Read Online Beware of Virtuous Women by Kasey Michaels - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kasey Michaels
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procure both, labor back up those stairs, undoubtedly carrying a heavy silver tray, run back to her post, run back when I rang to have the tray taken away."
"Yes, ma'am, but that's the way it is," Mrs. Hender-sen had interrupted, which did her no good at all, because Eleanor hadn't quite finished. And, as her siblings could have told the housekeeper, when Eleanor had something to say she could be like water on a rock, calmly coursing along until she'd worn that rock into a pebble, just from steady, low-keyed persistence.
As at that particular moment. "Oh, and then return the tray here, to the kitchens. In other words, Mrs. Hen-dersen, the simple matter of dealing with my coddled egg and dish of tea would necessitate a half-dozen trips either to or from my bedchamber. Much, much more sensible to move me, at least for today."
"But.. .but..." Mrs. Hendersen had said, still unaware she might be seeing a slim, petite young woman with an unfortunate limp (the "poor little dearie"), but that she was in reality listening to a quiet verbal assault that would have had Napoleon cowering in a corner and whimpering, "Assez! Plus qu'il n'en faut! Enough! More than enough!"
"Beginning tomorrow morning, I shall be taking my breakfast at eight each morning in that lovely small salon next to Mr. Eastwood's study," Eleanor had told the woman—much to the delight of a red-haired freckled young girl Eleanor now knew to be Beatrice, who had been assigned to serve the new mistress.
"That'd be the breakfast room, ma'am," Mrs. Hen-dersen had told her, her face rather splotched in unbecoming puce as she fought to keep her tone deferential.
"And called so for a good reason, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Hendersen?" Eleanor had responded with one of her gentle smiles, believing that matter settled, and then had immediately moved on to the next subject on her mind.
As Mrs. Hendersen sputtered, Eleanor had then called all the servants together and explained life as it would be under her direction. Life as it was at Becket Hall, where everyone helped with any bit of work that might present itself, and nobody was asked to do what a person could reasonably do for him or herself.
Which, as Eleanor realized almost from the moment Jack came storming into her bedchamber shortly before the dinner gong was to sound that evening, had been a horrible mistake.
She'd been sitting at her dressing table, extremely content as a clearly adoring Beatrice pulled a pair of silver-backed brushes through her hair—the girl had insisted —when she'd heard the slam of the connecting door and her "husband's" near bellow.
"What in bloody hell have you been about, woman?"
Beatrice gave out a small yelp and ran from the room, taking the brushes with her, so that Eleanor could only sigh, then lift her hair with her hands and let it all fall down her back, nearly to her waist.
Which seemed to stop Jack, who had been advancing on her with a fury she hadn't seen in several years, in fact, not since Courtland had discovered Cassandra hiding in the drawing room after filling his riding boots with mud because he'd refused to take her out riding with him.
"How in blazes do you hold all that mess of hair up on that fragile neck of yours? No, don't answer me. That's not my question." Jack kept his gaze on Eleanor, however, as he pointed in the general direction Beatrice had taken moments earlier. "Do you have any idea of the anarchy you have unleashed out there?"
Eleanor searched in one of the drawers of her dressing table, unearthing a deep blue grosgrain ribbon that matched her gown, then tied it around her hair at her nape. "I beg your pardon?"
"It's not my pardon you'll be begging, wife. Mrs... Mrs...whoever she is, is downstairs in the kitchens, crying into the cook's apron." He raised his eyebrows as he glared at her. "And do you want to know why she's crying in the cook's apron?"
"Mrs. Hendersen."
Jack was losing control, and he knew it. "What?"
"Your housekeeper. Her name
"Yes, ma'am, but that's the way it is," Mrs. Hender-sen had interrupted, which did her no good at all, because Eleanor hadn't quite finished. And, as her siblings could have told the housekeeper, when Eleanor had something to say she could be like water on a rock, calmly coursing along until she'd worn that rock into a pebble, just from steady, low-keyed persistence.
As at that particular moment. "Oh, and then return the tray here, to the kitchens. In other words, Mrs. Hen-dersen, the simple matter of dealing with my coddled egg and dish of tea would necessitate a half-dozen trips either to or from my bedchamber. Much, much more sensible to move me, at least for today."
"But.. .but..." Mrs. Hendersen had said, still unaware she might be seeing a slim, petite young woman with an unfortunate limp (the "poor little dearie"), but that she was in reality listening to a quiet verbal assault that would have had Napoleon cowering in a corner and whimpering, "Assez! Plus qu'il n'en faut! Enough! More than enough!"
"Beginning tomorrow morning, I shall be taking my breakfast at eight each morning in that lovely small salon next to Mr. Eastwood's study," Eleanor had told the woman—much to the delight of a red-haired freckled young girl Eleanor now knew to be Beatrice, who had been assigned to serve the new mistress.
"That'd be the breakfast room, ma'am," Mrs. Hen-dersen had told her, her face rather splotched in unbecoming puce as she fought to keep her tone deferential.
"And called so for a good reason, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Hendersen?" Eleanor had responded with one of her gentle smiles, believing that matter settled, and then had immediately moved on to the next subject on her mind.
As Mrs. Hendersen sputtered, Eleanor had then called all the servants together and explained life as it would be under her direction. Life as it was at Becket Hall, where everyone helped with any bit of work that might present itself, and nobody was asked to do what a person could reasonably do for him or herself.
Which, as Eleanor realized almost from the moment Jack came storming into her bedchamber shortly before the dinner gong was to sound that evening, had been a horrible mistake.
She'd been sitting at her dressing table, extremely content as a clearly adoring Beatrice pulled a pair of silver-backed brushes through her hair—the girl had insisted —when she'd heard the slam of the connecting door and her "husband's" near bellow.
"What in bloody hell have you been about, woman?"
Beatrice gave out a small yelp and ran from the room, taking the brushes with her, so that Eleanor could only sigh, then lift her hair with her hands and let it all fall down her back, nearly to her waist.
Which seemed to stop Jack, who had been advancing on her with a fury she hadn't seen in several years, in fact, not since Courtland had discovered Cassandra hiding in the drawing room after filling his riding boots with mud because he'd refused to take her out riding with him.
"How in blazes do you hold all that mess of hair up on that fragile neck of yours? No, don't answer me. That's not my question." Jack kept his gaze on Eleanor, however, as he pointed in the general direction Beatrice had taken moments earlier. "Do you have any idea of the anarchy you have unleashed out there?"
Eleanor searched in one of the drawers of her dressing table, unearthing a deep blue grosgrain ribbon that matched her gown, then tied it around her hair at her nape. "I beg your pardon?"
"It's not my pardon you'll be begging, wife. Mrs... Mrs...whoever she is, is downstairs in the kitchens, crying into the cook's apron." He raised his eyebrows as he glared at her. "And do you want to know why she's crying in the cook's apron?"
"Mrs. Hendersen."
Jack was losing control, and he knew it. "What?"
"Your housekeeper. Her name
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