A Rip Through Time(10)

Mrs. Wallace continues, “Now take that tray to the master before it’s cold, and as soon as he’s done with you, get yourself back here, and I might have breakfast for you.”





FIVE


As I take the tray up the stairs, one smell rises above the others. Is that…? I inhale. Wafting from the teapot is the distinct smell of coffee. Drool tickles the corners of my mouth.

They have coffee in 1869? I don’t mind tea, but right now, that coffee smells more tantalizing than the entire breakfast combined. I twist the tray so I can inhale the fumes directly as I wonder whether Gray would miss a few sips.

I imagine Mrs. Wallace coming around the corner to see me drinking straight out of the master’s coffeepot. Maybe if I’m the one to collect it, there will be some left.

Yep, my first day as a housemaid, and I’m already reduced to stealing the dregs of my master’s coffee.

Also, “master”? Is that really what he’s called? I suppose it’s the alternative when we can’t refer to him as “His Lordship” or whatever. Still, I hope to hell I’m not expected to call him “master.”

Gray’s bedroom is on the third floor. That’s three flights of stairs up. I continue climbing as I remind myself I’m in need of a good workout. Maybe I can go out for a run on my break. As I think that, my long skirts catch my knees, and I look down. Nope, no jogging in this outfit.

I crest the stairs and …

Shit. Which door is his?

A chair scrapes against the floor, and I exhale.

I can do this. Detective, remember? Follow the clues.

As I prepare to enter the room, I try to remember whether I’ve seen or read this scene: a housemaid bringing breakfast to her employer. It’s familiar, but the details are lost to memory. Information I never expected to use, oddly enough.

I think I’m supposed to knock first. Either way, that seems safe. I pause to pull on my best speaking-to-the-lord face. Demure. That’s the key. I’m a Victorian housemaid. Keep my gaze down and my expression meek. Be seen but not heard. Or is that for children? Close enough.

I rap on the door. After a moment, there’s a grunt that I think means “Come in.” I ease the door partway open, and a low table appears just to my left. I set the tray on it and murmur “Your breakfast, sir” and then begin my retreat.

“Where the devil are you going?”

I open the door to see Gray at a desk. He isn’t fully dressed. He’s decent, at least by twenty-first-century standards. Button-down shirt, mostly fastened. The Victorian equivalent of boxers—undergarments that reach to his knees. If they’re crotchless drawers, like mine, that particular part is well hidden by his shirt. Long socks cover most of the remaining skin. Well, one sock. The other is on the floor.

If he wasn’t at his desk, pen in hand, I’d think I’d interrupted him in the midst of dressing. From the looks of things, it’s an idea that interrupted him, and he stopped halfway through to scribble it down.

“Well,” he says, the word spoken with an impatient snap. “I’m obviously in need of your services, Catriona.”

I freeze. Now, this is a scene I have definitely read in books. The pretty young maid, forced to “tend” to the lord of the manor.

Oh, hell no. You even hint at that, Dr. Gray, and I’ll take my chances on the street.

He looks from me to the darkened fireplace and then back at me. “Well?”

“Oh! You want me to light the fire.”

“No, Miss Catriona. I want you to warm the room with your sunny disposition. Yes, I want you to start the fire. Preferably before I freeze to death.”

Well, if you’re cold, maybe you could finish getting dressed. Or light your own damn fire.

That’s exactly what I’d say if a superior officer expected me to light a fire while he lounged half naked. Well, no, I’d tell him to get his pants on before I reported his ass. But Gray employs me to do exactly this. I need to treat it as good practice for going undercover. Bite my tongue, swallow my attitude, and act a part.

“I realize this is your first day back to work,” he says. “I am making allowances for that. But I will expect my fire lit before I rise tomorrow.”

“What time is that, sir?”

His dark eyes narrow. “The same as always. Five thirty.”

Oh joy. Apparently, I need to get up before five now. Right after I figure out how the hell to do that without an alarm clock.

I murmur something suitably agreeable and then move to the fire.

It’s a wood-burning fireplace, not coal. The master of the house values ambience over convenience, apparently. Helps when you have staff to light it for you.

I can do this. I was a Girl Guide, and I go camping every year with friends. Well, I did, until I got too busy with work and had to recuse myself from the annual getaway. One year off fire making shouldn’t matter. Or is it two years? Possibly three…?

Damn it. I’ve let things slide. Let life slide. I’m going to fix that when I get back. Repair the damage before I stop getting invitations and suddenly I’m forty and wondering why no one calls me anymore.

For now, though, I’ve got this. Just start a fire.

I stare at the mess in the fireplace, all ashes and scorched wood. Then I spend the next twenty minutes cleaning the fireplace. Gray has resumed his mad scribbling, so absorbed that the only time he even glances over is when I drop the metal poker on the stone hearth.