Second Chance Cinderella

“Then yoo’d best get settled an’ tae work straight awa’,” said the maid. Dressed in a column of black wool and a sullied white apron, the young woman inspected her with a quick, unimpressed glance. “I don’t ken how ye bumpkins in th’ coontry work, but our cook, Mrs. Pickles, isna a body for tardiness or excuses of any kind.”

Taking exception to being called a bumpkin, Rose bit back a tart reply as she followed the maid down a hallway that led to a spiral staircase. Before leaving Hopewell Manor, the Malbury family’s country estate where she’d been in service for the past eight years, she’d been forewarned of the infamous Mrs. Pickles’s reputation as a taskmaster. It was said the cook ran her kitchen like Wellington at Waterloo and with nearly as many casualties.

The mere thought of losing her job made Rose’s stomach churn. It was imperative that she make a favorable impression on the irascible woman who held Rose’s job in her hands. Rose was on excellent terms with the staff at Hopewell Manor and only in London for a fortnight to help with a shortage of trained servants in the townhouse kitchen, but that did not mean she couldn’t be dismissed. The tragic death of the previous baron and his wife had put the livelihood of every Malbury employee in jeopardy.

Apparently, the new baron had inherited the title and lands with very little coin to sustain the expenses that accompanied the prize. His servants worried he planned to terminate long-term staff in favor of importing cheaper, Irish labor. Nothing could be taken for granted, nor a foot placed wrong. She could not afford to be sacked. Finding another position was nigh impossible for anyone and doubly so for a woman in her precarious situation.

“My name is Rose Smith, by the way,” she said over the banging of pans and calls for more boiling water.

“Ah be Ina McDonald.”

“Have you been in service here long?” Rose asked as they reached the third floor.

“Six months. Five and a half too many if ye ask me. Min’, th’ auld baron an’ baroness were kind enough, but Mrs. Pickles makes every day a sour circumstance.” Ina took a skeleton key from her skirt pocket and unlocked a door across the hall. “Ye’ll be sharin’ quarters wi’ me whilst ye’re here. Keep yer belongings tae yer own side of the room an’ we’ll get on jus’ dandy.”

Rose found the converted attic similar in size to the room she shared with Andrew at Hopewell Manor. Her former employers had always displayed a unique sense of Christian charity toward their servants’ well-being and the snug space was pleasantly situated. Morning sunlight and a cool breeze streamed through two dormer windows dressed with faded blue curtains. Simple white moldings edged plastered walls painted in a cheerful shade of yellow.

Three single beds hugged the opposing sides of the room. Ina had claimed the one left of the door and arranged her few belongings with obvious care and neatness in mind.

“Hurry, if ye ken what’s good fur ye.” Ina headed back to work. In a rush to follow her, Rose moved to the bed nearest the windows and set her valise on the scuffed, but freshly swept wood floor. She would have to make up the bare mattress later.

She hung her cloak and bonnet on the wall hook at the end of the bed before opening her valise to fish for a fresh apron. The faint hint of talcum clung to the extra work frock, Sunday-best dress and other belongings that filled the case. With no more time to find the small mirror she’d brought, she did her best to repair her hair and repin the long blond tendrils that had bounced free when the coach suffered its broken wheel. She wished she could remove her shoes and rub her throbbing feet. They ached from miles of walking and she had a long day ahead of her.

As she stood to tie the apron around her waist, she glanced out the window and took in the bird’s-eye view. Amid the colorful parasols and scurry of pedestrians, a tall man on the corner of the square across the street drew her attention. The refined dark business suit and top hat he wore vouched for his importance, but there was a solitary quality about him that she recognized in herself.

Despite the need to make haste, she remained nailed to the floor. The distance between her perch and the square kept her from seeing the gentleman’s face. She willed him to move closer.

Instead, the newspaper boy he spoke with darted toward the Malbury townhouse whilst the man turned his back to her and made for one of the ornate, wrought-iron benches set along the gravel path. Tension wafted off him in waves.

A flock of pigeons scattered like feathers in the wind, jolting Rose from her musings. With no more time to spare, she dragged herself from the window and shut the door behind her as she left the room.

