A bustle in the room made her drop her hands and look up. A male servant had deposited a hip bath on a towel before the fireplace, and a maid was pouring water into it from a can of steaming water.
‘Now, Milly,’ Mrs Hoskins was saying sternly. ‘You are not to pepper His Grace’s intended with a lot of impertinent questions. She’s been through a terrible ordeal, as anyone can see.’
Both Milly and Sam darted a glance to where she was sitting, trembling and probably ashen-faced because she’d realised what she’d done, and adopted similarly sympathetic expressions.
Which made her cringe. If they only knew how outrageously she’d behaved they’d be sorely tempted to eject her from the property. As swiftly as possible. Which made her wish she wasn’t sitting quite so close to the convenient mode of exit a window might afford a brace of scandalised servants.
‘I’ll leave you with Milly now,’ said Mrs Hoskins. ‘She’s not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but she’s a good girl.’ Mrs Hoskins shot the blushing maid a stern, meaningful look before bustling out of the room, taking the male servant with her.
Milly dropped a curtsey. ‘Sam will be bringing up some more hot water shortly,’ she said. ‘But don’t you worry he’ll come in here a-gawping at you, for I shan’t let him. He’ll leave it at the door. So if you want to get started...?’
She must look dreadful for everyone to be so insistent on getting her into a bath. And she probably smelled dreadful, too, since she’d not had an opportunity to bathe or change her clothes for a couple of days.
‘I would like to get out of this dress and get clean,’ she admitted. Though no amount of bathing and tidying was going to change who she was underneath. ‘But I don’t have anything to change into.’
‘Oh, Mrs Hoskins explained about your luggage getting stolen. It must have been that frightening!’ Milly’s eyes were round, in a mix of horror and fascination. ‘Thank goodness His Grace was at hand to rescue you and bring you here.’
Was that the story circulating around the servants’ hall? Typical! Men would do anything to save face. He’d rather let people think he’d been doing something akin to rescuing a damsel in distress than for anyone to suspect that what he’d really been doing was...was...going to any lengths to win some stupid wager.
‘Mrs Hoskins will be bringing you my Sunday best, miss,’ said Milly as she unlaced Prudence’s gown and helped her out of her chemise.
The girl said nothing about her lack of corset, or the coarse weave of her stockings, though she couldn’t help wrinkling her nose as she rolled the whole lot into a bundle and took it over to the door, where she dropped it on the one patch of board that wasn’t covered by expensive carpet. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn they were going straight to the bonfire, rather than the laundry.
Prudence stepped into the bath and sat down, hugging her knees to her chest.
‘I do hope you like the gown,’ said Milly. ‘I know it won’t be what you’re used to, but Mrs Hoskins insisted, since I’m nearer to you in size than anyone else here.’
Prudence had a short but horrible vision of trying to make do with one of Lady Mixby’s gowns.
‘I’m very grateful to you for lending it to me,’ said Prudence with complete honesty. Even a servant’s Sunday best was far better than what she’d been wearing.
‘Oh, I ain’t lending it! His Grace is going to buy it off me. For five guineas—can you imagine? Why, I’ll be able to get three new gowns, a bonnet and gloves for that. I mean,’ she added, going red in the face, ‘I beg pardon, my lady. I forgot I’m not supposed to gabble on. Mrs Hoskins said as how you’re used to having a properly trained ladies’ maid, and how I was to mind my tongue, but as usual it’s run away with me. There I go again!’
Why was it that everyone kept talking about what she was ‘used to’? How did they know what she was used to? Nobody had asked. They just kept assuming she must be a fine lady, because only a fine lady would be entitled to marry a duke.
And she’d done nothing to correct their assumptions, had she? Because she didn’t want anyone thinking she was a designing hussy who’d got her claws into their duke while he was travelling about the country under the name of Willingale, dressed like some kind of tradesman.
‘His Grace is going to have Mrs Bennet—that’s our village dressmaker—come and bring you some fresh things in the morning, and measure you up for whatever else you may need,’ said Milly, vigorously soaping a washcloth. ‘Shall I do your back first, my lady? Or your hair?’