Free Shall We Dance? by Kasey Michaels Page B

declaring, “This is unpardonable. Never before have I been kept waiting! Who are you, woman? A name! Give me a name! Mrs. Fitzhugh? Housekeeper, I’ll assume, for your sins. I tell you, now that I am butler here anyone who doesn’t know how to behave will be shown the door, do you understand me?Even you, Mrs. Fitzhugh. Already the queen has been left unattended too long, which is highly upsetting to Miss Fredericks, you know. Well? Cat got your tongue? Show me to my quarters, search out the attics for suitable clothing I’m sure is kept there for upper staff, as my baggage has been stolen by a pair of ruffians on the dock. Oh, and you may call me Mr. Nestor.”
    Â 
    T HE HOUSEKEEPER headed toward the main drawing room, wringing her still-trembling hands and talking to herself. “I tell you, Mrs. Fitzhugh, I don’t remember Mistress Fredericks saying a word about someone to replace Mr. Carstairs. It hasn’t been above a few hours since he left. She’s a quick one, I’ll say that for her.”
    â€œNow, now, Maryann,” she answered herself, “just because you took the man in dislike doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong. Best to keep mum. Could get you the sack, seeing as how your background couldn’t exactly stand up straight to much of a look-see, even if he said he’d made things all right and proper and—”
    â€œAll right, all right. But I can’t like the man. He’s got no chin. Our uncle Oliver had no chin, remember? Those same shifty eyes. And he never missed a chance to pinch our bottom. I’ll not be turning my back on the likes of Mr. Nestor. Shh, footsteps.”
    Both of Maryann Fitzhugh peeked around a corner of the hallway to see Gerado pacing with his head down, muttering to himself in that suspicious foreigner tongue.
    â€œHere, here. You’re not to leave your post. Po-st. Position.” She raised one fist, pantomimed a rapping motion. “Door. Knock-knock.”
    Gerado rolled his eyes. “Visitors for Miss Fredericks. Tea and cakes, si? And to tell Miss Fredericks? And, si, the knock-knock.” He raised both hands, palm up, and shrugged. “Where to go first, capire? ”
    â€œYes, yes, I understand,” Mrs. Fitzhugh crowed, thrilled at this breakthrough. Why, she was almost talking Italian herself! She pointed to Gerardo’s chest. “You…go knock-knock Miss Fredericks. After, you go back to door knock-knock.” She placed both hands on her bosom. “I…go kitchen for cakes and tea.”
    â€œIdiota,” Gerado said, nodding his head as he turned and walked away.
    Feeling quite generous, now that she’d managed to settle a domestic crisis Mr. No-Chin Nestor should have by rights dealt with, Mrs. Fitzhugh returned to the kitchens, just in time to answer yet another knock on the service door. Busy place, a queen’s residence. How was she ever supposed to do what she came to do?
    â€œYes?” she asked imperiously, more prepared than she’d been when Mr. Nestor all but barged into the kitchens.
    The woman on the doorstep was much of Mrs. Fitzhugh’s own age, fairly round—well cushioned—and marginally attractive in a faded sort of way.
    She didn’t quite look the housekeeper in the eye as she dropped into an abbreviated curtsy. “My name, ma’am, is Esther Pidgeon, and I once served as maid inthe queen’s household, when she was Princess Caroline. I know I am being horribly bold, and I have no current references, as I left service several years ago to marry. But now that Mr. Pidgeon is gone, and once I saw that the queen, that dear, sweet woman, has returned to our shores, I had hoped, foolishly, I’m sure, that I could possibly once more be of service?”
    Mrs. Fitzhugh took in every word. “So, you’re not here because Miss Fredericks called you here somehow?”
    â€œMiss Fredericks? No, I’m sorry. I