Chapter Five

M arie did join Mrs. Martin the next evening, and the following, although she rarely accepted the lieutenant's kind offers to dance. Soon, invitations came for her to accompany her out of the Den, and to take a country drive in the park. "What do you say, Miss Cadough," Mrs. Martin said. "A little country air might do us good. Will you join me?"

Marie bit the inside of her cheek and demurred. She would have liked to, but to step outside the Lyon's Den in daylight hours, when she should be cleaning, washing, or sewing…

Not all the servants had been glad to hear of Marie's little favor for Mrs. Dove-Lyon, or the fact that she would be spending her time above stairs with the guests, socializing, dancing and drinking, when she should be below stairs doing her chores.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Pratt, was particularly disapproving, and raised the subject to Mrs. Dove-Lyon herself, as Marie was tidying the anteroom before Mrs. Dove-Lyon's parlor one afternoon. "What is the meaning of this? To be raising a girl above her station and have her talking with the ladies and gentlemen? It's not right, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, and I don't mind saying, very peculiar. "

A large woman with a round body and large bosom, Mrs. Pratt's no-nonsense attitude was clear. There was to be no funny business going on with a girl in her care, not beneath her roof. She'd said her peace, and that was that.

But Mrs. Dove-Lyon had something more to say.

"My dear Mrs. Pratt, I am at my wits' end. You see…" She explained the situation again, which was relayed back to the kitchen staff, the household staff, the wait staff, and anyone else who cared to listen. Marie's favor and situation became common knowledge before lunch.

And when she sat down at the table to join the fellow servants, she got some very serious and suspicious stares.

Marie swallowed and looked down as she was given a bowl of soup. Today's soup was a dull, dingy, beige color and thick. She took a soup spoon and sniffed the air. If she wasn't mistaken, it was potato. How she wished she could season it with a bare touch of salt and pepper, or some parsley or watercress. Anything. But it would be filling, which was what the cooks aimed for. They saved the finer foods for the paying guests upstairs.

As it had been pointed out to her, the men and women paid an entrance fee to attend the Den, similar to paying a subscription for tickets to Almack's, the Fashionable Institution, or one of the other ballrooms, galas, or clubs in London. They deserved the fine fare that the cooks prepared, and very little was left each night.

One evening, Marie joined the other servants for dinner and felt a slight tension in the room as her wooden chair squeaked when she sat at the dinner table. Her uncle had been sent off on an errand and was not present, which made Marie feel slightly uneasy. Mr. Jones, the butler, made eye contact with the housekeeper and head cook, then cleared his throat and began.

"A sharp knife has gone missing from the dinner service. Has anyone seen where it has gone?"

The maids, cooks, scullery boys, and footmen shook their heads. No one seemed to know.

"Well, it couldn't have just disappeared," Mrs. Pratt said.

"And yet that seems to be exactly what has happened." Mr. Jones gazed around the blank faces. "If someone cares to return it or knows where it has been misplaced, do let me know."

The sound of soup spoons clinking against china plates and the tearing of a thick bread loaf, pieces being spread with cheap butter, filled the air. The bread had been baked yesterday and was still fresh enough, and it made for wonderful use being used to mop up the leftover soup that remained in the bowl.

Marie accepted the loaf when it was passed to her and tore off a small hunk, handing it to the servant sat next to her, when a voice said, "Thought you wouldn't want that now, since you're standing up drinking and eating with the lords and ladies upstairs."

Marie paused. She was still new and didn't know everyone yet. She looked around the room but couldn't peg who had spoken. "Who said that?"

The other servants' faces were as if carved from wood: expressionless and hard. One young man said, "Me. Why are you down here eating with us when you should be up there with them?"

"Thom," the butler said. "That's enough."

Marie said, "I'm a servant. This is where I eat."

"Well, I don't like it. I don't want to eat with a girl who plays at being a servant, then spends her nights up there with the guests. You're either one of us, or you ain't. Which is it?" Thom asked, his voice hard. He had a head full of curled, black hair and a rounded chin, which was right now jutted angrily in her direction. He would almost be handsome if he weren't so angry.

"I'm sorry. I never meant to offend. I only did what Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked," Marie said.

"Oh, aye, blame her. She always wants something. You didn't have to say yes , did you?" Thom asked. "Bet you jumped at the chance. Put on a fine dress and pretend like you're some fine lady." He snorted.

