Chapter 18.

July.

Dear Amber, I regret that I am unable to deliver this letter in person but by the end of my words I hope you will better understand the necessity of the change in plans.

After your removal from London and the eventual settling of the gossip resulting from the events at Carlton House, Lord Sunther continued his attentions to your dear sister, and it is with great joy that I announce to you that they are engaged!

Due to the pa.s.sing of Lord Sunther's father in the spring, the wedding will not take place until after the proper mourning period has been observed. However, Lord Sunther has invited Darra and myself to join him at his estate near Ipswich so as to become acquainted with his mother, the Dowager Lady Sunther, and the county of his residence.

We are most eager to make these connections and plan to sojourn to Suffolk after a brief return to Hampton Grove where we shall replenish Darra's summer wardrobe. Because of such pressures, we are unable to make the journey north as we had planned. However, we will visit after our time in Suffolk comes to an end-September, I expect.

I see from your letters that you are struggling to find the settlement of mind regarding your circ.u.mstance. While I am sympathetic of the difficulties you face, I would counsel you that you shall find greater happiness if you spend less time in regrets and more time gaining acceptance of the situation. Perhaps you shall make better progress in time for our visit in September. Your father tells me that Yorkshire is quite beautiful in autumn.

I shall let you know when I have a more exact date of our arrival. I wish you all that is good during this time of respite.

Your loving mother, Lady Marchent.

Amber read the letter twice before setting it on the desk in the library and looking out the six-paned window. The low-quality gla.s.s left the view warped and wavy, but she was not focused on the distorted scene of leaves and flowers in the bloom of summer.

"She is not coming," she said out loud. A part of her wondered at her shock; in the seven weeks she had been at Step Cottage, this was only the second letter she'd received from her mother. Suzanne checked the post once a week when she went to Romanby using the gig the groomsmen had procured before departing for London. Mr. Dariloo had taught Suzanne how to manage the gig, and she was now quite comfortable with it.

When Suzanne had returned with Lady Marchent's letter that afternoon, her eyes had been bright with antic.i.p.ation. Finally, Amber's mother would be telling them when she would arrive to remedy this circ.u.mstance.

Amber had s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from Suzanne's hand and run into the library so she could read it by the light of the window. But her mother was not coming. Not for two more months. The only reason Amber had survived these last weeks was her increasing belief that once her mother saw the conditions of this place, she would ensure that Amber be removed from it immediately. Tears rose in her eyes as she realized she was not to be rescued after all.

"Miss?" Suzanne asked from the doorway. "When is Lady Marchent to arrive?"

Amber paused before speaking to be sure she didn't take out her frustrations on Suzanne, who had little patience with Amber's sharp tongue. She took a breath, let it out slowly, and then spoke in an even tone. "She is not coming."

She refolded the letter and tucked it into the vertical slot in the desk where the first letter from her mother resided. The other slot was overflowing with the correspondence Suzanne had received since their arrival. While this was only the second letter Amber had received, Suzanne received letters every week from her family, who was increasingly eager for her to return.

Amber turned to look at Suzanne's shocked expression.

"Darra is to marry Lord Sunther. She and my mother were invited to his estate in Suffolk for the summer. She will come in September."

Suzanne blinked as her face paled, triggering Amber's anger that her maid should feel so affected. It was not Suzanne's sister marrying ahead of her, and to a man of such high rank. It was not Suzanne's mother who had abandoned her a second time.

And yet, though Amber's immediate thoughts were still those of the Rage of the Season she had once been, she did not react with selfishness as easily as she once had. Suzanne had already extended her stay in North Riding far past their original agreement; no wonder she was eager to return to her family.

Amber made the decision she knew to be right, even though she wanted very much to do otherwise. "I shall write to Mr. Peters and request the funds necessary for you to return to London by mail coach. It won't be as comfortable a ride as my father's carriage, but it may be a faster trip as they do not stop for the night." She wanted to say something that might convince Suzanne to stay, through guilt or profit, or any other means necessary, but her intent was not pure, and she could not hide from her own awareness of that truth.

