“My lord,” I say. “My apologies. You gave me a start. I’ve been wandering these halls for at least a quarter of an hour, trying to find my way back to the party.” I look from him to the maid. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“Not at all, m’lady,” Lottie says, a little breathlessly as she squirms away from the earl. “His lordship was just asking if I’d refill the punch bowls when I had a moment. Why don’t I escort you back to the ball, and I’ll see what needs to be filled.”
Tynesford doesn’t get a chance to even speak before Lottie is past him, hurrying over to me. I thank the earl for the lovely party. He only glowers at me, and then turns on his heel and stalks off.
I let Lottie lead me down another hall. Then I say, as carefully as I can, “I do hope I didn’t interrupt anything you did not want interrupted, Lottie. It sounded as if you might . . . welcome the excuse to escape.”
Her fair cheeks blaze bright scarlet. “Yes, m’lady. I did. Thank you. He . . .” She swallows. “He has had a lot to drink this evening.”
“Ah. That’s a rare occasion, is it?”
Another flush, this one paired with a low chuckle. “It is not, m’lady.”
“Does he often ‘notice’ you when he’s in his cups?”
Her gaze drops and her feet move faster. “He didn’t used to. Not until this summer. He hasn’t—hasn’t done anything like that. But Cook did warn me I ought to be careful when he’s . . . like this. He surprised me.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s all right, ma’am.” She flashes me a smile that’s a little too bright. “I’ll be fine.”
I don’t answer. I’m already deep in thought. Looking closer at Lottie, I’d guess she’s about sixteen. That explains why she might not have had trouble with the earl before this summer. I could be outraged at the thought that she’d have trouble with him now—she’s a third his age and his employee.
What I just witnessed, though, is hardly a unique situation for a pretty girl in service. I could blame the Victorians, but I remember a summer job at her age, having to deal with my fifty-year-old supervisor’s gaze never rising above my well-endowed chest, with his “accidental” touches that always managed to brush my breasts.
The difference is that I’d been in a temporary position, and I would have quit if it’d gone any farther. I didn’t need the money, and my mother would have insisted I quit if she’d known. Lottie doesn’t have those options. No more than Mary does. Their choices are limited, and at sixteen, a job is the beginning of a career. It is not pocket money but a means to survive.
I can’t offer Lottie a job. She wouldn’t want it anyway, I suspect. This is her family in service, and there’s prestige in working for an earl. She might change her mind if it becomes more than drunken groping in a back hall. Or when it does—I have little doubt it will.
What I can do is inform August. He’ll care. He might have had quite the reputation before he married, but like William, August’s reputation features only willing lovers moving in the same social circles. Neither William nor August has anything good to say about men who dally with their housemaids.
Here, I will interfere. There is no question of that. Which, I reflect as we near the ball, answers my other question, too.
If I intend to live part-time on this side of history, I cannot do it in a bubble. It’s like hearing a cry for help and telling yourself someone else will respond. I despise such people for cowards, and I have always vowed I will not be one of them. If I heard that cry on a modern street, would I pause with a thought for the future I might be disrupting? Wonder whether it is the victim’s destiny to be attacked, even killed? Of course not. And so I shall not do it here.
Del is right. If true time travel is possible, and I am in the same timeline as ours, then the universe will accommodate for that. It will heal itself.
I will not act carelessly, but I will act. I must.
I find William, and I tell him what I saw in that back hall. With every word I speak, his face darkens, and I begin to wonder whether I should have waited until we’d left. The last thing William’s reputation needs is for him to call out his host. He does no such thing, of course, because whatever his reputation may be, he is well-versed in temper management. He is angry and outraged, but he’s not about to go hunt down Tynesford, not when anything he does could open Lottie to retaliation.
“August wondered whether he’d prey on the child,” William says when I finish. “He has a history of that, which is why the houskeeper prefers to hire older woman and girls who are less to his taste. I believe Lottie was a special case, a dire circumstance.”
He glances over my shoulder and then steers me farther aside as a couple approaches, laughing. “The point being that August feared trouble, and he has considered offering the girl a position in his own household. He doesn’t particularly need another maid, but he could find work for her.”
“That would be wonderful,” I say.
He kisses my forehead. “I’m glad you were able to stop him tonight. August has been watchful, but Tynesford knows he’s being watched. The man is, sadly, not an idiot. I’ll speak to August and he’ll offer the girl a change of position.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you, for getting lost. The fact that you managed to help that girl means I shall be far less inclined to suffer the guilt of having abandoned you.”
“Mmm, pretty sure I abandoned you. The punch bowl seemed much more enticing than a discussion on tariffs.”
He puts out his arm for me to take. “Still, accept my apologies with a return trip to said punchbowl, before it is well and truly empty. I presume you did not manage to refill your cup.”
I tell him about rescuing Surrey, which I’d left out of the initial explanation. I’d also left out the mysterious disappearing maid. No need to worry him about that. But now that I’m reminded, there’s something I need to ask.
“This may sound like a foolish question,” I ask as we approach the banquet table. “But when we were touring, I don’t think I saw a portrait of Rosalind.”
“Ah, no, you did not. That . . . would not be on the tour. Not if August is giving it.”
His face reflects the same emotions I feel, that mingle of pain on August’s behalf and frustration with how he’s handling his grief.
William straightens his cuffs. “There is one picture of her, I believe. One he has not managed to . . . make disappear. Would you like to see it?”
“I would. Please.”
We’re in a dimly lit alcove, close enough to the kitchen that the heat from it has me sweating. I can smell roast pork, breakfast for those guests lucky enough to win overnight invitations.
“Where are we?” I whisper.
William motions for quiet and then opens a door into what seems like a cramped sitting room, stuffed with castoff furniture.
“It’s for the staff,” he says.
“And Rosalind’s portrait is here?”
“I believe so.” He takes an oil lamp, lights it and raises it. “Yes, it’s still here. The cook was quite fond of Rosalind, and I believe the old woman snatched this photograph before August could . . . put it into storage.”