At Your Service

Chapter Four: The Secret of Heaving Bosoms

“It is wise to disclose what cannot be concealed.”
Johann Friedrich Von Schiller (1759-1805)

There was nothing to do for it. Melody was going to have to confront the new Wright. She had considered asking Julia or Mrs. Andrews, the housekeeper, but she rather thought that Julia might not be as quiet with the other servants as she was with her mistress, and Melody knew for a fact that Mrs. Andrews thrived on household gossip. For this job, Melody needed someone she could trust to keep her secret. As disapproving as the new Wright seemed, she knew his deeply-ingrained sense of propriety would ensure he held his tongue.

Her decision made, she turned back to the pages before her. She glanced over the last paragraphs a final time and was quite content with what she saw. She dotted one “I” more firmly and considered it perfect. And promptly swore like a sailor when she tipped the inkwell over with her pen. She righted it, which both stemmed the flow of ink onto the escritoire and stained her fingers. She wiped what she could off with her handkerchief and dropped the ruined square of linen onto the ink puddle. At least her pages hadn’t been ruined. She rang for Wright.

“Wright, I have a . . . project for you,” she announced when he arrived a scant two minutes later. Henry resisted raising his eyebrows. It was just past three in the afternoon—a bit early for Melody’s usual pre-event sherry. Especially since Lady Rathford had shut herself in her room for the day, lamenting her son’s departure (or flight) to the family’s country estate.

“The matter requires discretion,” Melody continued matter-of-factly. Now Henry’s eyebrows really did rise, though the movement was so small that it surely wasn’t noticed by the girl. He couldn’t imagine what secret she could possibly have, since she chattered constantly. Except about this, apparently.

“Of course, miss,” he said simply. She grabbed the stack of papers from the escritoire, holding them so he could see the top page.

“I need you to deliver these to a man. Tell him it is from Mrs. Turnville.”

Henry cleared his throat. He hated showing such a reaction, but he could not help himself. What had this girl gotten herself involved in? Even going under an assumed name. An affair? Surely not. The girl’s free time was spent mostly at this very desk. Henry would have noticed if she were seeing a man improperly.

And, goodness, but there must have been two hundred pages in her hands, all covered in Miss Rathford’s elegant handwriting. “Miss Quimbleton and the Terror at Forthwick Hall” by Mrs. Deborah Turnville. Well. Well, indeed. Henry glanced back up to the young woman before him. Miss Rathford was Mrs. Deborah Turnville, author of the silly novels that his own mother adored? It was certainly . . . unexpected.

“I assume you don’t want one of the errand boys delivering this, then,” he said, keeping his opinion to himself. Actually, he was not sure exactly what his opinion of the “project,” as Miss Rathford called it, was. If it was discovered that she authored such novels, her reputation could be quite ruined. Yet, she had obviously dedicated a good portion of her time to writing the novels. They must have mattered to her, though he could not comprehend why such a girl would engage in that sort of behavior. Surely she did not need the money.

“Of course.” Melody fixed Wright with a stare. Would he tell her secret? Would he tell her mother? Why, oh, why did the old Wright have to die? He had always been so good about her endeavors. She sighed. She would just have to trust young Wright to value the reputation of his employers more than he desired to ensure her proper behavior. Perhaps involving him in her scheme would even loosen him up a bit. He was such a stick in the mud.

“Is there anything else you require, Miss?” he asked icily. No, he definitely did not approve of her endeavor. Mischief danced in Melody’s eyes.

“Yes, perhaps there is, Wright. Perhaps I could read you the final pages? In case I have made any errors in grammar.” He nodded, but she saw his jaw clench ever-so-slightly. Melody did not even try to suppress her smirk. She perched on a sofa and gestured him to sit on the chair next to her. He hesitated, but sat.

“ ‘Miss Quimbleton’s delicate white hand fluttered to her heaving bosoms as she gasped for breath, relief pouring into her lungs along with the oxygen. Why, she had nearly died! If the Duke had not found her when he did, she surely would have fallen to her death! Oh, how she despised the wicked Baron for trying to push her off the cliff. Fate favored the good Miss Quimbleton, however, for a tree root had protruded from the rocky face of the cliff, and she had clung to it for many minutes before her beloved Duke had rescued her.

“ ‘The Duke held her forearms, looking at her hard for any sign of injury. Finding none, he pulled her roughly to him. His lips pressed to hers, and Miss Quimbleton thrilled to his touch. Pulling away, the Duke sternly demanded she marry him, lest any more devious Barons try and kidnap her again. Oh, how fortune smiled on her! Miss Quimbleton cried a joyous yes, and the happy lovers returned to the Duke’s carriage to spread the good news of their impending marriage.’”

Melody looked up to the butler sitting beside her. His face was as stony as Miss Quimbleton’s cliff. Had Melody pushed him too far by reading the lurid kiss scene? Wright’s jaw certainly was clamped tightly, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. He looked as stern as the Duke himself, and Melody took note of his expression to use in her next novel. With his brooding good looks, he would make a suitable model for a hero, she decided thoughtfully. Though all that intensity and sternness directed at her was a bit overwhelming.

“Your grammar is quite correct,” he finally ground out. Though her sense of propriety was not. Heaving bosoms! She had written of heaving bosoms! A girl of her standing ought not to have such things in her head. Or put such things in his head. It was too improper.

