If I marry, I shall choose someone because of their quirks—not in spite of them.
~A scientist’s observations on love
Queen of the linens, that’s what I am. Alone in the servant’s hall, upstairs maid Essie Bellows dropped the soiled tea linens onto the table, her movements fueled by frustration. Filthy rich and they don’t even hire a wash girl. “Essie can do it,” they always say. “It’s no trouble for her.”
She flipped out each linen as if beating back the rising despair and cast a look toward the door where the lovely Miss Duvall had gone. There was a woman whose life was brimming with possibilities and love just around the corner, if only she’d step down out of the clouds long enough to notice it. Any number of men likely wanted her. A pretty little laugh, bewitching face, a slender waist, and oh, her energy! A burst of sunshine and heart permeated the air around that one, with dimples to boot.
And all Essie had was this position at Crestwicke. Chapped hands, sore muscles, looks of disdain—those were her lot. Stiffening against jealousy, Essie sped up her work, flipping harder, shoving faster. A sudden wave of loneliness, dark and consuming, pummeled her, and she collapsed onto the bench, dropping her face into the tea-soaked towels.
Loneliness was not silent—it was loud and painful, like a whirring noise that crept up on you and wouldn’t leave you alone. She’d existed for so many years in a state of placid acceptance, until she’d met him. Interest led to hope, and hope to dreaming, and dreaming to pure and utter longing. He’d been so kind to her that she’d fooled herself into believing him interested too, but the passage of time had dulled that hope. Until Miss Duvall had brought it all up again, she’d convinced herself she’d completely forgotten about Charley Mason.
But the familiar pain of rejection rose like a buoy.
She lay there for several moments, giving in to it, which left her weak and desperate. It always went this way, when there were weddings or babies or walks in the park behind happy couples. Anything, really, that paraded in front of her what she didn’t have. Round and round she went in her busy, never-ending days followed by nights of exhausted slumber, and time passed her by without a hint of love. It was easy to be happy for those who had found love and family, but it didn’t lessen the ache carving a hole in her own gut. Not even a little.
The tears came then, hot and pitiful, wetting the pile of laundry. What a sorry mess she was. If she planned to wash the linens anyway, could she wipe her nose with them?
A door banged deep in the house and she jerked up, a stray paper plastered to her moist face. Grimacing, she batted the fool thing away, but then she caught sight of it. What was this? Peeling off the beautifully embossed vellum paper with red edging, she stared at it. Flipping it back and forth and seeing no label, she opened the thing. Lovely, slanted letters met her gaze, and she skimmed for a few smaller words she might sound out. “A-D-M-I-R-E-R. Admirer.”
Admirer? A short laugh burst out despite her drying tears. An admirer—her?
Wryly amused, she skimmed to the end . . . someone truly loves you and believes you remarkable. Re-mar-kable. What was that? She frowned. A dire need to know what someone believed her to be drove her through the kitchen and out into the hall in search of the one Crestwicke servant who could read better than her.
She found him near the front doors. “Parker. Parker, come look at this, will you?” She tapped his arm, and the towering butler spun, his face displaying shock.
“Essie. My, what a fright. You’re looking . . . ah, well. Are you well?”
“Aren’t I always? Here.” She flipped out the paper toward him. “What’s this word here?”
He followed her point. “‘Weaknesses.’”
She grimaced. “Someone’s written to tell me I have flaws? Heavens, I tell myself that enough as it is.”
“This is, um, your note, then? Someone’s written it for you?”
“What do you take me for, a snoop? You think I’d go around reading other people’s letters? Here now, what’s this word?”
“‘Remarkable.’ It means someone finds you unusual and . . . well, rather extraordinary.” He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “There now, you see? It’s not just about your flaws.”
“What about this—what does this mean? happy beyond all comp . . . compre . . .”
“‘Comprehension.’ Well, there he’s saying that he’d be delighted beyond what a person could understand if you’re favorably disposed . . . that is, if you return his feelings.” Another shift. “Do you?”
“What about this?” She pointed out an especially long word.
“‘Involuntarily.’ It means, against his will.”
“So he doesn’t want to desire me. Well now, isn’t that flattering.”
“It simply means he cannot help himself. That your nature is so appealing to him, even if it isn’t convenient to feel such an attachment, and he . . .” Parker cleared his throat. “He’s simply drawn to you because of who you are.”
