Moss Rose Read online

  "I need just a little more fortification before I face dear Aunt Aggie. These wretched wedding preparations are so tiresome," Matthias said with a yawn.

  "Oh, Matt, your coat." Matthias turned to retrieve it and watched with astonishment as his brother lifted his custom French waistcoat from the pile on the floor, ripping it completely in half, before coolly handing it to him. "Might be in your best interest to stay away from the new girl."

  Holding up what had been a very fashionable coat, Matthias stared at his brother for a moment between the two halves. "Now my interest is truly peaked," he said with a smile. Flinging the pieces over one shoulder in a rakish gesture, he swiveled on his heels and strode down the hall.

  ***

  Jensen, used to her uncle's gloomy, narrow passageways, found that the handsomely papered, well lit hallways of this spacious red-brick manor actually lightened her spirits; that was, until she heard Maggie's high-pitched voice.

  The housekeeper's scolding tone drew a reluctant Jensen into the cavernous dining room lit by silver candelabras, their dancing flames reflecting off the glossy, ebony table. This time, Maggie was busy berating a maid who stood twisting her fingers in her bonnet strings.

  "Beatrice, you clumsy chit, you've broken two of the master's china cups. If you break another bloody thing, you'll find yourself back in the smokehouse stokin' the fire," Maggie said as she vigorously polished a hammered silver platter.

  Wine cups, breadbaskets, milk pitchers, salt cellars, flagons, sugar boxes, and even silver mounted coconut shells for drinking covered the table. In her wildest dreams, Jensen had never imagined such an abundance of wealth in a colonial home.

  Jensen lingered in the doorway, watching as Beatrice gave a quick curtsy of apology. "Off with you, you dunder-headed girl," Maggie said with a curt wave of her hand, but Jensen couldn't help noticing the stern housekeeper's eyes soften a bit.

  Perceiving Jensen's presence, Maggie put her plump, freckled hands on her sturdy hips and eyed her with pity. "You are a sight to see child. I wager those grimy clothes could stand up on their own." She nodded her head toward the swinging oak door. "Head through there and out the larder. You'll see a brick paved path that leads to the kitchen. You'll find a hot meal on the servant's table. I'll have Celia pour you a bath and give you some fresh, work clothes."

  The L-shaped path to the kitchen was hedged with yellow forsythia interrupted gracefully by the occasional coral pink of the flowering quince. A small seat arbor was shaded by a paper mulberry, and Jensen thought it an inviting spot for a good book. The fleeting image of herself spending a lazy afternoon reading, sheltered beneath the fragrant bower, struck her as ludicrous, and she bit back a laugh. By tomorrow morning, this plantation, its lovely gardens, and most particularly its cocksure owner would be only a memory. Confident she could retrace the path to the front gate, she waited only for the cloak of night to make good her escape.

  The clamor of pots and pans turned Jensen's attention back to the present, and her mouth watered in anticipation of a hot meal. Smoke curled out of the two chimneys jutting from the rear of the one-story brick kitchen.

  She nervously turned the knob on the old, wooden door. Through the smoke filled room, she counted at least ten servants attending to various duties. A tall, broad woman with a ruddy complexion was barking out orders. "Turn the bleedin' thing faster, or you'll be charring it to a crisp," she warned the thin, gangly man who stood near the open flame of the cooking fire, laboriously cranking the handle of the spit. A young maid plopped a large round of ham into a copper pot overflowing with milk and water. The far corner of the kitchen held an enormous, built-in cabinet that held a vast array of fine porcelain serving dishes. Nearby, lined neatly against the wall, were butter churns, candle molds, and wine presses.

  "Hello, might you be the new maid?" an attractive, big-boned girl of about eighteen asked Jensen. "I'm Celia. And your name?"

  "Jensen," she said simply.

  "You look half-starved. Cook has prepared something for you." She pointed to a scarred pine table.

  It was laid for one with a simple repast of cold meat and kidney pie to be washed down with a tankard of cider. Jensen ate with relish, savoring bites of the rich, meaty pastry between swallows of a cider so tart, it made her eyes water.

