Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)(10)

“But I’ve never done that before. I wouldn’t know what to

do,” Anne protested, taking a step back. Although her father

had never required her to work, she’d never been present when

he entertained guests. She had always eaten in the kitchen with

her mother and the rest of the household servants. Anne had

been caught between two worlds, unsure of her exact place in

either of them.

Mary shook her head, grabbing Anne by the wrist and

pulling her along. Shorter than Anne, Mary was strongly built.

Anne dragged her heels, but Mary didn’t seem to notice, intent

as she was on hauling Anne to her doom.

Ignoring Anne’s protests, Mary made it back to the kitchen

and threw Anne through the door, barring her escape.

“Here she is, Sara. Tell her what you told me,” Mary said,

picking up a tartlet from the table and taking a large bite.

Sara sat on a stool near the fireplace, her face wet with tears.

“It wasn’t my fault! She tripped me! She tripped me, she did.





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She saw the young sir watching me, and she was jealous.”

Anne could barely comprehend what she was saying. “Who

tripped you, Sara?” she asked. “Tell me what happened.” Surely

it couldn’t be bad enough that it would prevent her from finishing the dinner service. Sara was far too sensitive to work as a maid, Anne thought irritably.

“Aye, I’ll tell you what happened. It was Miss Patience. She

isn’t as pretty as we thought. She’s ugly inside, and it shows.

The young sir winked at me. He winked at me, he did, and she didn’t like it.”

Although Anne had yet to see Miss Patience Hervey, she had met the young master of the house and could understand how

Sara would catch his eye. Mary, too, was pleasing, despite her

generous middle.

Sara sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “She

tripped me, and I dropped the soup onto the young master’s

lap. Master Drummond was furious! Oooh, I’ve never seen him

so furious before.”

In this house, people had been fired for less grievous

acts than pitching a bowl of soup into someone’s lap. Master

Drummond often let maids or butlers go without so much as

a warning if their collar wasn’t stiff enough or if their shoes

weren’t polished. It depended on his mood and if he was feeling charitable or not.

Anne patted Sara’s back in an attempt to calm her, just

as Margery flew in. She pointed at Anne, her hand shaking.





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Whether it was from rage or exertion, Anne could not tell. “Go and get changed. Quickly now. Wash up!”

“But I’ve never had to help with a meal. Surely you and

Mary—” Anne’s head snapped back from the impact of Margery’s

hand.

“I said now! Take a bucket, wash yourself, and be back

down here in two minutes. The young master has changed, and

the guests are ready for their next course.”

The appearance of Mr. Edward had turned the entire

household on its head.

Anne raced upstairs, her ear still ringing, and hastily tore

off her dress and shift. The water splashed onto the floor as she filled the washbasin and quickly cleaned herself. Moments later, as she retraced her steps wearing a fresh dress and apron, a pit settled in her stomach.

With one last look at Sara’s shaking form, Anne twisted her

unruly braid under her cap and followed Mary and Margery toward

the dining room, like a sacrificial lamb prepared for slaughter.

Even with her limp, Margery moved with amazing speed.

Anne was breathless by the time they reached their destination,

afraid she would be sick over the polished floor. With each footstep her anxiety rose, till it was all she could do to remain upright.

The sound of muted voices could be heard through the

door. Silverware clinked against the porcelain tableware, and a

woman’s shrill laugh pierced the air.

Margery turned to Anne and whispered, “All right, now. Look





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lively. You watch what Mary’s doing and simply do as she does.”

Anne nodded, her stomach twisting.

Straightening her shoulders, Margery turned and pushed

open the door. She became a different person entirely, at once

confident and discreet. Anne had a hard time reconciling the

image of this competent woman with the hissing witch who’d

slapped her not ten minutes ago.

Anne felt the young master’s eyes on her the moment she

walked in. A flush crept into her cheeks, and she kept her head

averted. The walls of the dining room were covered with lavish

frames filled with maps made by the most sought after cartog—

raphers. The charts marked the routes of Master Drummond’s

merchant fleet. Unlike in other prominent households, there

were no portraits of distinguished ancestors here, as the master himself was the son of a soap maker.

Mary stepped up to the table to clear away the soup bowls,