Chapter Twenty-Two

W hy was it that every time she tried to sweep dust out of a room, it merely swirled around the air, like a cloud of stubborn crows, then settled back where it had begun? But not before filling her nostrils with an acrid scent and clinging to her hair.

She inhaled to let out a cough once more, and her nostrils tickled.

Not again…

She covered her mouth with her hands before she convulsed with a sneeze. Then she removed her hand and studied her palm. A film of sticky dust caked her skin.

Sweet heaven —that came out of her nostrils.

Fighting nausea, she rushed outside, like a drowning man in a filthy pond seeking air before succumbing to death.

Death would be better than this .

The air wasn’t that much better outside. It carried the scent of—of what? Horse manure? Cow dung? Rotting meat? Something unsavory—rivaled only by the stench coming from beneath the floorboards.

Stains covered her gown—from when she’d tried to wipe the dust off her hands, and from a dark brown substance that she’d picked up, thinking it was a pile of raisins, then promptly gagged at the odor.

It felt like she’d been working without respite—save for a visit to the privy, which she had no intention of enduring again —for a full day. Yet when she checked the cracked, dust-coated clock over the fireplace, she’d been working less than an hour. Her hands burned from when she tried to wash the apron she’d found in the kitchen, and the heels of her feet chafed from rubbing against the insides of her shoes.

Falling into a river seemed a vacation in comparison.

She held up her hands—hands that, according to him, had been used to years of toil. The skin glowed red, as if lit from inside, and her whole body felt as if she’d been run over by a carriage.

Footsteps approached, and she darted back into the kitchen. There was only one way her humiliation could get any worse—and that was to be seen by others.

She sat at the table and pushed aside the dirty plates from last night’s meal. Cleaning those was item seven on the list. She pulled out this list and read it again.

She’d only completed—no, attempted—the first two items. Perhaps she could try the third.

Stoke the fire.

Whatever stoking was. She’d seen a pile of logs at the back of the building, but there were no identifiable means with which to light them.

Damn you…

She hesitated. What was his name? Lawrence.

Damn you, Lawrence. You’ve told me what to do, but not how. I can’t remember.

She scrunched up the paper and winced at the soreness in her palm.

“Damn you!” she cried. “I can’t remember!”

She placed her head in her hands and succumbed to the tears, each shuddering breath sending an ache through her lungs.

“I don’t know what to do!” she said. “Sweet Lord—won’t anyone help me?”

Rap-rap-rap!

She glanced up and drew in a sharp breath.

A young woman stared at her through the window. She knocked on the glass again. “May I come in?”

Bella rose and backed away. But the woman had already seen her. Hiding in the shadows would only give her more to gossip about.

I don’t want any more gossip in the village about your wayward ways.

She cringed as she recalled her husband’s words.

The kitchen door opened, and the woman appeared, carrying a sack. Bella let out a shriek and leaped back.

“Don’t be cryin’ out, ma’am,” the woman said. “Didn’t Mr. Baxter say I was comin’ over?”

The woman—hardly a woman at all; she looked barely out of the schoolroom—glanced about the kitchen, then smiled.

“I’m Sophie,” she said, as if that would explain her presence. “Ned’s niece,” she added.

Bella stepped back. “Who’s Ned?”

“My uncle.”

“I understand that , given that you said you’re his niece,” Bella said. “I’m not a simpleton.”

The girl’s smile slipped. “Uncle Ned said you might want some help. He said you’d had an accident and lost all your clothes. I’ve brought some of mine. May I put them on the table? My arms are achin’ real bad.”

Bella glanced at the table—another dirt-covered surface she’d been unable to conquer. But the girl seemed not to notice. She placed the sack on the surface, then pulled out a gown and held it up.

“What do you think? It’ll do for you until you can make your own.”

“Make my own?” Was she expected to make clothes?

“You’re taller than me,” the girl continued. “But we can let out the hem.”

“Let out the hem?”

“I can show you.”