Marie stared at him. "She asked me for a favor and I did it. Yes, I enjoyed it. Who wouldn't?"

He sneered. "You seem to have a pretty high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"Thom," Mr. Jones said, "enough. Either eat here and hold a civil tongue or go elsewhere."

"Fine." Thom stood up fast, knocking his chair to the ground.

The other servants froze.

Thom took up his bowl and bread and with a glare at Marie, quit the room.

Marie felt her shoulders slump. What had she done? She'd never meant to offend him so. "I'm sorry," she uttered.

"Never mind, Miss Cadough," Mrs. Pratt said. "Thom is always angry about something. He once thought he could better himself and become a valet, but the gentleman wasn't interested. Now he gets mad whenever one of us has something to do with the guests upstairs."

"Never you mind him," one of the cooks said kindly, then she seemed to remember to whom it was she was talking and quieted. She ate her soup with gusto, eyeing Marie.

The others were waiting for her to comment on the quality of the soup, Marie realized. She spooned a mouthful into her mouth and swallowed, burning her tongue. "Delicious," she uttered. "Hot." She coughed and reached for a glass of water.

But as much as she thought she might be the subject of attention, she was quickly overlooked in favor of the hot meal. The sounds of clinking spoons and eating filled her ears, and she gave her attention to the bowl in front of her. But it was empty too soon, and she used the bit of bread to wipe the bowl clean of soup, eating it and licking her fingers when she'd finished.

"Good, eh? Up to your standards then, eh, princess?" one of the cooks said. At a stern look from Mr. Jones, he said, "Just asking her opinion."

"I am not a princess." Marie looked around the room. Some of the servants were still eating and ignored her entirely. Others gazed back at her, but their expressions were unfriendly.

Marie realized she had no allies here, and it was only down to the butler's dominance over the group, and his stiff politeness, that kept the rude remarks at bay. She rose, took her plate, and quit the room, then hung back a moment to listen.

One servant said, "She's got a real nerve, acting all high and mighty after a few nights on the main floor."

Mr. Jones said, "It's not her fault. Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked her to help. Would you have said no , if she'd asked you? Would any of you?"

There was silence.

"I thought not," Mr. Jones said. "So please leave the girl alone. From what I understand, she has no parents, only her uncle. I don't care if she has a nice night talking with the lords and ladies upstairs, or if she gets to wear fifty fine dresses. It's none of our business. Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked her to help her, and she did. The girl doesn't deserve your anger, so keep your thoughts to yourself."

"But it's not fair. She skips her chores whilst the rest of us are working, and she plays and pretends to be a lady at night."

Marie hung her head as she stood in the shadowed corridor, then had a thought. She went to the kitchen, washed her bowl and spoon, and put the dishes back. She then went in search of Mrs. Dove-Lyon.

An hour later, the maids found her tidying up the guest rooms on the third floor. "What are you doing?" Lucy asked.

Marie stopped from making the bed. "My chores."

Julia, who was never far from Lucy and who was often found chatting to Thom, crossed her arms over her chest. "Thought you'd be trying on dresses. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Marie gave her a hard look and went back to straightening the duvet on the bed.

Julia stepped forward, her blonde hair pinned back in a severe bun and her eyes blazing. "I bet I know. Bet the mistress put you to work. Maybe you weren't so popular with the guests, and now she wants you downstairs with the rest of us, now that you're no use to her." Her face held a nasty grin.

Marie stopped what she was doing and faced her. "What do you want, Julia?"

"Only to wipe that smirk off your face. You're no better than the rest of us, you hear?" She strode toward Marie, when Lucy grabbed her arm.

"Stop it, Julia. The mistress don't hold with us fighting."

"Oh, we're not fighting. We're just having a little disagreement." Julia sneered.

"I'm not going to fight you," Marie said.

"Why not? Too precious? You don't want to dirty your hands with me?" Julia asked.

Marie stared at her, her gaze unflinching.

Julia shook off Lucy's hand and snorted. "Thought so." She turned. "Come on, Lucy."

"You're not worth the trouble," Marie said, her nose in the air.

"What did you say?" Julia whirled back around.

"You heard me. You're not worth it. You're looking to pick a fight with me and I don't know why. I don't even know you. But I don't care. If hitting me will make you feel better, go ahead."

Julia stepped toward and shoved her shoulder. Marie stumbled back and stood up straight.

Julia shoved her again, and Marie's expression grew haughty. "You're just jealous."