  Jensen squinted with curiosity through the haze of savory smoke. The flames of the cooking fires reflected off the bottoms of the enormous copper pots hanging from the rafters. With diligence, the servants tended the kettles and stoked the enormous hearth. Obviously, she thought with loathing, the high and mighty master of the house was used to sumptuous dining. Managing to ignore the sidelong glances from the kitchen help, she watched as Celia arranged marmalade colored daisies and delicate, violet sweet williams in a cut glass vase as she hummed to herself.

  A quiet, yet persistent, scratching could be heard at the kitchen door, and the cook muttered to herself as she begrudgingly walked over to let in the master's wolf. "You back to beg again, you smelly lout? Have you no shame?"

  Work came to a grinding halt. The servants instantly parted like the Red Sea, allowing the huge beast a wide path. Slack-jawed, they watched the wolf walk over and place its head in Jensen's lap. There were loud gasps as she raised a confident hand to stroke the animal's forehead before feeding it a small piece of pie.

  When Jensen had finished eating, Celia, with a warm smile, bid her follow. The wolf remained close by her side. At the rear of the kitchen was a narrow door, leading to a communal bathhouse for the servants. A bath had been prepared behind the only source of privacy, a screen of thin, shabby muslin. The hip tub was so narrow, in order to bathe properly, she would have to stand and pour the water over her head using the large pewter milk pitcher. But Jensen was too exhausted and dirty to worry about modesty. She took care to remove the silver box and her few coins before shedding her filthy clothes. Dropping the worthless disguise over the top of the screen, the clothes landed in a heap on the rough wooden planks. She shivered with delight at the feel of the air on her skin.

  "Ginger, what are you doing in here?" A deep voice echoed off the solid walls of the tiny room. As the rich scent of tobacco mingled with lavender, Jensen knew without a doubt who the voice belonged to, the black-haired devil himself.

  Levi directed Celia to arrange for dinner to be served promptly at eight. "Miss Hartwell and her aunt will be joining us, of course," he said with a tinge of exasperation. "Inform Maggie that I wish the new girl cleaned up and ready to serve." The toe of his boot nudged the large pile of dirty clothes on the floor. He recognized the yellow, striped silk stockings that Jensen had been wearing. "What's left of the girl?" he laughed.

  "Not much," Celia laughed along with him.

  "Have John burn these," he said referring to the clothes. "I do not think . . ." His voice trailed off as he suddenly beheld Jensen's silhouette.

  Unaware that the glow of mounted candles made the partition as sheer as cheesecloth, Jensen began to slowly unwrap her bound breasts.

  "Celia, I believe Maggie could use some help with the silver," Levi said dismissing the maid without withdrawing his gaze from Jensen's shadow. He watched in fascination as his new maid unwound yard after yard of fabric. When he saw her audaciously pert breasts spring free of their binding, he felt himself grow hard. Her lush breasts made her tiny waist seem positively waspish. He groaned inwardly as he watched her massage her obviously sore flesh.

  "Could you use some help?" he drawled. A shame, he mused, with a luscious body like that, that her face and hair were so unimpressive.

  Jensen gasped with the realization that he could plainly see the outline of her naked body. Quickly, she extinguished the candles mounted on the wall behind her. "You sir, are most assuredly not a gentleman," she said tartly. Tonight, she asserted, I will leave this place and never have to face the leering, vile rake again. For the present though, she wasn't about to let him intimidate her, she was too desperate to get clean. She stepped into the lukewarm water
and began to scrub herself pink with the crude lye soap. As instructed by Celia, she used the sliver of lavender soap sparingly to wash her hair. "I'm curious, do you often come in to watch your maids bathe?"

  "No," he said choking on his laughter. "It seems Celia forgot to lock the back door."

  Grabbing the bath sheet, she quickly secured it around her trembling body. She draped another smaller towel over her wet hair, effectively obscuring her features. A drowned mouse indeed, she thought with scorn as she peeked her face around the screen. She watched as he pulled out a key and unlocked the cabinet above his head.

  "This is where I keep my whiskey. But don't tell Maggie."

  "Now that you have your liquor, do you think you might give me some privacy."

  Levi lifted the tapered candle resting on the washstand beside him and relit the end of his cheroot. He casually braced his booted foot on the wall behind him and proceeded to smoke in a leisurely fashion, the bottle of amber liquid cradled like a babe in his arm.

