Page 8 of One Day for a Valet

Her papa. It was the same all-consuming focus that swept over her papa. But no … no, it wasn’t quite the same. For him, the world did not exist beyond his plants and the son raised to continue his work. Everything outside that narrow interest he treated as little more than a meddlesome distraction. Having met so many other similarly single-minded academic men in her youth, Sofia had always assumed that a disinterest in other aspects of life was the unavoidable cost of academic excellence.

But here was a woman whose mind was made to disassemble and understand the curiosities of the world, and she applied that fervour in equal measure to everything around her. To the goat house, yes, but also to seeing to the needs of her family. Even through the window at a distance of two hundred yards, the affection between the duke and duchess this afternoon had been perfectly clear. Her family and children were of paramount importance to her. Even a rooster suffering a mildly inconvenient morning had roused her impassioned attention. Reflecting upon her own childhood, a sudden ache bloomed behind Sofia’s ribs. How different her memories appeared when Papa’s failure to notice her suddenly felt like a choice.

The duchess stood, then brushed off her skirts. “I’ll have one of the footmen fetch your things so you can rest for the remainder of the afternoon. Are you staying at the boarding house?”

Sofia started to shake her head but the duchess continued, “No matter. Tell Bennett and he will see that your personal items are retrieved. I’ll advance this month’s salary in case you have need of … anything.” Taking in the reluctance on Sofia’s face, the duchess fumbled a bit and then her speech picked up speed with every sentence, like a snowball rolling down a hill. “The seamstress in town keeps a small selection of ready-made clothes and the mercantile is in the building just next door. Or if you prefer to fetch your things, all the servants take half-days on Mondays so you should have time tomorrow⁠—”

“Your Grace⁠—”

“Oh my, we haven't discussed your salary. Ten pounds a month. Weekends and holidays are yours, of course, and I already mentioned the half-days on Monday but if you prefer a different day, that would be fine. I know that⁠—”

“Your Grace. Ten pounds is a ridiculous salary and I’m still not certain that I⁠—”

“There is every chance you will want further compensation the first time Nora requests your help dissecting something or Zachariah refuses your lessons in favour of sketching your nose over and over until he masters the exact shape of your left nostril.”

Sofia abandoned all hope of steering the direction of the conversation as her fingers reflexively lifted to touch the tip of her nose.

“I know what you’re thinking, Miss Lioni, but no, your nostrils are not identical in shape because no one’s features are truly symmetrical. Not that I would ever notice but I assure you that my son will. And if it's not your nostril, it will be the slope of your eyebrow or the contour of your pinkie finger. He’ll sketch until he’s satisfied, then revert back into a perfectly attentive student until something else becomes more important in his mind.”

She drew in a breath and took a step closer. “Meet Zachariah. If, after doing so you decide that a position in the scullery or whatever you had in mind upon your arrival is more to your taste, then I will make the arrangements without further debate. Regardless, the month’s salary is yours to keep. Surely, as taxing as adolescent boys can be, ten pounds is sufficient inducement for a thirty-minute conversation with one.”

Yes. It is. She would have to be mad to walk away. The duchess saw the moment she’d won and a smile lit up her face.

“I’ll collect my own things on the morrow after meeting with Zachariah,” Sofia said. And I’ll talk to Oliver. She could collect her salary, bide her time, and figure a way out of this mess.

Four

Supper arrived on a tray that night, and exactly twenty minutes later, a maid named Annie brought a second helping of baked apples drizzled in a rich cream sauce. No one asked any questions. After the exhaustion and uncertainty of the year since her papa had died, the sensation of stability she felt with food in her belly, a room to herself, and promised wages was enough to make her quiver with relief.

Sofia stripped off her dress down to her chemise, then stopped at the bedside table to pick up a book she hadn’t noticed earlier. Giambattista Basile’s, The Tale of Tales … in Italian. A square of parchment peeked out from between its pages. She smiled, swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat as she stroked the raised letters of the leather-bound book and pulled the parchment out to read it.

My dearest lethal swordswoman,

Unfortunately, this isn’t a gift because it isn’t mine to give. I did, however, search out and pilfer the very best of the two Italian books in His Grace’s opulent library. A task which, I can assure you, took the better part of the afternoon and left me nursing multiple papercuts. I offer it with the hope that it will comfort you on your first night in a new home. The upstairs maids have informed me that your health has improved. I am glad, as I intend to challenge you to a rematch, and you will require the full restoration of your energy for any hope of victory.

Your servant,

Christopher P Keene

She sighed and stared at the note, a cold sense of foreboding settling in her stomach. He is thoughtful. It had been ages since anyone had considered her needs, and his kindness was no less irresistible to her soul than the scent of bread was to her stomach. The urge to melt into the sensation of being cared for, however minor the token of his solicitude, was overwhelming. Because to her, it didn’t feel small. And that was treacherous. To her father, she had been little more than a housekeeper, handling all of his practical concerns. She often wondered if he knew how the butcher’s bill and rent got paid. With Oliver, there had been genuine affection … right until the moment he walked away without a thought for what her life would look like in his absence. And her mother, well, she didn’t warrant thinking about at all.

There could be no considerate gifts. No fencing rematch. No allowing herself to be teased and provoked into banter. Her moral compass had grown increasingly unreliable as her body fat had dwindled. At this point, you could strum her ribs like the strings on a mandolin. But even she would not stoop so low as to encourage a friendship she would eventually betray. Detachment from the family and staff was best for everyone, and that included Christopher Keene and his compelling smile.

Reaching into the drawer of the small secretary desk in the corner, she retrieved a piece of parchment, a quill, and ink.

Dear Sir,

While I appreciate your thoughtful non-gift and inquiries into my wellbeing, my time with the Anson family is for the exclusive purpose of educating the children. Any attachment would serve as an unwanted distraction from my employment. I appreciate your respectful distance moving forward.

Sofia Lioni

She sanded the parchment and folded it neatly into quarters, but with no idea where to find Mr Keene and little chance of locating his quarters on her own, Sofia crushed the letter in her hand. She was about to toss the paper into the waste bin when a knock sounded. “Come in.”

Polly slid through the door, closing it behind her. “I’m just checking to see if you need anything before I retire upstairs for the night.” Sofia glanced down at the mangled letter in her hand, considering the risk of spreading gossip amongst the servants.

Following Sofia’s gaze, Polly gave an encouraging smile. “Oh, it’s all right Sofia. I’m right good at keeping secrets.”

After another heartbeat of hesitation, Sofia decided she didn’t care if Polly thought her behaviour untoward. Warding Christopher off was more important than maintaining Polly’s good opinion. “Can you see that this finds its way to Mr Keene please?”