"How will you get on without me?" Suzanne asked after the shock had subsided. She sat on the leather settee facing the cold fireplace. They only kept the kitchen fire day to day, but Amber would likely need to utilize the other hearths when the weather cooled. She would need Suzanne to show her how to properly lay the paper and coal; she had avoided the task as the coal was so dirty.

"I shall manage," Amber said with a shrug as though Suzanne weren't doing the majority of the household tasks. Amber tried to a.s.sist in the management of the cottage, but more often than not stormed to her room in frustration and slammed the door to indulge in tears and regrets. Never in her life had she imagined she would need to live like this. The tantrums will have to stop now, she told herself. No amount of pouting or fits would get her out of undesirable tasks once she was the only one left to do them. The idea filled her with terror, but she refused to show it on her face. Not that Suzanne would offer sympathy. She did not coddle Amber in the least. "Mrs. Haribow will still come in, so I shall have my cakes." She smiled at her attempted joke-Mrs. Haribow came from Romanby one day a week and baked and cooked while attending to household organization.

Amber and Suzanne would stretch the bounty of Mrs. Haribow's cooking as long into the week as they could, but it never lasted more than a few days as cakes and breads dried out and stew was no longer palatable after it had simmered too long. They were then resigned to whatever meals their meager skills could create.

From the beginning, Amber had enjoyed more than her share of the small cakes Mrs. Haribow made; they were the closest thing Amber had to the tarts and pastries she was used to in London. When Suzanne pointed out the unfairness of Amber taking more than her share, Amber had spouted a tirade about how her experience with fine food should give her greater right to the cakes.

Suzanne had cut her off and reminded her-again-of her promise to be fair. Amber had stormed out of the room, and the women had not spoken for two days until Amber explained her reasoning to Suzanne in a more teaching manner. She had expected praise at such a selfless discovery, perhaps even agreement, but instead Suzanne had said they would divide cakes equally upon Mrs. Haribow's leaving to insure that each of them had an equal share. Suzanne had kept her cakes in her room since then.

Would another maid be so patient with Amber's outbursts when she encountered some new task she could not accomplish, such as churning cream into b.u.t.ter? The side of the churn had splintered when Amber had kicked it across the yard, necessitating its repair the next time Suzanne went to town. Would another maid be mindful of teaching Amber to do something over and over again, such as how to properly slice potatoes so that they cooked evenly in the pot set over the fire? It was tedious to be so attentive, but crunchy potatoes were unpalatable.

Amber took a breath, determined not to let her fear show in her expression. "I shall be well," she said with false confidence. "Should you want to take a trip to Northallerton tomorrow to take the missive to Mr. Peters or wait until next week?"

Twice Suzanne had gone to town on a Sunday to attend church services. Amber, of course, never went to town. The Dariloos and Mr. Peters had agreed to present her name as Mrs. Chandler, a widow with a poor const.i.tution, and her mother had addressed both her letters to Mrs. Chandler as well. Suzanne presented herself in town and at church as Mrs. Miller, the housekeeper, though Amber still called her Suzanne so as not to let her completely forget her place in this household. It was spread about town that Mrs. Chandler was not inclined for visits, and the few people who had called-the vicar and his wife one time, and two visits from the three-mile-away neighbor obviously hungry for some gossip to share-had been turned away. The ruse had worked thus far, and Amber was confident it would continue.

That she was very much in need to continue the ruse was something she was still attempting to accept. Her eyebrows were gone and her eyelashes were falling out every day. She held onto the hope afforded by a patch of hair that was growing at her crown, a fuzzy spot of red on her otherwise bald head which she always kept covered with a cap. Amber checked the spot of hair every day, but it was the only new growth, which meant that even if it were the beginning of all her hair's return, she was months away from being presentable again.

Suzanne's eyes focused on Amber, and she blinked quickly. "I shall go to town now," she said. "Sally has had some time to refresh, and I . . . I need some fresh air."

Amber did not point out that since Suzanne had already been to town once today, she had enjoyed more than enough fresh air. "You may not reach Northallerton in time to find Mr. Peters still at his office. Wait for tomorrow at least."

Suzanne stood. "I shall stay over with the vicar and his wife. They have offered me accommodation before." She did not meet Amber's eyes, which had gone wide with fear. She would be at the cottage alone? All night? It was bad enough that she was alone for hours on the days Suzanne went to town. But at night?

