11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

M elior's cordial behavior toward his staff surprised Nathaniel. Her mother was notorious for hiring and firing help at the drop of a hat, treating them as disposable. He'd witnessed her snip and yell whenever the mood suited her. It was a wonder Society accepted her so completely, but he supposed money and position afforded her more forgiveness than someone of his status.

This deviation from her mother's influence was a point in Melior's favor, but he was still miffed at her. She'd been positively petulant in the carriage when he'd tried to ascertain what sort of behavior his friends and family would be met with. Then, as if he'd been the one who pranced about frivolously courting the elite of London, and looking down on the less fortunate, she'd turned it on him. Oh, she had not accused him of anything, but she might as well have with her silent obstinance. He had nothing to be ashamed of; he was looking out for his own.

Thompson, his butler, preceded them up the steps and opened the door. "Your mother is awaiting you in the drawing room, sir."

"She is out of bed?" Nathaniel asked in hushed tones.

"Yes, sir."

Thompson's uneven upper lip flattened over his lower one. The man had more to say, but Nathaniel would not press him in front of Melior.

Introducing Melior to his mother was going to be awkward enough without having to explain some of the less seemly symptoms of her illness that usually accompanied being upright. Hopefully her lady's maid had been thorough with his mother's ablutions this morning.

Inside, Melior handed the butler her things without speaking, her face an unreadable mask. When Nathaniel turned toward the drawing room, she followed silently behind. He should have offered his arm this time, but his pride still smarted from her refusal to take his hand at the carriage, and in front of the servants no less. There would be rumors in the village by supper time.

A footman opened the expertly beveled doors to the drawing room and Nathaniel caught sight of his mother hunched in one of the beautiful cream brocade chairs. She tried to look up at them, but her bent spine made it difficult.

"Mother," he announced, "May I introduce my wife, Lady Stanford."

"You forget yourself, Nathaniel. Your wife and I are long standing acquaintances."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "I have not forgotten at all, but she was Miss Kendall then."

"Very true." She awkwardly reached up and gave his cheek a pat.

How much pain had the gesture caused her? He rose to his feet and his mother tipped her head to the side to more fully appraise Melior.

To his astonishment, she gave his mother a curtsy worthy of a queen's presence. "Lady Stanford," she said when she rose. "It is a pleasure to see you once again."

"Let us dispense with the Lady Stanfords when it is only us, shall we? It is so confusing, and I am not ready to be called dowager quite yet."

"Very well. What shall I call you?"

"As you are now my daughter by law, I believe it would be acceptable to call me Mother or Mama. You may add Stanford as a distinction from your own mother if you wish."

Melior glanced at Nathaniel, a question in her eyes. His harsh words echoed back to him and shame bubbled up from within. He'd practically forbidden her from familiarity with his mother. His father would be furious if he were alive to witness the way he'd ordered his wife about as if she was no more than his servant.

Nathaniel gave a subtle nod.

She smiled softly. "I believe Mama would work nicely. Mother is the address I use for Lady Kendall. And you must call me Melior."

"Thank you, I shall. Now, Nathaniel, you need not stand about entertaining me here. Please show your bride to her chambers so she may rest before we dine. I am sure she is quite fatigued with the journey." Then, turning to Melior, she said, "I have instructed your new lady's maid to deliver tea to your room so you might warm your insides. You must be frozen clear through with the journey you have made today."

"Thank you, La—" she hesitated. "Mama. Tea would be lovely."

The way his mother beamed at Melior's address made him nervous. He hoped her joy would not be short-lived.

In the hall, all pretense of good will from Melior fell from her face. She raised her chin and peered at him expectantly. The arrogant tilt of her head irritated him at the same moment his masculine eyes admired the perfect curve of her neck. How could she be so beautiful and aggravating at the same time?

Mrs. Thompson hovered in his peripheral vision, so he gestured to her. She hesitantly approached.

"Please see Lady Stanford to her quarters."

A flash like blue lightning flared to life in Melior's eyes, but the shimmer in their depths and the way her lips pinched betrayed the feelings she tried to hide. He'd actually hurt her with his refusal to escort her.

He was tempted to stop Mrs. Thompson and lead Melior himself, but good sense prevailed and he turned away. They both needed a break from one another or they might utter harsh words they could not take back.