“Are you saying I don’t know how to…to”—Bella gestured toward the gown—“ let out a hem ?”

Compassion replaced the irritation in the girl’s eyes. “Oh, forgive me,” she said. “You must have forgotten, on account of your accident. Hit your head real bad, Uncle Ned said. Mr. Baxter must have been so worried about you. I’m sure he’s glad you’re home.”

Perhaps he was—but only because he needed a housemaid, scullery maid, nursemaid, cook, and…

“Are you needing a bit of help?” the girl asked, interrupting Bella’s thoughts.

“Do you think I’m incapable of—” Bella began, but the girl interrupted.

“If you’ve hit your head, it can take a long time to recover. Uncle Ned said you’d lost your memory and might need some help.” She rolled her eyes. “Men think the work a woman does in the home is the easiest thing in the world—yet it’s not something they can take a hand to. They’d rather sit in idleness waiting for their women to sweep the floor around them. And they think they have the worst of it. Granted, they earn a living to keep food on the table, but their work stops as soon as they return home. A woman’s work never stops. Men are—”

She broke off and sighed. “Forgive me for rattling on—I hope you won’t take offense. Your husband’s a hardworking man, Mrs. Baxter. I’m always seein’ him toiling away in some garden or other.”

“In a garden?” Bella asked.

“He’s a gardener, isn’t he?”

Bella blinked back tears. “I-I don’t know.”

“Oh, sweet Mother Mary!” the girl cried. “Can’t you remember? You’re still not recovered, and he’s left you all on your own. No wonder you look in such a…”

Her voice trailed off, but she had no need to continue when Bella could see, from her reflection in the window, exactly what state she looked in.

“You might wear an apron when doing the housework,” the girl said. “It’ll keep your dress clean. Now—what can I do to help? It’s often difficult to know where to start. Perhaps you can begin by writing a list of everything needing doing.”

Lists—lists… Why did everybody talk about damned lists!

The girl’s eyes widened. “Have I upset you, Mrs. Baxter?”

Bella held up the paper, her hand trembling. “I have a list—he wrote it—but I’ll never get it done before he returns. I don’t even know how to start. I…”

She caught her breath as a tide of despair battered at her soul.

The girl took the list and read it.

“I’ve tried,” Bella said. “I really have—but I ache everywhere, and my hands…” She held them out, palms upward. “Are they supposed to look like that?”

“Heavens!” the girl cried. “How did that happen?”

“I was trying to wash an apron. I found a cake of soap, but the more I scrubbed, the more it hurt. Then, when I soaked my hands, it hurt even more.”

“You used the lye soap on your hands?” The girl shook her head. “That’ll burn your skin.”

“Soap doesn’t burn,” Bella said.

“Expensive soaps don’t—they’ve some at the Oak for guests who’re willing to pay for it. I could ask Uncle Ned to get you some if that’s what you’re used to.”

“I don’t know what I’m used to,” Bella said. “All I know is that he wants the house cleaned and his dinner on the table.”

“Let me help,” the girl said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? Do you have so many friends that you’re not in need of one more?”

Friends. Do I have any friends?

Bella focused her mind on the past, searching for a memory. But, other than a flash of bright silk and a blurred shape, together with a sharp voice issuing thinly veiled insults, no memories came to the fore.

“I have no friends.”

“Then,” the girl said, taking Bella’s hand gently, taking care not to touch her burning palm, “let us start as friends. I always think, once in a while, it’s good to start anew.”

“Thank you…” Bella cursed herself. What was the girl’s name?

“Sophie, Mrs. Baxter. My name’s Sophie.” The girl smiled—not a smile of mischief, or wickedness, but a genuine smile from one who offered friendship with no expectation of anything in return.

It was the kind of smile Bella had no recollection of ever receiving—or giving.

“I hope we’ll become friends, Mrs. Baxter.”

The girl—Sophie—was right. Sometimes it was best to start anew.

Bella smiled and squeezed her hand.

“So do I,” she said, “and call me Bella.”