Suzanne continued, "There is a dance held for the working cla.s.s, you know, at the Northallerton a.s.sembly hall on the third Wednesday of each month, which is tonight. I think I should like to go."

"A dance," Amber repeated. It took all her skills at acting a part not to demand that Suzanne stay. The fact that Suzanne would be leaving for good within the next few days was not far from her thoughts, however. Even if Amber insisted she stay tonight, it would not change their course. Suzanne's opinion had become oddly important to Amber these last weeks, and she did not want the maid's last memory of her mistress to be unpleasant.

"That sounds lovely," Amber said with false sincerity while holding her emotions close. "Certainly, you should go." She turned to the desk and extracted a fresh sheet of paper, her hand shaking slightly. "Let me write the letter to Mr. Peters while you change into something fit for such a party. You can then deliver the note to Mr. Peters in the morning."

She fought the growing panic with every word she wrote, then stood on the porch and watched as Suzanne drove away for the second time that day. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, though she wasn't cold, and went back into the cottage, locking the door behind her. She checked every window and put the board in the braces across the kitchen door.

Mrs. Haribow had been there two days ago-Amber always kept to her room on those days-and Amber's remaining portion of seed cakes were still wrapped in a cloth. She ate every one of them while she cried about her mother not coming, about Suzanne leaving, and about being alone for the first time in her life. How would she care for herself? How could her mother be so ignorant of how much Amber needed her?

When the world outside the windows grew dark, Amber sat in front of the mirror in her room and touched her newly growing hair, wishing for it to spread. It was her only hope of rescue from a horrific fate of living this way indefinitely. Surely if she could tell her mother she was healing, Mama would accept her back into their world. Surely she could then enjoy a future of comfort and pleasure again. Her time in Yorkshire would be nothing but a horrid memory.

Though she was not inclined to piety, that night Amber knelt beside her bed and prayed that her hair would grow. It was the only solution she could conceive, the only way she could gain entrance back into the life she once had.

Without Suzanne, it fell upon Amber to execute the morning ch.o.r.es. Gathering eggs and emptying the chamber pot had been previously avoided at all costs, but she could not ignore them now. Did the eggs always come from the coop so soiled? Suzanne must wash them before bringing them inside. As for the chamber pot, Amber nearly retched over the task of it, then sat against the side of the smokehouse and screamed at the heavens until she could not breathe and the fingernails of her clenched fists dug half-moons into her palms.

This was her life. This was her reality. After indulging in her misery until she felt quite ridiculous, she stood and told herself that if Suzanne could do such things, Amber could as well. She wanted Suzanne to be proud of her, and she had to take care of herself now. Fits and anger and avoidance would no longer be her friends.

It was not quite noon when Amber heard the sound of the gig on the drive in front of the cottage. She was out of the kitchen, where she was attempting to make soda bread by herself for the first time, and down the wide stone steps before Suzanne had pulled to a stop on the lane.

Suzanne turned to look at her from the seat of the gig and then removed a letter from the folds of her skirt. She held it out to Amber who took it, turned it over, and frowned at the name "Mr. Peters" scrawled across the front in her own script. She turned it again to find the wafer unbroken, then looked up at Suzanne in confusion. "You did not take this to Mr. Peters?"

Suzanne shook her head, but looked past Amber when she spoke. "I shall stay until your mother comes in September. I have written to my sisters, explaining the circ.u.mstance."

Amber covered her mouth with her hand. Suzanne would stay? She would choose Amber over her family? The knowledge humbled Amber as nothing ever had before. "I am so sorry, Suzanne," she said when the shock had pa.s.sed. And so grateful.

"As am I, Miss," she said, clucking at the horse and flicking the reins to continue to the stable. Amber hurried up the steps, through the kitchen to the back door and down the path leading to the stable so she would be there in time to help Suzanne unhitch the horse, another task she had always avoided. Were there any tasks I haven't avoided? she wondered. She felt wretched for being so happy Suzanne was staying, and more committed to do her share of the work about the cottage. Not only to relieve some of the burden, but also in hopes it would show how thankful she was for Suzanne's kindness.