The stirring of curiosity toward the stranger surprised her. Not since Sam had she noticed a man with any personal interest on her part. After all they’d meant to each other, he’d simply forgotten her. He’d been gone for over a year before she’d given up all hope and admitted to herself that he’d cast her off the same as everyone else in her life had done. In turn, she’d banished him from her heart and mind—or at least tried to.

“How good of you to join us,” a stern voice said the moment Rose reached the bottom of the stairs. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust well enough to see the gaunt, gray-haired woman in spectacles at the opposite end of the hot, dimly lit corridor.

“I am the household’s cook, Mrs. Pickles. You shall report to me or the housekeeper, Mrs. Biddle, while you are employed here. Ina informed me your less than punctual arrival this morning is due to the state of the roads and an unreliable vehicle. I shall let the incident pass this once, but do not test me on future occasions. I do not abide tardiness in my kitchen. Since we’re short staffed, you will work as a between maid whilst you’re here. However, since the lion’s share of your time will be spent in the kitchen and scullery, rather than the rest of the house, you shall look to me should you have any questions. You are expected to be ready for work promptly at half past five each morning. To my way of thinking Mrs. Michaels allows you far too many liberties at Hopewell Manor. Be mindful that those privileges won’t be extended here.”

A ring of keys she extracted from her pocket jangled as she unlocked and opened a dark-paneled door. “What are you waiting for? Come into my office, and be brisk about it, if you please.”

Rose’s black skirts swished around her ankles as she rushed past the older woman whose rigid spine, stiff shoulders and prim collar made Rose wonder if she’d bathed in starch.

The spotless office smelled of pine oil and drying herbs. A battered bookcase bowed with old crockery and receipt books stood in one corner. Rose checked her posture and waited like the wayward servant Mrs. Pickles apparently believed she was. The cook folded into the chair behind the heavy oak desk with the ease of bending stone and removed her wire-rimmed spectacles.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Pickles released Rose to work. Armed with the names of her superiors, the litany of her duties, a lecture on propriety and a key to her room, Rose aimed for the door.

“And one last thing,” Mrs. Pickles said the moment Rose turned the smooth brass doorknob. “I trust you aren’t in any trouble. Your personal difficulties won’t be tolerated in this household.”

Rose paused, unable to hazard a guess as to what the cook meant by that cryptic remark. Was she warning her against the prospect of bringing Andrew up to London? “I assure you I’m only here to do my duties to the best of my ability, ma’am. I’m grateful for my place at Hopewell Manor and look forward to returning there once you no longer require my assistance. If you’re referring to my son, he’s staying with a relative in the country. I assure you I have no intention of bringing him here.”

Mrs. Pickles returned her spectacles to the bridge of her nose before folding her hands into a tight knot on the desktop. “Ah, yes, the child.” Her thin lips curled distastefully. “Michaels mentioned him when she wrote to me about you. It seems everyone at Hopewell Manor, including the former master and his family, is quite taken with the pair of you. However, you are no pet here. I warn you that I’m wise to women of your questionable character, who put on airs and mimic their betters—”

“Pardon?” Rose grew hot in the face. She didn’t mimic anyone. Aware that most people considered her far beneath their notice, she’d made a concerted effort to capitalize on the education she’d received while living at the orphanage.

Although her inability to learn to read embarrassed her, she’d striven in other ways to improve herself. She had no wish to disgrace her son or give the other parents and children additional reasons to look down on him because of her lowly background or poor speech.

“—and bear children out of wedlock, then take advantage of the charity of others. Be aware that this is a respectable household. If you wish to sell your favors or dangle men on a string, then I suggest you go elsewhere for I’ll have none of your antics taking place under this roof.”

Offended to her core but forced to tread lightly lest she lose her much-needed employment, Rose prayed the Lord would guard her mouth. “Mrs. Pickles, I’ve made mistakes in the past to be sure, but I promise you I don’t participate in the behavior you’ve described.”

“Then be so good as to explain why, within minutes of your arrival, a boy came to inquire about you at the behest of a man waiting across the street.”

“A boy?” She frowned.

