Free A Rake by Any Other Name by Mia Marlowe Page A

Quimby,” Aloysius Porter said as he mopped his brow. “It’s not often a lady’s maid will condescend to serve at tea.”
    â€œNot at all,” Quimby said as she took an apron from her satchel and donned it. “I’m right happy to do it.”
    â€œWell, as you can see, we’re in need of help and not just extra hands either,” Porter said as he led her through the residence toward the kitchen. “Barrett House isn’t set up for a gathering of this size and importance. Counting the dowager and Lady Somerset, Lord Hartley’s three sisters, Lady Pruett and her daughter, and Mrs. and Miss Goodnight, there should be nine of them—ten if Lady Ariel brings her governess, which I hope she will, since no one likes uneven numbers.”
    The parlor was much too small for ten ladies. The dining room would have been cramped as well and was not really the correct venue for tea in any case.
    â€œI tried to make Mrs. Goodnight see the impracticality of it.” But then she simply suggested something even more impractical that made Porter wish they’d muddled along in the small parlor. “‘If the house will not support a tea,’ she says to me, ‘then we’ll have it in the garden.’ Of all the ideas…”
    â€œSounds positively American,” Quimby said. “From what I’ve heard, they’re always keen on picnics and such. Are the Goodnights colonials by chance?”
    â€œNo, indeed not. British through and through. Though I gather they’ve not spent much time in England. Mr. Goodnight is quite the nabob, they say, and the daughter was born in India, you know, which might account for any number of queer notions.”
    But queer notions or not, Porter had been busy till late in the night, setting up canvas awnings to shelter the white lawn chaises. Mrs. Beckworth, Barrett House’s cook, was in a fine state trying to pull together a tea on such short notice. She threatened mutiny if he couldn’t commandeer someone from the big house to help her.
    Having Miss Quimby volunteer was a gift from heaven. And such an unexpected gift. It was almost unheard of for a lady’s maid to do such a thing, but Porter wasn’t one to turn down willing hands. He and Miss Quimby stopped into the kitchen, where trays of dainties were laid out on the long trestle table. He introduced her to Mrs. Beckworth and Eliza, the kitchen girl from Somerfield Park, and Miss Quimby was put promptly to work icing small cakes.
    â€œBetween Mrs. Beckworth and Eliza, they’ve prepared enough petit fours and finger sandwiches to feed a small army.” Mr. Porter chuckled with nervousness. “Instead, we’ll be serving ten ladies, who are likely to have appetites like birds.”
    â€œReal ladies always do.” Quimby didn’t look up from her cakes.
    â€œYes, er, quite,” he mumbled, feeling rather dismissed. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”
    Porter hurried out of the dimness of the kitchen into the blinding sunlight of midmorning to inspect the final preparations. The arrangement of tables still wasn’t to his liking, but since the table settings had already been laid, there was no good way to rearrange matters now. He’d settled for two linen-covered card tables with service for four each and one smaller table which would serve two. With any luck, he’d be able to steer Lady Ariel and her governess to that one.
    If the governess didn’t come, and the party was an uneven nine, he didn’t know what he’d do.
    It was an impossible task, but Porter was determined to make this tea a success. If he did, perhaps he’d be called up to serve at Somerfield Park, instead of cooling his heels at the frequently empty Barrett House. He wouldn’t accept a position of footman, of course. That would be a step backward, even given the difference in the size of the households. But if he could be