  He studied her, his eyes mere slits behind the veil of smoke. "Miss Hawthorne, I find your feigned naivete very charming. But you don't honestly expect me to believe that an adventurous, young woman, traveling unchaperoned, on a ship full of men, arrived on these shores, virtue intact? Sailors are not noted for their restraint." The semblance of a smile twisted his lips. "Given time, anyone would have seen through that absurd disguise, especially men stranded on the ocean for forty days and nights."

  Jensen's cheeks grew hot with rage. Every word that came out of his mouth was rude and insulting. She did not leave behind a charmless, fiendish man in England to come here and face this master of cruelty. "Master North, you accuse me unjustly. If you must know, most of my time was spent in steerage, with my head bent over a slop bucket." Her husky voice cracked in indignation.

  As Levi turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of Jensen's reflection in the wall mirror. Her face remained a mystery to him in the dimly lit room, but her eyes defied the shadows, luminescent and ethereal in their paleness.

  "Looking at those angel eyes, I could almost be convinced of anything." He extinguished his cheroot with the sole of his boot.

  "Oh, Master North."

  "What is it?"

  "I would appreciate it if you would not tell the other servants about my ruse," she implored. "I think I would have an easier time getting on with them if they didn't find out about it." Not that she had any intention of getting to know them, but she wanted to give him the impression that she would be staying on.

  "You can consider my horse manager buried at sea," he said in a thoughtful tone, addressing Jensen's image in the silver glass. "And, Miss Hawthorne, most of my workers call me Mr. North, but if you prefer Master, I would not complain," he chuckled.

  Levi gave a short whistle. "Let's go, Ginger." The wolf stopped to peer up at the girl clad in towels, as though asking for permission to leave. "Now!" Levi said with annoyed authority, and the animal, hanging its head like a scolded child, followed at his heels.

  Chapter 5

  Infernal man, Jensen fumed, as she hurriedly gathered the new clothes Celia had provided her. She clumsily fastened the hooks on the fitted bodice of the brown, homespun frock, allowing the sheer chemise to peek from the low-cut neckline. After attaching the pinafore with large pewter pins, she tugged the crude mahogany comb through her wet snarls and yearned for her pearl handled brush, nestled amid her other treasured possessions atop her dresser. She couldn't help wondering if she still had a room in Shadwell Manor. She thought it more likely that her uncle would have disowned her for the loss of Brant's land, and in a fury, destroyed all of her belongings. She hoped her dear brother Cyril' s anguish over her disappearance had not been too acute. Once settled at her aunt's, she would write and let him know she was safe. In spite of herself, she smiled at the idea of Brant Mansfield having to devise lies to account for her disappearance. She envisioned the pompous ass, nostrils flared, the vein in his temple pulsating, deriding her as an undeserving tramp.

  The bath door creaked open, and she prayed it wasn't the master of Moss Rose come back to deliver more insults. She was relieved to find that it was only the housekeeper.

  Maggie approached, lifting her lit candle level with Jensen's face. "You're a heartbreaker, aren't you, lass?" she pronounced, her tone accusatory. "What was the master thinkin'?" Jensen overheard her mutter as she swiveled on her heels. "Come, girl, I'll be showin' you to your quarters."

  Jensen followed Maggie through the servant's entrance at the rear of the manor and down a narrow passageway. When Maggie opened the last door in a row of doors, Jensen couldn't help but be surprised by the cozy interior of the room. The cedar case of drawers was topped by a pewter-framed looking glass. A quaint, wicker chair dressed with a calico fabric matching the bed quilts sat near the small table which held a porcelain ewer and basin. The large window was draped with lacework curtains.

  "You'll be roomin' with Celia. She rattles on a bit, but she's a good sort. Oddly enough, the Master has asked that you serve at tonight's meal which, of course, leaves me little or no time to teach you proper serving etiquette. I suggest you rest. I will have someone fetch you in an hour."

  Jensen whisked back the mosquito netting and plopped down on the bed with its serviceable mattress. It couldn't compare to her luxurious eiderdown bedding at home, but after sleeping on a splintered, termite infested pallet at sea, it was heavenly. She wrapped herself up in the well-worn quilt like a caterpillar in a cocoon, thinking how difficult it would be to leave this snug bed and flee into the cold, stark night.