“Yes, the paper hawker from the opposite corner. He asked if Rose Smith worked in service here. When Miss McDonald told him you did, he explained about the man who’d sent him, then promptly ran away.”

The image of the well-dressed gentleman popped into her mind and an unexpected surge of excitement made her heart flutter. “Did the lad happen to mention the gentleman’s name?”

Mrs. Pickles shook her head. “Am I to assume you may be familiar with the identity of your admirer?”

“No, ma’am.” Rose’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “I haven’t the slightest idea why anyone would seek me out. This is my first venture to London and other than asking for directions from a rag woman a few streets over, I’ve spoken to no one.”

Mrs. Pickles stood, her expression skeptical. “You may claim you’re not looking for a man, but according to the boy, there is definitely one looking for you.”

“I assure you, ma’am, I—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve no idea who he might be,” the cook said. “We shall see. Off to work you go. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

Rose wasted no time leaving the office and making her way to the scullery. Smarting from the housekeeper’s accusatory manner, she despised her lowly lot in life and her inability to defend herself. The foul odors rising from the buckets lined against the stone wall gagged her. Towers of breakfast dishes stood beside the sink filled with food-crusted pots and pans. Dampness from shallow puddles on the floor pervaded the small, windowless closet of a room.

Resentment rippled through her. Thanks to someone else’s whim, she’d been sentenced to the kitchen’s dungeon once more. The years she’d spent toiling her way up to kitchen maid, then cook’s assistant might as well have never been.

After fetching and heating the necessary buckets of water, she filled the sink and rolled up her sleeves before placing a stack of plates in to soak. She reminded herself to be grateful she had a job at all. The walk through London’s crowded, fetid streets this morning had proven she could ill afford to be particular. At the best of times, females had few, if any, real choices and a woman like her—with a young child to care for and no husband to rely on—had fewer options still.

Thankfully, she wasn’t alone. She had the Lord to depend on and He had yet to fail her. She never forgot that before she loved Him, He had loved her. Even in her darkest hours, when she’d been near starving, expecting a child and leeched of hope that Sam would ever return, He had not forsaken her. Instead, He’d brought Harry Keen into her life and then the Malburys, a loving and godly family who cared more for people than convention. Without them and their willingness to take her on despite her being an expectant mother, she would never have been able to keep Andrew or supply a roof over their heads.

Picking up two of the buckets by their rope handles, she headed outdoors. The thought of losing Andrew chilled her to the marrow. He was a gift from the Lord and the center of her existence. She’d do anything to protect him, to ensure he remained with her and in the happiest home she could provide. If that meant scrubbing pots and pans until her fingers bled, then that’s what she would do.

The first luncheon dishes arrived to be washed just as she finished drying the last pan from breakfast. By midafternoon, her hands were raw from the hot water and strong soap, and her feet ached from the hours she’d spent standing on the unyielding stone floor. It was a great relief when Ina fetched her to help the chambermaid make beds upstairs.

Early evening found Rose back in the scullery, another teetering mountain of pots and pans beside the sink to be washed. Hearing Mrs. Pickles’s joyless voice in the corridor set her teeth on edge. She glanced around for a bucket to empty outside as an excuse to escape the stern woman.

“Smith, there you are.” The cook stopped in the doorway. “I have revised instructions for you tonight.”

Rose faced the older woman. “What am I to do, ma’am?”

Mrs. Pickles dried her hands on her long, white apron. “You’re to go with Ina to a house on Hanover Square. There’s a well-to-do gentleman, a Mr. Samuels, I believe, who is short staffed for a dinner party he’s hosting this evening. Baron Malbury is keen to win his favor and has graciously offered to send the two of you to assist.”

“When are we to leave?” She wrung out her dishrag and laid it over the edge of the sink to dry.

“Immediately. I’ve already given the address to Ina. Be certain you change your apron before you depart. You look like day-old porridge,” she tossed over her shoulder as she left.

Rose wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple and pushed back the damp tendrils of hair falling around her face. As she climbed the stairs to her room, she removed the offending apron and wished she could crawl into bed. Exhaustion crippled her. Considering the day had started with a carriage accident before dawn and gone progressively downhill from there, she began to wonder what trials the night held in store.