“I—no one must know I am Mrs. Turnville,” she reminded, tentative now. Henry marvelled at her. Writing of kisses and bosoms, and now she was uncertain and shy? Henry said nothing.

“My mother would die of shame, to say nothing of my reputation.” As if he needed to be reminded.

“I just—It’s just—Can you imagine how dull it is? Society outings where I hear the same gossip about the same people, and drink warm lemonade, and talk of nothing but the weather? I simply—well, it gets boring, if you must know.”

She had shocked him. It was exactly what she had expected. So why was she so eager for him to understand her reasons for writing the novels now? Melody had known perfectly well that he would disapprove. Still, she wished he would stop looking at her like a particularly disgusting bug.

“I shall deliver it immediately,” he said. Melody nodded. Of course he would want to finish the unpleasant chore as quickly as possible.

Their hands brushed as she handed the manuscript over. Wright immediately withdrew the manuscript and ended the contact. Anger flared in Melody. How dare he act as if her touch was beneath him? His glove had been soiled with some of the ink from her hands, she noted. For revenge, she grabbed his hand.

“Oh, I have got ink on you,” she lamented falsely, rubbing ineffectually at the spot. “Your glove will have been ruined, I’m afraid. Yet, perhaps if you get it laundered immediately . . .” She tugged the glove off his hand, turned it over and back again to check for any inked that seeped through the white material. It was a nice hand, in truth, with a wide palm and long fingers. It was much larger than hers and looked quite powerful.

“Miss Rathford, please, don’t concern yourself. I’ll take care of it.” He withdrew his hand from hers once again and promptly left the room.

“Oh, hell.” Melody sat hard on the sofa. What had she been thinking, taunting the butler? What did it matter to her if he disapproved of her calling? It didn’t matter. Not a bit. Though her pride would have been somewhat ameliorated if the handsome man had not seemed quite so eager to escape her presence.

At least her publisher would receive the manuscript by the date she had promised it. That, she reminded herself, was the important thing.

*****

Jason, her beloved Jason, had returned home! Late last evening, she was told, a full week before he was expected. Melody was thrilled. He planned to call this afternoon. Melody wondered if he thought to bring her a trinket back from Scotland. Something pretty and useless would do.

She was terribly eager to see him again. She had missed his company, and she wanted to hear all about Edinburgh. She had never been to Scotland. Her mother said the weather in that part of the country wasn’t good for a young lady’s complexion. Melody wondered how Scotland’s weather could be worse than London’s.

And she had much to tell him. The wedding plans were well on their way. Their wedding in six weeks would be a very elegant affair—not the event of the Season, but not an event to be scoffed at, either. Melody was so excited. Her trousseau was coming along nicely, as well, though of course she could not share those details with him.

“Oh, thank you, Julia. It looks positively stunning, if I do say so myself,” she gushed to her maid, who had just finished dressing her hair. In a happy whirl, she stood and kissed her servant on the cheek before rushing downstairs. Jason was to be here any moment! She supposed she should wait upstairs until he had arrived, and then a few minutes more, but another second seemed too long to see her dear Jason.

He was just handing his hat to the new Wright when she reached the foyer. Wright had gotten new gloves, she noticed before turning her attention to her fiancé.

“My dear, you look lovely as always,” Jason said graciously. Melody blushed prettily and led her guest into the parlor. Since her engagement, her mother was much more lax about chaperoning Melody’s every moment with Lord Weatherdale, allowing for wonderful moments when, like now, Jason pressed her fingers to his cool lips. It was so romantic—just like something from one of her books!

She sat on the sofa, and Jason sat beside her, not relinquishing her hand.

“My dear,” he began earnestly, “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh, good, because I long to hear of your trip to Scotland and your friend—what was his name again? I must remember, for when he comes to the wedding,” Melody said.

“Edward Norton. A good friend, though poor as a church mouse. He is the fourth son of a respected baron. He’s taken a job as a barrister, just recently. He’s a good man. You’ll like Ned, Melody.”

Melody smiled. “I know I will.”

For the first time since she had met him, Jason looked a little sad, and Melody found herself hoping that his friend hadn’t taken ill.

“I—This is difficult to explain, Mel. I need to ask you to move up the date of the wedding.” He saw her open her mouth to ask why and rushed on. “There are rumors. Rumors concerning Ned and me, and I don’t know how long it will be before they reach London. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“What kind of rumors?” Melody asked, proving she didn’t.

“Well, about my friendship with Ned, I suppose. People are saying . . . well, they’re saying that Ned and I are closer than we ought to be, I guess you would say,” Jason confessed.

Melody’s eyes widened. “Oh.” She had heard such a rumor once before, and the man involved hadn’t returned to London from Paris in ages. “Oh.” She swallowed around the lump in her throat and met her fiancé’s eyes.

“Is it true?” she asked.

“I . . . care for him, yes, Melody. But I care for you, too, and I promise to make you a good husband, if you’ll still have me.”

His honey-sweet eyes were solemn and honest, and Melody knew that whatever rumors were bandied about, he was a good man. She wondered what this would mean for their marriage, if she could continue to love a man who cared for another man. She gripped his hand tightly.

“I’ll speak to my mother. I’m sure she can arrange it.”

In a rush of gratitude, Jason pressed a kiss to her mouth. It wasn’t exactly how she had pictured her first kiss—no heaving bosoms in sight. But it was pleasant, as she was sure their marriage would be. She felt a rush of affection for the man beside her. This would work. Melody was one who knew how to keep a secret.