Julia slapped her face, a hard smack. Lucy flinched. Marie stared at her, not bothering to raise a hand to her cheek. She instead raised an eyebrow .

"Let it be, Julia. Someone'll hear," Lucy said.

Marie glared at Julia.

Footfalls were heard outside. Julia shot Marie a look. "This isn't over." She turned and walked out.

Lucy glanced at Marie. She said not a word and followed Julia outside the room.

Marie crossed the room and closed the door, then sat down on the bed and held her head in her hands. She'd thought that by convincing Mrs. Dove-Lyon to let her continue with her chores, she could both act as companion to Mrs. Martin and work downstairs, so to speak. She wouldn't need anyone else to cover for her or take on her work, and all would be well. So why did she feel like such a failure?

It had only been a few nights, but already it seemed that no matter what she did or said, the other servants disliked her. She had no friends but her new acquaintance Mrs. Martin, and if she was ever to learn of Marie's true occupation as a servant in the Lyon's Den, Marie would likely lose her friendship too.

A lone tear dropped down her cheek, when a knock came at the door. She wiped it away hastily. "Yes?" she asked.

The door opened and in walked Uncle Baptiste. "Are you all right?"

" Oui ." She spoke in French, a sure sign she was stressed.

"I was looking for you and the others said you had gone up here to change the bed linens. I thought that must be a mistake, so I went to see for myself."

She turned away and sniffed.

He stood by her. "You've been crying."

" Non ." She blinked hard. " Non ."

"Do not hide from me, Marie. We are family." He caught a look of her face. "What happened to your cheek? It's bright red."

"One of the maids slipped."

He gave a derisive snort. "You are a poor liar. So a girl hit you. Who was it? Why?"

"They do not like me helping out the mistress."

"That is their problem. It is nothing to you. Ignore them."

Marie turned her face to him, not bothering to wipe her eyes. His gaze darted to her cheek, her tears, but he did not speak. Instead, she did. "Thank you for agreeing to let me continue meeting Mrs. Martin and pretending to be a lady."

"There is no pretending. You are a lady."

She looked down at her maid's uniform, the staunch, white apron over her knees. She turned her hands over, looking at the rough, red skin. How she'd enjoyed the feel of the silk gloves that hid this, and reached up to her elbows.

"This is my life. I am a servant, Uncle."

He breathed in noisily and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "This is not the life I would have chosen for you—"

"Why do you get to choose what is right for me? Why can't I make my own choices? The mistress said—"

"That woman seeks to involve you in her matchmaking schemes. I do not trust her. Yes, she is our employer, but who is to say what she will do? I do not like her using you like this." He sighed and put his head in his hands.

" Using me? She asked for a favor and I said yes . I agreed to put on the dress and talk to Mrs. Martin. I walked into this with my eyes open."

"But into what, is the question, Marie. I think you enjoy this, a break from your usual duties. But what will you do when Mrs. Martin leaves, or if she tires of you? What then?"

Marie wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. "Then I will go back to my life below stairs. And I will get more sleep at night." She gave a ghost of a smile and hiccupped.

"This is no joke. I fear that you will become restless and unhappy. The others are jealous of you, but when this is all done and over with, they will pity you, for you will have tasted the rich food and drank fine wine and danced and flirted, while they are stuck downstairs."

She looked at him, her mouth pulled into a frown.

"What will you say then?" he asked.

"Nothing. I will have the memory of it. That will be enough."

He kicked the bedpost and his face clenched in anger and at the sharp pain he must have felt in his foot.

"What is it, Uncle?" she asked.

He frowned and stuck his hands in his pockets. "I do not like it. Yes, you are an adult. You can make your own decisions. But your parents would not have liked this, you pretending. It is beneath you."

"How can you say that, when I am but a servant?" she asked.

"You may be a servant, but that was not the life your mother and father intended. They wanted more for you than this," he said curtly, his mouth twisted. "Go on. I'll keep a watch over you so the others don't bother you."

"No need, Uncle. I can take care of myself."

"Yes, I can see the proof of that," he muttered darkly before quitting the room.

That evening, Marie sat down at dinner with the other servants and was about to cut into a piece of roast chicken when there was a slight knock on the doorway.

Heads turned to reveal a footman, dressed in a smart, green jacket, a waistcoat, and beige breeches, looking at Marie with a pointed look. "Miss Cadough, the mistress requests your presence on the main floor."