A downpour accompanied Rose’s unfamiliar trek through Mayfair’s confusing maze of slippery cobblestones and fog-shrouded streets. Her shoes squeaked from more than one dunk in a mud puddle and her soggy bonnet had quit shielding her face from the rain two blocks earlier.

The short jaunt should have been uneventful, but due to a pugnacious individual who seemed to believe he owned the entire footpath, Ina had been pushed off the curb and sent reeling into an open sewer. Her twisted ankle and filthy skirts left her unfit for work. After calling a hack to convey the other girl home, Rose had pressed on alone.

Shivering and keenly aware that she was late for the second time in the same day, Rose made use of the knocker on the glossy, black kitchen door of the Samuels’s townhouse. As she always did when visiting a new place, she worried she’d misread the address and come to the wrong establishment.

The door swung open. Heat from the stove and the delicious scents of savory dishes emanated from the large work area beyond. A uniformed footman stared down at her.

“Hello, I’m Rose—”

“My name is Robert. Weren’t there to be two of you?”

“Yes.” She explained about Ina’s predicament. “She twisted her ankle and had to return home.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re late?”

She nodded.

“The master’s waiting for you and his guests are expected soon. Follow me.” The footman stepped back to allow her entrance into the warm, cavernous basement that smelled of herbs and cinnamon.

“The master wishes to see me?” Struck by the oddity of the situation, she handed over her sodden bonnet, muddy cape and umbrella. Damp patches spotted her gown and a rip marred the hem. Water from her wet hair trickled down her temples and the back of her neck. “You must be mistaken. I’m in Baron Malbury’s employ. Mrs. Pickles sent me to help with the shortage of kitchen staff this evening. Why should your master wish to see the likes of me?”

Robert shrugged. “It’s not my place to ask, miss.”

“Does he interview all the temporary help?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

As she followed the footman, she noticed the copper pots bubbling on the wood stove and the variety of roasted meats resting on the chopping blocks. Kitchen maids buzzed about doing chores and putting the final touches on the sauces and desserts. Unlike the Malbury townhouse, or even Hopewell Manor at times of late, this kitchen seemed well staffed—perhaps overly so.

A flight of stairs delivered them to the ground floor where a checkered pattern of black-and-white marble anchored the central hall. Massive paintings of somber individuals looked down on her from ornate, gilded frames hung on walls covered with blue-watered silk.

Until now, she’d found Hopewell her ideal of refinement, but the grand manor where she’d worked for the past several years seemed like nothing more than a pretty house compared to the opulence on offer here.

“This way, miss.”

The faint sound of servants discussing the proper placement of cutlery filtered out of the dining room as Rose trailed the footman past marble busts, cut-crystal vases filled with hothouse flowers and a massive etched mirror. She cringed at her ghastly reflection of bedraggled hair and cold, blue-tinged lips.

Robert stopped in front of a door and rapped on the dark wood.

“Enter,” came a muffled order.

The flash of pity that crossed Robert’s expression gave her pause. “He’ll see you now.”

Trepidation snaked through her as he opened the door. The peculiar situation couldn’t be discounted. Employers usually took as much notice of their lower servants as a fallen leaf in the park.

With nervous fingers, she brushed damp tendrils off her face and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt before she hesitantly crossed the threshold.

The scent of lemon polish and leather greeted her. Despite the glow from the fireplace, shadows lurked in the corners of the masculine room. Shelves crammed with books lined the walls and her exhausted brain began to ache at the thought of trying to decipher even the simplest among them.

“That will be all, Robert.”

Gasping, she spun in the direction of the deep voice.

Sam’s voice.

Disbelief coursed through her. Her heart clamored in wild abandon even before she found him standing behind a wide, polished desk at the head of the room.

“Hello, Rose.”

Chapter Two

Rose blinked rapidly as she struggled to form a sensible reply. How she wished Mrs. Pickles hadn’t gotten the name wrong and had given her time to prepare for being face-to-face with Sam. “Hello...”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yes.” Her lips wooden, she stared helplessly as simultaneous joy and agony overwhelmed her. Her gaze roved over Sam’s face in a frantic, failed attempt to take in all the details of him at once.