Essie closed her eyes, holding her breath, then exhaling and smiling up at him. “Thank you, Parker. You’re a peach.”
The words caught in her mouth, clicking a memory in her brain. Essie, you’re a peach. She blinked, then looked up at the stairs where Gabe had disappeared after saying those very words . . . and handing her the linens with the letter. Well, glory be—it was from Gabe Gresham! With a smile and a final pat to Parker’s arm, she dashed off to do the beds and ponder the miracle that had entered her quiet life.
She stole glances at the page while she worked, and the gentle words warmed their way into the quiet places of her soul. She made her way through it again, skipping some of the harder words. By the third time, her tired eyes were eating up those lines with a hunger she’d never known. I’ve seen the strength and kindness you believe go unnoticed, watched when you thought no one was looking, and observed what exists below the surface.
No one ever noticed her—no one. She’d lived and worked by the passage “And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord,” knowing the Almighty saw what no other did. Yet was it possible that someone . . . ?
She looked down with wonder at the chapped hand Gabe Gresham had kissed. I have no business writing to you . . . Was it possible a gentleman had come to care for a maid? Had he, years ago, left those flowers for her? The scandalous nature of such an idea prickled all over. She might have dismissed the notion except for one little sentence that had planted itself firmly in her head: I even know that secret you hoped to keep from everyone.
She had known for some time that someone had found out about her mother, but it was never clear who. A hand went to her throat. Awareness seized her. Someone’s been to pay her bail, miss. I’m not allowed to say who. It would have been someone with the means to pay it—someone with money.
Heart pounding in her plain little chest, she spread the clean linens across the bed and looked at herself in the long looking glass across the way. She’d mostly hurried past mirrors and kept her nose in her work, using only the warped looking glass in her room for morning toilette, but now she allowed herself a lingering glance. The longer she stared, the more the words invaded her solidly built self-doubt and cracked it apart. Dearest, if only you could see yourself from where I stand.
She touched her rounded cheeks where the freckles had begun to fade—when had that happened?—and her flame-red hair had tempered down to a burnished copper color that was quite fetching. She wasn’t terrible to look at, when taken at a glance. She’d never noticed how comely her figure was, how pleasant and affable her face.
She felt dizzy. Was he toying with her, hoping for a dalliance? But no, this letter spoke of a deeper affection than that. Unless Gabe Gresham was only the deliverer . . .
Rising to her feet, she tucked a stray curl into her cap, secreted the precious missive in her pocket, and swept up the linens. As she carried them to the laundry, the load of her life felt considerably lighter.
Tossing the sheets into the tub, she climbed up to the little chamber where Miss Duvall was to stay, whipping linens off the bed with stunning alacrity, always feeling the eyes of her secret admirer on her—he might be anywhere about the house. She finished preparing the room in record time, then curiosity finally overwhelmed her work ethic. She ran up the stairs and burst into the attic gables, breathless from the climb, and the object of her search turned on her stool in the window, paintbrush in hand.
“Why, Essie, whatever is the matter?”
“Miss Clara, I’ve had a letter.”
The young woman turned fully away from her painting, beautiful even with her dark hair tied back by a cloth. “News from home?”
“Oh no, nothing of the sort. It’s a good letter. A very good one.” She handed it to the young lady who had become more friend and sister than mistress.
Clara scanned the page in silence, her eyebrows arching. “I should say so. Who sent it?”
“I haven’t any idea. I was hoping you might help me find out.”
She brushed stray hairs off her face and glanced out the gable window. “Let me think on it. May I take it with me? I want to see if it matches any handwriting about the house.”
“You’ll give it back, though?” Essie stared at the letter in Clara’s fingers that were tinted by oil paints.
“Hopefully with a man attached to it.” She winked and spun back toward her work in progress—a portrait.
Essie moved to stand behind her. “Looks real nice, Miss Clara.”
“It’s just a wash now, but it’ll look like the real person when I fill in the details.”
“Can I bring you anything, ma’am? A fresh cherry tart or maybe a lemonade?”
“I couldn’t eat a thing now, Essie. I’m in the throes of creativity and I must give in to it.”
With another nod and bobbed curtsey, Essie moved back toward the steep stairway, taking two last glances at the precious sheet of paper now lying partially open on a nearby stool.
There it was. It existed. Someone very specific had written down those feelings and secreted them to her. In a few days, perhaps even a few hours, she would know who.