With determined steps he turned toward his study. Why did every interaction with Melior have to be so fraught with attraction and frustration? She was so blasted beautiful and irritating at the same time. He paused at the door. Irritating was not the right word. Disappointing seemed more appropriate.

She'd had so much potential before she left the school room. Did that potential still exist, or had the intelligent, entertaining girl been trained right out of her?

Melior dabbed at her eyes, grateful to be left to herself for a few hours. She snuggled deeper under the fluffy quilts upon her bed, using a pillow to muffle her sob. Not only had she lost her dearest friends, but she'd lost everything she'd ever known. There would be no more dancing and dining with those of her acquaintance unless His Grace somehow smoothed things over. And she was certain that would not happen for quite some time. He had his own nuptials ahead of him and would not likely think of her again until things were settled between him and Lady Jillian.

She supposed she should be grateful to be away from her parents, especially as their quarrels had become increasingly heated with Uncle Percy's upcoming marriage. There had always been an air of unease between them, but the more her mother complained of a prospective new heir to the dukedom the more her father lost patience.

Someone knocked on the door, and she immediately ceased her tears, covering her head with the blanket. Perhaps if she feigned sleep, whoever it was would go away.

"My lady," her lady's maid said from the door. "I am sorry to wake you, but it is time to dress for dinner."

Had she really cried for a full two hours? She gently probed around her eyes, feeling the puffiness and knowing she most likely looked a fright.

"My lady?"

Without moving the blanket, she said, "Could you bring me some ice-cold water?"

"Cold, my lady?"

The question in the maid's voice indicated how ridiculous she thought the request, but Melior did not care. Let them think she was eccentric. She'd used cold water to fix her face on other important occasions, and this was most definitely an important occasion. She would rather eat beetroot, nasty as it was, than let Sir Nathaniel know how his treatment had sent her to her bed in tears.

"Yes and be quick about it."

"Yes, my lady."

The click of the door latch allowed her to pull back the blanket. She'd not be able to hide her blotchy face from the maid, but at least Sir Nathaniel would be none the wiser.

Picking up a brush, she began running it through her long dark tresses until they had a lovely shine. She'd not used rags in her hair so her normal false curls were non-existent. And the few around her face that she'd achieved with curling tongs were now gone.

The maid entered carrying a basin of water. She took one look at Melior and said, "Oh my, you poor dear."

Pity was the last thing Melior needed. She'd cried enough today, so she chose to ignore the maid's remarks, ordering her to bring the water and to make sure her pale pink dinner gown was pressed.

The woman deposited the basin in front of her but did not remove herself. "And what jewelry would you like this evening, my lady?"

Melior stared. She never chose jewelry until she was completely dressed, needing to assess her appearance to decide which piece suited the current circumstance. It was her routine.

She blinked at the maid in confusion. "I need my gown."

The maid tipped her head to the side, a petulant hand on her hip. "And you will get it, but I need to know what to fetch to go with it. I was able to unpack a few things before your rest, but there are still others I must search out."

Did all of Sir Nathaniel's servants talk back as freely as this one?

A knock sounded on the door and the maid rushed to open it. Another woman, presumably an upstairs maid, entered with three pressed gowns over her arms. In the pile Melior recognized the one she sought.

While pink was not her best color, it allowed her to excuse any redness in her face as a trick of the light.

"Your dress, my lady." The lady's maid gestured, as she shook out the piece. "Now, which accents are you wanting?" Her words were firm as if she were the lady of the house instead of Melior.

She would need to put this one straight. "I do not choose jewelry until the gown is on."

The maid's lips pursed, but she finally set to work helping Melior dress.

Melior absently went through the motions as the two maids worked in tandem dressing her and putting the room to rights. They spoke in whispers to one another and their comradery made Melior acutely aware of her own loneliness. Thoughts of the never-ending months to come almost brought tears to her eyes again.

Perhaps it was a remnant of her silly childhood, but she'd always dreamed of love in her marriage, or at least mutual respect. Uncle Percy and Aunt Lucinda had cultivated such dreams long before her mother had put a stop to such nonsense. Memories of the little gestures her uncle made toward her aunt and the looks of adoration that passed between them filled her mind and broke her heart. She'd seen true affection, and while she'd not expected the level of connection her aunt and uncle had shared, she'd hoped for more felicity in marriage than her parents shared.