She was staying.

Thanks be to the heavens.

Chapter 19.

September Dearest Amber, We have had such a lovely time in Suffolk. Lord Sunther is the most gracious of hosts, and we have fairly crossed the county ten times over enjoying the sights and history of the place while meeting friends and relations. The family is very well connected, which has only increased our excitement for this most advantageous match.

Because of our extended visit, I regret to inform you that we will not be able to come to Yorkshire. Your father has told me of the terrible winters there, and I fear that should I come so late in the season-for I could not be in readiness until late October, I am sure-I may very well be forced to stay longer than expected. I cannot take such a risk, not with Darra's wedding plans. The ceremony shall be at Glenhouse-Lord Sunther's estate-in April, when the year of mourning for his father is pa.s.sed.

You have not spoken of your hair so I shall hope that it is continuing to grow back; I will be glad to see what takes place over the course of the winter. Your father a.s.sures me that when he met with Mr. Peters and the caretaker a few weeks ago everything was in order and you are doing well. It did my mother's heart good to hear such a happy report. Mr. Peters is to arrange someone to sew you and your maid some winter clothes. He shall contact you when the arrangements are in place, and your father shall burden the expense.

Mind you remain attentive to your health and do not overexert yourself. I fear you may lose your fine manners without opportunity to exercise them but am glad the tone of your letters has improved.

I shall let you know when to expect me in the spring. Take care over this winter season and know that I am thinking fondly of you despite our distance from one another.

Your loving mother, Lady Marchent This time, Amber hurled the letter into the kitchen fireplace and then railed against her mother in a most unladylike display of fury and emotion for several minutes before turning to look at Suzanne, whose face was flushed, surely as much as Amber's own.

Seeing her maid's distress moved Amber past thoughts regarding her own situation and reminded her that Suzanne, who was quickly becoming the dearest friend Amber had ever had, was also affected by this change of course.

In the past months, Amber had pondered often on her family and their lack of thought and compa.s.sion toward her. According to her mother's letter, Amber's father had even come to Northallerton and not even stopped at the cottage to see how she fared. It was humiliating and hurtful to realize how truly abandoned she was by her family.

Suzanne's situation, however, was entirely the opposite. Her family missed her, wanted her back, and asked in every letter they sent when they could expect her return. Her mother's condition had been failing all summer. Consideration of Suzanne's position calmed Amber's rage much sooner than it would have even a month earlier. She had to do right by Suzanne; her own situation could be faced afterward.

"I shall write to Mr. Peters this instant and have him make arrangements for your travel to London." Amber took a breath she hoped would calm her increasing panic. "If you leave for Northallerton in the morning and deliver my letter to Mr. Peters early, we could have the funds secured in time for Monday's mail coach. I do believe travel is lighter this time of year, so perhaps it will not be too overcrowded."

Suzanne did not respond directly, but stood from the table and looked out the window set near the kitchen door. The sky was dreary, but though there had been rain most of the week, today had only presented them with angry skies which had allowed Suzanne to go to town that morning and return without difficulty.

Amber watched Suzanne with a heavy heart. How would she get on without her? After Suzanne's agreement to stay in July, Amber had successfully negotiated additional funds through letters exchanged with the solicitor so that Suzanne could send the same amount to her family that she had before and still have finances here in Yorkshire. Could Amber increase Suzanne's wage even more as an inducement for her to stay? But that only reminded Amber of the comment she had made regarding servants only wanting money. She was embarra.s.sed to have ever believed such a thing. A larger wage had not been Suzanne's motivation, only a way for Amber to attempt to show her grat.i.tude and keep Suzanne's family from suffering.

"I shall go to town," Suzanne said suddenly. Her face was flushed and her jaw was tight, but her eyes reflected sorrow she did not seem inclined to share.

It was not the third Wednesday of the month so there was no dance to use as her excuse, but sometimes Suzanne just needed to be apart. She would take long walks or even ride Sally as an excuse to leave the cottage. Mr. Dariloo had taught Suzanne to ride and being outside-or perhaps just out of Amber's company-seemed to renew her spirits.

