Page 2 of No Lady for the Lord

Sorrow, dread, anxiety, uncertainty, and no small amount of fear romped about Mercy’s insides, causing waves of nausea to ebb and flow. Churn and tumble.

Over and over and over.

Acrid bile billowed up her throat, and she swallowed—hard.

I think I’m going to be sick.

This same despair and unease had overcome her often of late.

Specifically, since the lieutenant had died and she’d been forced into the role of managing his household. Even to the point of using her small savings to keep food on the table and pay the faithful staff half wages. She couldn’t afford to pay them more.

So far, only two servants had departed.

Cammie Sumner, a surly chambermaid who dawdled about more than she actually worked, and Silas Bottoms, a shy stable hand, had lasted only a week without full wages. When offered a promotion to a groom’s position at a neighboring estate, Silas had bashfully approached Mercy and resigned his position.

She’d been sorry to see the sweet, bumbling Silas leave but understood. He was supporting an invalid mother and two younger brothers. Mercy had genuinely wished him well.

However, she had been less reluctant to see the back side of the disgruntled maid. Hired nine months before the lieutenant’s death, Cammie Sumner was lazy, gossiped incessantly, and resented working. Her parents owned one of the local inns, and she considered herself well above the lowly station of a mere chambermaid. Furthermore, her tart tongue and slatternly behavior were grounds for dismissal.

Mrs. Stanley, the cook and the closest thing the Mansfield House had to a housekeeper, had to regularly chastise Cammie about her sloppy work, her frequent woolgathering, and for making doe eyes at the lieutenant.

Thrice, Mercy had to remind Cammie that it was most improper for her to openly flirt with the man. To which the maid had snarled that Mercy was merely jealous because she wanted Lieutenant Masterson for herself.

The preposterous suggestion had never crossed Mercy’s mind, and to hear a maid vocalize such claptrap had raised her temper. She’d told Cammie Sumner exactly what she thought of her ludicrous accusation and that, if serving girl entertained such vile considerations, it would be best for her to tender her resignation.

Her hopes of becoming Lieutenant Masterson’s mistress dashed, Cammie had taken herself back to The Hair of the Hog’s Pub and Inn exactly seven days after his death.

Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Thank goodness the lieutenant had either been oblivious to Cammie’s simpering or a superb master at masking his emotions, for he’d never indicated he’d noticed her coy and less than subtle antics.

No more servants had complained at their reduced circumstances or left to find employment elsewhere. Yet. They would, though. What was more, none of the staff would be guaranteed their positions after the guardian barged into their tranquil tableau.

She closed her eyes for a long blink and marshaled her equanimity.

Now wasn’t the time to entertain feckless feminine weaknesses. Arabelle and Bellamy needed her to remain stoic. Calm. Focused. Mercy was their steadying rudder in this riotous sea of confusion and fright in which they’d been cast and had absolutely no control over and little understanding of either.

Regardless, Mercy was heartily sick of the rain. And dank. And gray.

Gray. Gray. Gray. Everywhere, rotted gray.

Shades of gray from pale dove to ominous charcoal cloaked the sky, the grounds, the horizon, and, yes, even the interior of the once cheery but now inarguably gloomy house.

Mirrors had been turned to face the walls, an ebony cloth hung over Lieutenant Masterson’s portrait, and black wreaths adorned several doors. To honor the deceased, fewer sconces and lamps flickered throughout the house, thereby filling the corridors with weird shadows and a tomb-like miasma. Fewer tapers were also an economizing necessity.

Even the crisp black gowns, stockings, shoes, and hair ribbons Mercy and the girls wore contributed to the dull, lifeless atmosphere and made their faces appear ashen and drawn. Such was commonplace in a household after the death of the master. However, this oppression was made much worse by the ambiguous futures of the sniffling orphans plastered to her sides.

Another contentious rumble of thunder shook the sturdy four-story brick manor. Unlike the bleating wind, those heavenly tremors did have the ability to jangle more than just the windows. Namely, Mercy’s nerves.

Boom! Boom-boom-BOOM!

Gasping simultaneously, Arabelle and Bellamy burrowed closer to Mercy.

“Miss Mercy. I’m scared,” seven-year-old Arabelle sobbed, clutching Mercy’s arm while her trembling, almost nine-year-old sister huddled low on the divan, hands clasped over her ears.

“Shh, darlings,” Mercy pacified, drawing them nearer and running her hands in soothing sweeps over their quivering shoulders. She told them what Mrs. Hester Shepherd, the proprietress of Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women, had always told the discarded girls in her care. “You’re quite safe, my dears. I promise. It’s just the Good Lord rearranging his furniture in heaven to make room for more souls.”

How many times had Mercy told them that nonsensical twaddle which had worked to calm her childhood fears?