“That’s not theonlything they got wrong!” Helga said indignantly. “What a disgrace these gossips are! Lies!”
Privately she had her doubts. She’d never known Mrs. Breedlove until Delilah had brought them all together, but after working briefly for the Duchess of Brexford, Helga judged people on the simple criteria of whether she liked them or not, and whether she thought they were good. Not whether they’d once allowed an earl to pay their rent in exchange for the kinds of services only a woman could provide. She frankly didn’t care.
ShelovedMrs. Hardy and Mrs. Breedlove. They allowed her free rein in the kitchen. And they were wonderful friends.
She exchanged a glance with Dot. Who also had her doubts. And also did not care a whit. Her loyalty was as fixed as the stars.
“I rather like the word ‘doxie.’ It sounds cheerful, even if it’s not a wonderful thing to be,” Dot said.
The maids nodded along.
Helga snorted. “You should never believe all ye read in the broadsheets.”
They did not precisely hang black bunting about the place, but the mood was mournful and uncertain. It seemed entirely possible that no decent person would want to stay at The Grand Palace on the Thames ever again after reading that a doxie was in charge of it.
It was also entirely possible that all of the wrong people would want to stay there. For all the wrong reasons.
The third possibility was that no one would care at all, which seemed unlikely, but offered a grain of hope. This was London, and gossip ran through it as surely as the River Thames. But fresh gossip flowed in to flush out the old routinely.
When she learned of what had been printed about her and Lord Bolt, Angelique took to her room for nearly an entire day, during which she remained absolutely motionless on her bed, eyes open, curtains closed. She did not appear for meals. She did not appear in the parlor. She did not appear in the kitchen to plan the week’s shopping. She did not ring for assistance and when Delilah asked, politely, through the door, whether there was anything she could do, she was told, very politely and firmly, “No, thank you.”
She emerged, pale and resolute and looking more or less herself, the following day.
The staff did not quite eddy around her as if she were sharp-edge flotsam, but they did speak and tread about gingerly. Some were fascinated—imagine! She’d been amistress! Was it true? Why, everyone knew even thekinghad one of those!—others were a little uncertain. Surely a mistress was not proper? One aspired to be a wife or nothing at all. But she was so pretty and kind and clever, even if she were justeverso slightly more strict than Mrs. Hardy.
But all were gentle.
Mainly because it was appallingly clear that Mrs. Breedlove had a broken heart, and it broke everyone’s heart to witness her bearing it so silently and with an attempt at her usual cool aplomb. She was a ghost of herself.
And while the walls of the house were sturdy and thick indeed, voices carried nevertheless. The emotion, if not the precise words. White faces told a tale. Slammed doors and a sudden departure did, too.
The sentimental Mr. Delacorte was in mourning, because he was quite fond of the viscount. “Had a way with words, didn’t he, though?” he said wistfully.
Leaving a hush of sorts in the parlor at night, where everything went on as normal, and Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Delacorte and Mrs. Pariseau and Mrs. Locksley still convened, but Angelique and Delilah feared nothing would ever be normal again.
Lord Bolt had taken the time to leave generous gratuities for the servants, with his thanks, and this was the thing they’d remember about him most of all.
And to think in recent days that Mrs. Breedlove had gone about looking as though she’d been lit up like a lamp. All radiant and golden. Like some shade inside her had been drawn and all the beautiful things she truly was could finally shine.
No one but Angelique guessed she’d in all likelihood broken herownheart.
As well as, clearly, Lucien’s.
It was this last notion that made her nauseous. That made her tread lightly, carefully, as though she were indeed carrying inside her something broken with edges like teeth.
The idea that he was out there hurting, a man who had already borne enough hurts and betrayals bravely, and she did not know where he was sometimes proved almost more than she could bear.
It was entirely possible she’d never see him again.
And she dared not entertain this idea for very long, because it was like looking down when one was attempting to walk along the narrow perimeter of an abyss. You kept your eyes straight ahead, and nowhere else. Lest you lose your balance and fall forever.
Later that week Angelique took some mending up to their little sitting room at the top of the stairs—Mr. Cassidy’s shirts had come undone at the shoulders, perhaps because his were vast and sturdy and bound to tax a shirt, and Mr. Delacorte’s waistcoat buttons needed reinforcing. The sun was gentle at this time of day, amber and poignant.
She looked up with surprise when Dot appeared bearing a cup of tea and a plate upon which rested a slice of lemon seed cake. And stood there, clearly full of something she wished to say but not saying it.
“Yes, Dot?”
“Mrs. Breedlove?”