"Oh?" Marie knew what that meant and began to rise from her chair.

"Mrs. Martin is among the guests. The mistress was hoping you would make an appearance."

More than one servant scoffed, while another snorted.

"Of course she does," Thom said. "Our grand hostess desperately needs the favor of Miss Cadough's presence. She can't do without her." He smirked.

" Thom ," Mr. Jones said.

"Have a care, Thom," Uncle Baptiste said, a note of warning in his tone.

Thom glanced at him. "What do you care?"

"That's my niece you're insulting."

Thom shrugged. "Calls it as I sees it. She's the mistress's favorite, for now. But when she's done with her, then she'll be down here with the rest of us, where she belongs."

"Stop it, Thom," Marie said.

" Stop it, Thom ," Julia mimicked.

Mrs. Pratt shot Julia a warning look, but to Marie's surprise, a few snickered at Julia's teasing, which only served to encourage her.

"She probably don't like the food, either. That's why she hasn't touched it. Not good enough for her tastes," Julia said.

"That's enough," Mr. Jones said.

"Oh, yeh, quit it, Thom. Our princess will order the guards to cut your head off." Julia sneered.

Thom laughed. "What do you say to that, eh, princess?"

Marie turned red.

Uncle Baptiste rose from his chair. "Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it for you."

"Go ahead, old man."

"Stop this. I don't want you fighting," Marie said, gripping the table. The smells of her roast chicken wafted in the air, teasing her. "I'm not worth it." Her voice was cutting.

The servants looked at her. Thom's eyebrows rose. Julia, sitting beside him, leaned back in her seat.

"You think to insult me by calling me ‘princess,' but the truth is that I am a nobody, and you know it. I am no better than anyone here. I'm simply helping out our employer for a time. That is it. Think what you want, say what you want, but leave us alone. I promise, I will be no trouble for you after this."

"Marie?" her uncle started.

"I've made up my mind. Once my favor for the mistress is complete, I'll find other employment. It's clear I'm not welcome here." She sniffed, lifted her chin, and paused. "And the food smells delicious." She followed the footman from the room and heard Julia cackle as she left.

As they walked together, the footman asked, "What you said in there… Will you really leave the Den after your work for the mistress is done?"

"Yes," she said. "I don't want to be where I'm not wanted. And there's always work to be done. I can find employment in another household. Somewhere where it doesn't matter if I am French."

"May I offer some advice?" the footman asked.

"If it pleases you."

"She does not ask for favors very often. In fact, it is rare. And when she does ask, she usually has another idea in mind entirely, a reason other than what she says. And the people she asks, they aren't like the rest of us."

"What are you saying?" she asked.

"Only this. That if the mistress asked a favor of you, she saw something in you that made her take notice. You say you are a nobody, but that's untrue."

Marie frowned at the man. "What if you are the only one who thinks so?"

"It's not just me. I don't know you. But like Thom, I call it like I see it. If the mistress has enlisted you in one of her plans, she means for more for you than just working below stairs with the rest of them."

Marie smiled as she followed him up the stairs. "I hope you are right."

She was attended to and helped into a sea-green dress by Miss Robbins and Julia. As Julia affixed a sea-green ribbon to her hair and Miss Robbins straightened the dress over her shift, she said, "Don't enjoy this for too long. You can't keep the clothes."

Marie looked up and caught a disapproving glance in the large looking glass that faced her as she stood upon the small, raised platform. "Have I offended you somehow?"

"Not me, no. Can't imagine a princess like you would notice the likes of me. Not when you have the mistress's favor."

"What?" She looked down at the woman.

The lady's maid was middle-aged tall and thin, with baby-fine sandy hair and dark eyes. "We've seen you around. You might act all nice to our faces, but Julia told us everything. How you criticize the food and that you think you're better than us. Well, you're not."

Marie bit her tongue. Would this idle servants' gossip never cease?

She smoothed down the silk of her sea-green dress and sniffed as one of the maids tightly tied a thick ribbon around her waist. The maidservant gave it a sharp tug, earning a slight gasp came from Marie, when Mrs. Dove-Lyon's voice cut into the room.

"Have a care, Robbins. You'll cut off her circulation. Undo that. It's too tight."

With a grimace, the maid loosened the sash and tied it again, at a more breathable fastness around Marie's waist.