It was ridiculous, really. Not many people were lucky enough to have such a relationship. Why then did her heart refuse to listen to her mother's logical cold reasoning? Marriages were for connection and to elevate one's family, not for personal comfort.

"Well, she's a bit of a prima donna if you ask me," one of the maids whispered.

Melior spun in her seat to stare at the two women by the closet, heads together. Her lady's maid stared back in surprise, and the other maid reddened with the attention.

Slowly Melior rose from the dressing table, and, using her most aristocratic saunter, approached the guilty party. The maid's shoulders hunched and she stared at the floor.

"Your name?" she asked with the eerie calmness that often made others squirm.

The woman peaked up. "Jenny, miss."

Melior raised an imperious eyebrow at her impertinence.

"I… I mean, my lady."

Good, the maid recognized her lapse in judgment. Perhaps it would help her watch her tongue next time.

"In the future, Jenny, I suggest you keep your assumptions to yourself if you wish to maintain employment in this or any household."

The woman's big brown eyes widened. "Yes, my lady."

"You are dismissed."

Jenny curtsied and rushed out of the room.

Melior turned to her lady's maid. The woman was peering at the door, her lips pressed tightly together and her round cheeks rosy with color. Melior opened her mouth to address the woman then realized she did not recall her name. She tried to remember. Brandle, Batler, Bamler? Something like that. It was a shame it was not Brown; that would have been easy to remember given the woman's features. Brown hair, brown eyes, even her skin had a bit of a brown tinge, probably from time out of doors without a bonnet.

The maid finally pulled her gaze away from the door, a mutinous look in those brown eyes.

"Do you have any other uncalled-for dispersions to cast upon my character?" Melior asked, tipping her chin up to remind the woman of her place.

The maid stayed silent.

"I am sure I could find another to take your place if I am too temperamental for you."

The woman's belligerent expression dropped into one of submission. "No, my lady."

"Good."

Silence filled the large room and all of the courage Melior had summoned to deal with the maids fled. Her knees began to shake under her. She quickly crossed to the dressing table and sank down on its plush bench.

"My hair needs dressing and I will be wearing the pearls this evening. You will find the entire set at the bottom of that box." She motioned with her head to the carved jewelry box her uncle had gifted her.

The maid approached hesitantly and picked up the brush, her arms outstretched and her movements stilted, much as a person might approach a skittish horse.

Smoothing her face into indifference, Melior remained still, except for the tips of her fingers. With her hands splayed on the soft pink velvet of the bench, she subtly moved them back and forth, allowing the texture of the fabric to soothe her nerves.

The maid finally relaxed as she carefully brushed and pinned each dark strand, but Melior's shoulders remained taut. She'd never worried about reprimanding staff before, so why did it fill her with dread?

Sir Nathaniel's cool expression from the carriage danced in her memory. He had said friends and neighbors when he'd admonished her, not staff. She glanced at the maid through the mirror.

Perhaps she would not tell anyone. Unlikely. Servants never kept such things to themselves. And if Sir Nathaniel's character held true, he'd take their side because he would agree with them. He'd implied as much when he'd ordered her to keep her distance from his mother. She had her faults she knew, but did she really appear to have such an inflated view of herself? Was she that demanding?

She did not think so, but who was she to say when her mother had raised her to hold herself above others?

Contemplating her interactions with the servants, she realized her silence to the maid's pity had most likely offended the woman. It likely had appeared rather pompous, and her stinging words to their assessments of her had not helped matters. She sighed, an unappealing image of who she really had become formed in her mind. Sharp tongued, self-important, and by the expression she'd witnessed on Sir Nathaniel's face before they had parted… wearisome. She had become her mother. Another sigh escaped her.

"Do you not like it, my lady?"

Melior examined her hair. "It is lovely, carry on."

In truth, she missed the expert hands of her previous lady's maid, but she would not do anything to further tarnish her relationship with this one. Best to hold her peace on the little things and only speak up when necessary if she wished to form the same steady relationship she had enjoyed with Jones. Because for better or worse, this was her home, and she did not want to be cast out of it as quickly as her last.