Time had erased the last traces of the boy she’d known. His face was leaner, his features sharper, his jaw more defined than when he’d left Ashby Croft. As tall as she remembered and even more handsome, if possible, with his thick, black hair and chocolate-brown eyes, he was dark for an Englishman. As children they’d fancied he must have gypsy blood since his sun-warmed complexion set him so far apart from the many pasty-faced boys of the village.

“What are you doing here, Sam?” Registering the smoldering fury in his dark eyes, she took a self-protective step back. “How...how did you find me?”

“Funny thing, that. I saw you on the street this morning and followed you to Malbury’s.”

“This morning?” Even as she noted his polished accent, her eyes widened with sudden recollection. “You’re the man I saw in the square. The one speaking to the paperboy.”

She took his silence as confirmation. His anger spread to her like a contagion. A multitude of questions swirled through her brain until she felt lightheaded. Praying she wouldn’t fall apart in front of him, she swallowed the sob of emotion lodged in her tight throat. “Where have you been all these years? Why did you never come back?”

A silky, black eyebrow arched with unconcealed derision. “Where have I been? Why, here in London, of course. Right where I said I’d be.”

Sam’s frigid tone dripped with enough scorn to penetrate Rose’s dazed senses. Her Sam had never spoken to her in such a fashion—as though he loathed even the faintest knowledge of her existence.

“The better question is—” his square jaw tightened “—where have you been?”

A shiver rippled through her that had nothing to do with her damp garments or clammy skin. Any hope she’d ever cherished for a pleasant reunion vanished. This severe man looked like Sam—albeit a more mature version—but he bore no resemblance to the lively, brash and indomitable boy she’d loved. He might as well be a stranger.

The tick of a mantel clock marked the silence. Her shock began to fade. Other emotions raced through her in quick succession. Anger and confusion gave way to disbelief, then fear as she pieced together the truth of the situation. Sam had arranged this meeting to knock her for six and he’d succeeded. She didn’t understand his apparent loathing, but his intentions were clear. He’d always wanted to shine. Obviously, he’d made his fortune and sought to rub her nose in the fact that he’d forgotten her without so much as a by-your-leave. Why else would he plot to bring her to this magnificent house to act as his servant when he’d ignored her for the past nine years?

The meanness of his scheme tweaked her pride and renewed her anger. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She did honest work. How dare he treat her so shabbily? He was the cad who’d lied to her, abandoned her, ground her heart into dust. If he expected her to rant and rave like some forsaken fishwife, he’d be disappointed. She refused to give him the pleasure of seeing her make a fool of herself, especially when he deserved nothing but contempt for his selfishness. He may have been amassing a mountain of money all these years, but she’d been seeing to the important task of raising their son.

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “If you must know, I was in Devonshire until two days ago. Just as I said I’d be.”

Dark eyes fringed with thick, black lashes narrowed with disdain. “You’re such a good liar. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you straightaway.”

“Me, a liar?” She lifted her chin. “That’s rich coming from you, Sam.”

“Mr. Blackstone, if you please. Kindly remember I’m your employer at present. Nothing more.” He rounded the desk and moved toward her. Instinct warned her to run, but she held firm. She’d done nothing amiss, but he had much to answer for.

Bristling with tension, she focused on his shirtfront for that seemed the least threatening spot. Dressed in formal attire of black and white, he looked like a seething tiger with an elegant bow tied round his neck.

He stopped before her, close enough to touch. She breathed in deep, taking in his scent of soap and the subtle hint of sandalwood cologne. Desperate to feel indifferent, she detested the traitorous way her heart refused to calm.

“Stay away from me.” She clenched her trembling fingers into fists to keep from reaching for him. She prayed he’d maintain a proper distance, but then again he’d never been the least bit proper.

A sly grin tugged at his firm, sculpted lips. “Make me.”

The whisper-soft touch of his fingertips along her jaw silenced her. Tremors raced down her spine and her feet grew roots to the floor. A sigh feathered in her throat as he lifted her chin.