"Shall you stay at the vicarage, then?" Amber asked. Suzanne had done so four times since that first overnight in July, either after the Wednesday dance, or when members of the congregation had invited her to dinner. The two women did not talk about Suzanne's friendships with people in town but Amber knew Suzanne had become a part of the community, at least as much as she could living so far out of town and protecting so many secrets about her employer. The irony that Amber's maid could partic.i.p.ate in her own cla.s.s of society, while Amber remained hidden from hers, did not escape her. Suzanne had so much more in her life than Amber did.

"The Clawsons have extended an open invitation to stay with them at any time," Suzanne said. "I shall return tomorrow afternoon."

"Let me write a letter to Mr. Peters before you go, then."

Amber was grateful she had applied herself better to the tasks about the cottage. She could bake soda bread on her own now, and make all manner of roasted vegetables and soups. She could care for the chickens and horse. She still avoided the milk cow as it was filthy, and Suzanne did not mind caring for that animal as much. They hired out the laundry to a washerwoman in Romanby, but Amber could make beds, place fires, sweep floors, clean pots, and fetch water. She was more a.s.sured than before of her ability to care for herself, but her heart was heavy at the prospect, and heavier still at the thought of how eager Suzanne must be to leave.

Amber wrote the letter to Mr. Peters and then helped hitch Sally to the gig. She did not remain to watch Suzanne disappear down the lane and instead returned inside and exchanged the lacey mobcap she wore at all times for the knitted cap Suzanne had made her the week before. Thus far Amber had only worn the knitted cap at night as it was not the least bit attractive, but now she was alone and there was no reason not to enjoy her own comfort. The cap fit tightly against Amber's head and helped keep her warm, something that was becoming increasingly difficult as she was almost without any hair at all and the season was sharply cooling.

The new growth of hair that had given her so much hope in July had fallen away in August. There were some fuzzy wisps on the left side of her head and her right eyebrow was nearly grown back, but she was not inclined to give either development much credibility. Rather than hoping for deliverance from her affliction, she found herself feeling the need to find a way to accept it. She had hoped that after her mother's visit she could return to Hampton Grove and find a place within her family again. It was difficult to accept that would not be the case. Would it ever be?

Amber spent the evening beside the kitchen fire reading A Midsummer's Night Dream-the library was well stocked with several familiar collections-and she was slowly making her way through literature she had once only attended as a topic of conversation. Now she read them from a different perspective of wanting to better understand their contents, context, and acclaim.

She tried not to think of the howling winds outside the window or how she would cope when winter would set in and the weather became more severe. She would have to find a way to get supplies from town. Suzanne interacted with Mr. Dariloo when he made his visits-Amber had not seen him since her arrival-and she did not know if he would be willing to fetch foodstuffs and supplies. Perhaps she would have to hire a servant, but how could she expect anyone to replace Suzanne?

When she finally took a candle to her room and curled up beneath the layers of quilts on her bed, she allowed herself to feel the day's despair. Why had her father not stopped at the cottage when he'd come to Northallerton? He would have pa.s.sed the road leading to Step Cottage on both his arrival and departure, but he had not stopped in at all? What had she done to deserve such spurning from her family? How would she cope without Suzanne?

Suzanne returned to the cottage late the next afternoon just as Amber was placing the pot of water, chicken bones tied in cheesecloth, and potatoes in the coals for soup. Amber looked up from the hearth to see Suzanne set the unopened letter addressed to Mr. Peters on the table.

"Suzanne?" Amber said with regret even as warmth filled her chest. She stood and wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n. She'd sewn it herself a few weeks earlier so as to protect her dresses, adding a flounce to the bottom. Though it was completely impracticable to have done so, the weight of the flounce helped the fabric lay better and gave it a feminine touch. "You should return to London. You have already stayed too long."

"I have made my decision," Suzanne said, moving to the fire to stare into the flames and hold her hands to the heat.

Amber watched her for several moments, her heart heavy for so many reasons, some of which made her feel horribly selfish and unkind. "But your mother . . ."

"Mama pa.s.sed on three weeks ago, Miss." Suzanne said it so quietly that Amber nearly did not hear it over the crackling of the fire.

"What?" she asked, certain she had misheard.

