Free A Company of Heroes Book Three: The Princess by Ron Miller Page A

unperturbed by his presence or appearance, and ignoring the fact that he has not answered her, the newly arrived woman sidles past him, intent upon her business.
    “Who’s that?” asks one of the others, brushing aside a damp lock of hair in an ineffectual attempt to see better.
    “I dunno.”
    “Looks like summon who’s fallen in th’ river!” replies a third, who is a little closer and can see better, cackling at what apparently is to her an enormous joke.
    “Fallen in th’ river?” asks one of the others, in some confusion, not until now having heard anything over the hissing kettles. “Who’s fallen in th’ river?”
    The baron, neither so starved nor tired to have completely lost his wits, replies, “I have! I mean, I did!”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Who did what?”
    “It is I, the baron,” he answers, which vagueness seemed sufficient for the women. He had a title and that is that.
    “Sorry sir, y’r lordship, I dint reckernize you in all o’ this steam. What can we do for y’r worship?”
    “Can I get some clean clothes? Can’t run around the palace like this, can I?”
    “No, sir! Y’r worship, sir. That is, I mean, I certainly wouldn’t think that you’d care to!”
    “Begging y’r pardon, y’r lordship,” puts in a thin voice from one foggy corner, “but hasn’t you clean clothes in y’r chambers?”
    “Ah, yes . . . indeed I do, or would have, that is. You see, I is planmng to leave today and I have all of my things sent down to the docks, to meet my ship. In my trunks. All packed. I is only taking a last-minute stroll around the lovely grounds of your charming palace when, well, accidents will happen, you know,” he finishes disingenuously.
    “How did y’r worship find himself here , of all places?”
    “Hazel!” chides one of her companions in labor. “You mustn’t be askin’ his worship all o’ these questions! It’s terrible rude!”
    “I am lost,” he answers, blessing the speaker and hoping that the unseen one would heed the advice.
    “Begging y’r worship’s pardon, I’m sure.”
    “Anything will do,” says the baron, bringing the conversation back to its original course. “How about these things?” He picks a bundle fiom a nearby table. “These should do just fine.”
    “Them’s the chamberlain’s things. I don’t know if I oughtta ‘low anyone to take those .”
    “Nonsense! Lord Roelt and I are like brothers. His gratitude will probably know no bounds when he learns how you helped me. As I shall be sure to let him know.”
    “Really, y’r worship?” simpers the maid. “You won’t get me in no trouble, would you?”
    “Of course not! Why, you will have done me an excellent favor, and I am certain that Lord Roelt will consider that any favor done for as good a friend as I will be as good as placing an obligation upon himself.”
    “Oh, my,” says the maid, while trying to work out the sense of that.
    “In simpler terms, Lord Roelt will owe you a favor in return!”
    “Oh, my! ” she cries, considerably flustered, while her companions coo in astonishment and envy.
    Taking advantage, the baron asks quietly, “Is there someplace where I can change?”
    He is directed to an adjoining janitor’s closet where he quickly peels off his prison garments and stuffs them into a galvanized waste can. There is a sink in the closet, and a slab of coarse soap, and he takes the opportunity to clean himself. There is no towel, so he gladly uses one of Payne’s dress shirts. Among the clothes he has taken are evidently Ferenc’s tennis costumes, though the baron can scarcely imagine the king being so physically active. No doubt the clothes are simply worn to garden parties and the like. In any case, they consist of a pair of white duck trousers, white shirt and some underthings. There are, naturally, neither socks nor shoes, but what the hell.
    The baron exits the closet and quickly crosses the steamy, vague room, the laundresses stared curiously,