"There now. Let me have a look at you." Mrs. Dove-Lyon came forward and surveyed her. "Very pretty, very pretty, indeed. Now go on downstairs. Mrs. Martin was hoping you would come, and I've seen that that soldier is back too. They are conversing together, but I have no doubt they are both looking forward to your company. Please join them."

Marie stepped down from the pedestal, slipping as one of the maids stuck her foot out and tripped her. She landed hard on the wooden floor, scraping her hands and knees. The small slicing of pain grazed the flat skin of her palms. She shot the servant a dirty look .

"Oh!" Mrs. Dove-Lyon leaned to help her up. "Careful, Miss Cadough. You must be more graceful than that."

Marie blushed, stood, and brushed down the dress, making sure it was still in good condition. She joined Mrs. Dove-Lyon and followed her out of the room. Once alone together in the stairwell, Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, "It's strange. For a moment, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I almost thought that Robbins tripped you. The servants do not like you, do they?"

"No," Marie said simply, thinking, Was it so obvious?

"Why is that? I have known these people for months and in some cases, years. I trust them implicitly, and their conduct has always been above reproach. Have you been rude?"

"Not to my knowledge." Marie paused. "Although… I did critique the soup."

"The soup? What was wrong with it?"

"It was plain. Ordinary. Your guests dine on such good dishes. I found it odd that the staff should eat so plainly."

"You expect the servants to eat as well as the guests?" Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked.

"No. But I would not have them eat without spice or seasoning altogether, either."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon smiled beneath her black veil. "I see. And what would you have done?"

"I would season the potato soup we had earlier with a bit of salt and pepper, maybe a bit of sage, watercress, or parsley. Something to season it, for sure."

"And what about the dinner tonight?"

"I… didn't get a chance to try it. But the roast chicken smelled wonderful, and the boiled potatoes very nice, indeed."

Mrs. Dove-Lyon snorted. "I'm sorry to have pulled you away from your meal. You must be starving."

"Not at all. We had a very filling lunch." Marie's stomach chose that moment to grumble. She swallowed and hoped Mrs. Dove-Lyon hadn't heard.

They reached the bottom steps and before they entered the main floor, Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, "I see. Well, do spend as much time as you can with Mrs. Martin. And, Marie, you can enjoy yourself. I mean for this not to be a chore, but enjoyable as well. You don't mind doing this, do you?"

"Not at all. It's the highlight of my day," Marie said brightly. And it really was. After the rude reception and pointed jibes of Thom and Julia, not to mention Miss Robbins tripping her, Marie felt that an evening of dancing and pleasant chat with people who actually liked her would be welcome.

"Very good. Now, stand up straight, shoulders back, and put on your best smile," Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, walking with her out of the stairwell.

Marie adjusted the pair of gloves on her hands, noting the slightly loose fit they had on her small hands. She walked toward Mrs. Martin, who waved, evidently delighted to see her.

Marie joined her and made a polite curtsey, as the soldier greeted them. Mrs. Martin fanned herself and grinned. "Well, Miss Cadeaux, you're a smart thing. Keeping us waiting. My, if another minute had passed, poor Lieutenant Gage would have drunk himself silly."

The lieutenant in question blushed and looked away, then glanced at Marie. Their eyes met, and she felt his gaze was strong and held hers, refusing to let go. She felt locked somehow, almost as if they were connected in a transparent embrace, one only they could see.

She wondered if perhaps Mrs. Martin's playful teasing had unknowingly hit the mark.

"But where were you, Miss Cadeaux? What kept you?" Mrs. Martin asked.

"I was detained at dinner. And then I was chatting with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. "

"Well, I cannot be mad at you for that. I am grateful to our hostess for such entertainment."

"Oh?"

"Well, we were saying that there is a lady over there with such outrageous jewels. She looks like a prized elephant from pictures I have seen of such creatures in India. Isn't that so, lieutenant?" Mrs. Martin nodded in the direction of the woman in question, who was indeed draped in finery.

But something about her struck Marie as familiar. Perhaps it was the high topknot of her hair, meant to look like a gigantic, vertical bow, or the way her figure, now thick around the middle, sat squashed in a too-tight dress of red. But when she turned around…

"Oh, no," Marie breathed.

"What is it? Do you know that woman?" Lieutenant Gage asked.

"Yes, I… do." Marie stared as the woman stood not fifteen feet away, surveying the room. The woman's husband turned, his eye landing on Marie. He stared and glanced away, then stared again. It was Mr. Campbell, her former employer, who looked none too happy to see her.