  She felt as though she had just closed her eyes when she was summoned. Jensen entered the serving area feeling a bit groggy. Maggie plopped a frilly mobcap upon her head, giving the skin of her throat a little pinch as she brusquely tied the strings. Because she had such short hair, the cap fit loosely, the ruffles falling in her face.

  Maggie patted her cheeks none too gently. "Wake up, girl, there's work to be done."

  While Celia carried platters of succulent crabmeat into the dining room, Maggie gave Jensen a quick run-through on how to be inconspicuous while serving. Upon Celia's return, Maggie shoved a large soup tureen filled to overflowing with chowder into Jensen's hands and gently prodded her through the servant's door with the final admonition not to spill.

  Jensen blinked her eyes, bedazzled by the bright light of hundreds of tiny candles glancing off the chandelier's crystal teardrops. The dining room seemed awash in incandescent light. Once her eyes adjusted, she glanced around the enormous room. The wainscoting and fireplace were painted with a cool verdigris wash, and between the panels the wall was papered with flowers of the same turquoise hue interlaced with gold vines. Heavy, damask curtains of ecru and gold were parted over the double French doors. Outside the luminous, white magnolia blossoms seemed to soak up the moonlight.

  A sudden, shrill voice echoed in the dining room, and Jensen tensed, her shoulders inching toward her ears. It was that awful woman who had pushed her into the coat rack. Instinctively, she flinched, splattering the boiling soup on her hand. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to choke back a cry.

  "The stupidity of the French astounds me. I cannot fathom how a civilized group of Europeans could justify arming those murderous savages," Regina said haughtily between sips of

  blood-red port.

  Matthias acknowledged Regina's interruption with a sigh. "Regina, you know full well that at the Albany Congress, Mr. Franklin and the other colonial leaders, had no qualms about showering gifts on the Iroquois to gain their support."

  "Unfortunately, giving the Iroquois the thirty wagon loads of goods did little to secure their allegiance. They are about as eager to die for the British cause as our own colonial armies," Levi said.

  "Can you imagine the audacity of Captain Warlick attempting to enlist our militia men, to fight alongside the regular army? And for what purpose? As long as the French stay clear of the Tidewaters, they pose no real threat to us. Warring w
ith the French would only profit the English and our Virginia casket makers," Matthias said, his deep voice edged with frustration.

  Leaning forward, Levi addressed his brother in measured tones. "Matthias, do not underestimate the new alliance between the French and the Ottawa Indians. They have seduced the natives with cheap Jamaican rum and metal traps. Those Northern tribes are fearless, and now they are armed with deadly muskets and superior, French gunpowder."

  Levi's blue-black hair was tied back with a leather thong, and the silver earring glistened against his olive skin. Jensen thought he resembled nothing so much as a pirate masquerading as a gentleman.

  "At Raleigh Tavern, the representatives condemned the French for planning a chain of forts from the St. Lawrence to the Mississippi. Land that England granted to Virginia some time ago. It seems that each day the French encroach more and more on our territory, and we may find ourselves defending it sooner than you think, Matthias."

  Matthias slammed his fist on the table, rattling the china. "Damn it all, you're thinking of signing on."

  Without looking in her direction, Levi crooked his finger, signaling Jensen to the table. "Thought I might see if the old uniform still fits."

  "And leave me in charge of this blasted plantation. Think again, bro . . . " Matthias's voice trailed off as she lowered the steaming tureen to the table.

  Jensen observed him through lowered lashes as he attempted to look past the mobcap, which nearly concealed her face with its profusion of ruffles.

  "Could you possibly serve the soup before it curdles?"

  Jensen, who had been unsure of how to proceed with the serving, was prodded into action by Levi's stinging sarcasm. She ladled the soup clumsily, leaving a trail of viscous, white drops on the crisp linen.

  She watched Levi's fingers drum impatiently on the table. "Put down the spoon and take off that ridiculous bonnet. You can't possibly see what you are doing in that thing," he said, barely sparing her a glance before returning his full attention to the conversation with his brother.