Suzanne glanced at her quickly, then stepped closer to the fire. "She was very ill when I left," she said, unable to hide the regret in her tone. "And, as you know, my sisters had informed me of her increasing frailness throughout the summer. It was not as much of a surprise as it might have been. She pa.s.sed away peacefully with my sisters and their families around her, for that I'm grateful. By the time I received word, she was already interred."

"Three weeks ago?" And you did not tell me? Amber added in her mind. While she awaited Suzanne's confirmation, she was reminded of an evening when Suzanne had returned from town complaining of a headache. She had taken the rest of the evening in her room and remained out of sorts for a few days following. Amber had feared she was ill, but Suzanne stated she was simply not sleeping well and in time returned to her usual self, which was naturally subdued. Though they worked side-by-side and Amber dared feel they shared genuine care for one another, they had not lost all distinction of rank. Suzanne did not confide in her mistress.

"I did not tell you for fear you would expect me to stay now that Mama's care was not a reason to return." She began removing the pins securing her bonnet. In the process she met Amber's eyes. "Or perhaps some part of me knew that Lady Marchent would not come and I feared for you to be alone."

"I am not to be your priority any longer," Amber said with a lump in her throat as Suzanne moved to hang the bonnet on one of the pegs near the door. "I am so sorry you were not there to say good-bye to your mother. If not for me you would have been."

"I am not holding blame toward you for it," Suzanne said, smoothing her hair away from her face. "And I have not regretted staying, Miss."

Amber was surprised to hear it. How could Suzanne not regret it? They both had to work so contrary to their inclinations just to have the smallest degree of comfort, and a great deal of their time was centered on the most base and repulsive necessities of self-sufficiency. However, Suzanne's peace of mind stirred Amber's awareness of the increasing peace she felt as well. She rarely raged, out loud or in her mind, over the unfairness of her situation or the primitive conditions of the cottage. She no longer pined so strongly for society and fine things. But she had never considered that Suzanne's feelings may have changed, and she did not entirely trust the possibility as it was exactly what Amber would want to hear.

"I shall never be able to adequately thank you for all you've done," Amber said. "But I renew my sentiment that you should return to your family. You have done more for me than anyone else in my life ever would." She wiped at her eyes and turned to the fireplace so Suzanne would not see her tears. She turned the pot using the metal hook, embarra.s.sed to have shared such feeling, though a part of her was relieved to be so honest.

"Miss," Suzanne said softly, causing Amber to turn toward her again. "I have considered all aspects of my circ.u.mstance. I have heard tell of the harsh winter we are to expect in this place and had already determined that should Lady Marchent not keep her word regarding her visit, that perhaps G.o.d would be telling me I was better suited in the county of Yorkshire than in London." She gave a small smile. "I shall stay until your future is settled."

After several seconds of silence, which Amber used to contain her emotions, she cleared her throat. "Thank you," she whispered.

Suzanne nodded and folded back the sleeves of her dress, preparing to work anew upon the life they had made for themselves.

Amber went about finishing the preparations for dinner. She had saved the eggs from yesterday so as to attempt a Yorkshire pudding. She had tried twice before and failed but hoped tonight would result in success.

After a few minutes had pa.s.sed, she spoke again. "I wonder if we could have Mr. Dariloo bring someone to move the trunks and things from the other upstairs bedroom and put them in the servant's quarters. If you shall be staying the winter, you need better accommodation and the upper floors stay quite warm."

"You would allow me to take the second bedchamber?" Suzanne said, her eyes wide at the prospect.

"I would insist upon it," Amber said, glad the idea met with Suzanne's favor and did not make her uncomfortable. "I believe we shall both be in need of every comfort possible these next months. I would be honored if you would take the other room."

"If that is the case," Suzanne said, smiling herself, "I would be honored to do so."

"Thank you for staying with me," Amber said again, without looking up. The sincerity of her words made her feel both vulnerable and comfortable, as though she'd discovered something new that felt oddly familiar.

Suzanne looked at her for quite some time before Amber looked away, embarra.s.sed though she could not determine exactly why. Suzanne was quiet for a moment before she answered in an equally reverent tone, "You're very welcome . . . Amber."