Free To Have and to Hold by Patricia Gaffney Page B

of her eyes. "I promise you it weren't my fault."
    "No, I'm sure it wasn't." She sank down beside Susan and ran her fingers over the stiff material, desiccated from age and dust, crumbling almost at a touch.
    "What ought we to do, ma'am? The view's tumble without 'em, ain't it?"
    It was. The bare window looked naked, and the unattractive vista was of the half-dead back of a boxwood hedge in need of trimming.
    On the other side of the room, Violet Cocker squatted on the marble hearth, polishing a brass firescreen. She laid her blackened cloth aside and turned her full, malicious attention on Rachel. In a boldly taunting voice, she echoed, "Yes, ma'am, what ought we t' do?" Her spiteful eyes gleamed with anticipation; she was looking forward to witnessing the new housekeeper wrestle with this ridiculous dilemma, which to anyone else would be no dilemma at all. From the beginning, Violet had understood with devilish accuracy what Rachel's biggest fear was, the source of her deepest anxiety: making decisions.
    "Should we throw 'em out, ma'am, or try to fix 'em back the way they was?" Susan asked innocently. "Dora's the handiest wi' a needle, but I'm thinking they're past that. Making new ones 'ud cost a fortune, I expect," she continued when Rachel didn't answer. "But the lookout through the window's that ugly, seems like it ought to get covered up some way. Don't it, ma'am?"
    The ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel sounded unnaturally loud and slow. What was best to do? Rachel's mind stayed nerve-wrackingly blank. She started when the clock chimed eleven. "See if you can hang them again," she managed at last. "Just—do the best you can. I'll have to speak to Lord D'Aubrey. He may want to replace them. Or repair them. I don't know. I'll speak to him," she repeated, feeling idiotic—and already dreading that encounter.
    "All right, ma'am," Susan said, fingering the musty cloth doubtfully.
    "I'd stay and help you, but I have an appointment in the village. I didn't realize it was so late. Leave them until I come back if you can't manage it."
    "Aye, you'd best be hurryin' along," Violet spoke up from the hearth, "else we might get a visit from the high sheriff, wonderin' what's become o' you."
    Rachel got to her feet stiffly, keeping her face still, making a show of dusting off her skirts. The proper retort eluded her, as usual. But Violet mustn't be allowed to belittle her in front of the others; some show of authority was called for. "They need guidance," Mr. Holyoake had warned her. Yes, yes—but when she raised her voice or spoke sharply to an insolent servant, it sounded in her own ears like lines read by an incompetent, insincere actress. She was the most transparent of impostors.
    Still, she had to say something. But now too much time had passed. Her lame "Go about your business, Violet" came too late and did no good. The maid sent her a triumphant sideways smirk and went back to polishing the firescreen, smiling.
    Hurrying along the corridor, Rachel tried to put the incident out of her mind. Easy—she'd worry about the constable instead. How could she have let the time slip away without noticing? Her appointment was at eleven-thirty; she would be late unless she ran most of the way. Not that being late would be a catastrophe. She knew that, and yet the thought of being reprimanded for tardiness or even questioned about it filled her with the same stupid, dark, shivery dread she'd lived with every day in Dartmoor. What if it never left her? What if she went to her grave terrified of the consequences of a raised voice or a frowning face? In a thousand ways she was like a child, the natural development of her emotions cut off at the age of eighteen. But in a thousand other ways, she felt like the oldest woman on earth.
    She came to a sudden stop on the top stair leading down to the courtyard. For one cowardly second, she wanted to slide back behind the door and escape. But even as the craven wish formed in her mind,