in weeks. Weeks! Do you know why?”
“The lack of footmen, I presume?”
“Precisely. How am I expected to maintain the refinement of an important viscountess when I am forced to wash in the basement like a maid?”
“You did decide to move it here so that you could access your hot baths once more,” Evaline said with a pointed look. “And you could hire footmen.”
“Ah, yes. Footmen. I suppose that it is time to reintroduce men into the household, but I think any of the male persuasion who are hired must be mild-mannered enough not to unsettle our delicate staff.”
Evaline laughed softly.
“Given our staff’s fragile dispositions, we shall need footmen with the temperament of lambs.”
“And the strength of dockworkers so that I may return to dressing in my own bedchambers.” Harriet sighed. “I shall summon Mr. Benton tomorrow. A lady’s maid and at least one suitably meek footman. I refuse to live like this any longer.”
She peered down at the confines of her pelisse. Life had been much simpler with a full complement of staff. But back in August, when she had begun to make changes to her life, it had quickly become clear that her father had corrupted too many of her servants into reporting back to him. Fearing his interference, Harriet had been forced to release them all with references.
All except Cook, whom she trusted, or so she hoped. Cook was her last remaining luxury until she finished rebuilding her household, and Harriet was not letting the old woman go. Cook was all that stood between her and a digestive complaint.
“I swear, I shall never wear this blasted pelisse again. It has a thousand tiny cloth-covered buttons.”
Evaline removed her gloves before setting them aside on a washstand. “It did not look so troublesome when you put it on.”
“Because I had the illusion of purpose then,” Harriet groaned, tugging at the fitted pelisse that gripped her shoulders. “Now, it is a cage. Help me out of it before I lose what little patience I have left.”
“Arms up.”
“They are up,” Harriet snapped. “The pelisse is simply refusing to yield.”
Evaline tugged. The garment, snug-fitting and stubborn, refused to budge.
“You must relax your shoulders.”
“I am relaxed. You are pulling like you intend to detach my arms entirely!”
“It is caught at the back seams. Hold still.”
With a sharp yank, the pelisse gave way, sending Evaline stumbling backward and Harriet spinning to grip the bench for balance.
“Victory!” Evaline declared, holding the garment aloft like a prize.
“Victory?” Harriet gasped. “I nearly perished in the attempt!”
Sitting down, she began to tug on the next resistant item.
“These cursed boots,” Harriet muttered, propping one foot on the bench. “Evaline, you must pull.”
“I should never have agreed to this.”
“And yet you did. Now pull!”
