Free The Lady of Lyon House by Jennifer Wilde Page B

blue, the nap a little worn, and a great chandelier hung over the stairwell, dripping crystal pendants that sparkled with rainbow colors in their prisms. Corinne moved briskly up the stairs, her tea-yellow skirts rustling noisily. She talked vivaciously as she led me down the hall on the second floor.
    â€œIt’ll be so nice to have someone new in the house,” she said. “It does get rather lonely. Agatha isn’t much company—poor thing. You’ll meet her later on. Edward is always wanting to go gallavanting off to be with people his own age. I can’t blame him, really. It looks like you are going to have to put up with me.”
    â€œI think it will be delightful,” I replied.
    â€œDo you play cards?”
    â€œNot very often. I do know how.”
    â€œMarvelous! We can play after dinner. Edward won’t play with me anymore. I always win.”
    â€œDo you cheat?”
    â€œHe says I do. It’s an outrageous lie!”
    Corinne took me down the hall to the last room. She opened the door and showed me inside. A maid was hanging my clothes up in the closet. My bags were on the floor, opened, half their contents already taken out. Corinne stood in the doorway for a moment, watching me as I looked at the room, and then she left, saying she would see me at dinner.
    â€œAnd who are you?” I asked the girl who was hanging up my clothes.
    â€œMolly Jenkins, ma’am. I’m to be your personal maid.”
    â€œGoodness, I’ve never had a maid before.”
    â€œI’ve never been one before,” she replied frankly.
    â€œDo you think you’ll like it?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s better than getting up at the crack of dawn every morning and milkin’ two dozen cows. I hated that. And the chickens—” She shook her head and shuddered, making a grimace.
    â€œYou live on a farm?”
    â€œI did till I came here two weeks ago. I was so excited when my Pa told me I was going to work at Lyon House. Bertie wasn’t so happy—he’s my beau, Bert Martin, works at the dairy and delivers milk at the village. Bertie didn’t want me to come here. Said I wouldn’t stay.”
    â€œWhy didn’t he think you would?”
    â€œIf you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so—the old lady. She’s a terror. Fired the whole lot of servants just over two weeks ago, had a perfectly smashin’ row. Millie Jones, my girl friend, she worked here once, and she said no amount of pay would bring her back. I don’t mind, though. My Pa ain’t so easy to get on with himself, and the old lady doesn’t frighten me none.”
    I smiled. Molly was a frank, engaging creature with touseled black curls and bright blue eyes. Her nose was turned up at the end and there was a sprinkle of golden brown freckles over the bridge. Her cheeks were ruddy with health, her mouth saucy and very pink. She told me that she was sixteen years old, almost seventeen, but she seemed more mature. I could easily imagine that life on the farm had taught Molly many things. She was pretty and lively, and I guessed that Bertie Martin had a hard time of it with her. I could imagine a whole flock of strong, rowdy boys vying for the privilege of being sassed by her.
    â€œOf course she’d been sick,” Molly continued, “real sick, in fact. They had to order medicine all the way from London, Cook says. She was in bed for the longest time, moanin’ and lookin’ at death’s door. Then she pops up and comes chargin’ through the house like her old self, findin’ everything all wrong. Screamed and raged, and before the day was over she’d discharged the whole lot of ’em, down to the last maid. Mr. Lyon had a hard time gettin’ replacements.”
    â€œI can easily imagine that,” I replied.
    â€œOf course, she never goes out. That makes it bad. She just rides every morning, never goes to the village. I like