After six months in Lady Stockhard’s employ, Marta had learned enough English to follow whatever instructions might be given.

She disliked Miss Millicent almost as much as she liked Lady Daisy. The young woman treated her mother with contempt. “One might think you prefer the company of servants to that of peers, Mother.”

“I like everyone.”

“Everyone is not worthy. Did you have to talk to the gardener in the front yard?”

“His name is Welton, Millicent, and he’s part of the family.”

“It’s about time tea arrived!” she complained. “The point is, everyone in the neighborhood saw you. What will people think?”

“That I’m talking to my gardener.”

“You’re impossible.” Miss Millicent treated her mother like a recalcitrant child. Leaning forward, she looked at the tiered dishes and groaned. “Egg and watercress sandwiches again, Mother. Cook knows I prefer spicy chicken and currant brioches. And it would be nice to have chocolate éclairs more often than once a month.”

Marta positioned the trolley and set the silver tea service on the table, closer to Lady Stockhard than her daughter, turning the handle so her lady could easily grasp it. She felt Miss Millicent’s cold glare. When Marta put the tiered dishes within easy reach as well, Lady Daisy smiled at her. “Thank you, Marta.”

“The girl doesn’t know how to set a table.” Miss Millicent rose enough to reach across and grasp the teapot. Pouring herself a cup of tea, she returned the pot to where Marta had placed it. Then she proceeded to fill her plate with sandwich wedges, sponge drops with jam, and cream-filled strawberry meringues. “No one needs to talk to a gardener for longer than a few minutes, Mother, and you were outside for the better part of an hour. Do you have any idea what people will say about that?” She sat and put an entire sponge drop into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged as she chewed.

Lady Stockhard poured her own tea. “People always talk, Millicent.” She added a bit of cream and two scoops of sugar. “If they have nothing to talk about, they’ll invent something.”

“They won’t have to invent a thing. It doesn’t even occur to you how I feel, does it? How can I show my face outside the front door when my mother is the scandal of the neighborhood?”

Fuming, Marta returned to the kitchen. “Miss Millicent wants spicy chicken sandwiches tomorrow.”

“If I make spicy chicken, she’ll want something else. There’s no pleasing her.”

“I’m surprised Miss Millicent receives so many invitations.”

“She can be quite charming when she has reason to be. And I understand she can be quite pleasing to young men.” Enid shrugged. “I’ll be needing more carrots and another onion. Why don’t you go on out to the garden? You look like you could use a breath of fresh air. But don’t be long. Her Highness will be wanting the tea things removed from the parlor. She’s invited guests for dinner.”

Miss Millicent stayed home for two months, then left again.

“She must love to travel.”

Enid gave a snort. “She’s gone hunting. And I don’t mean foxes.”

“What, then?”

“Miss Millicent is off on another one of her husband-hunting expeditions. It’s Brighton this time because she heard a friend has a brother who’s eligible. She’ll be home in a few weeks, disappointed. She’ll be moody and disagreeable, and she’ll stuff herself with scones and marmalade, cakes and spicy chicken sandwiches. Then, she’ll start writing letters again, and she’ll keep writing until someone invites her to come for a visit on the Continent or in Stratford-upon-Avon or in Cornwall. She meets people everywhere she goes, and she keeps their names and addresses.”

Enid’s prophecy proved true. Miss Millicent came home after two weeks, and she stayed in her room for another, demanding that all her meals be brought to her. Marta would find her propped up in bed, reading Jane Austen romances. After exhausting the staff with constant demands, she went off to Dover to visit a sick friend.

“I heard her tell Lady Daisy the lady must be on her deathbed,” Marta told Enid. “The vicar comes to visit several times a week.”

“A vicar, you say? Well, maybe Miss Millicent is beginning to see the light and lowering her standards. But if the man has a lick of sense, he’ll heed the apostle Paul’s advice and remain unmarried!”

Miss Millicent returned in a foul temper.

Lady Daisy ordered beef Wellington. Enid clucked her tongue as she iced a chocolate cake. “Things must not have gone well in Dover. No big surprise there. Miss Millicent will be off again soon enough, to Brighton or Cambridge.”

Millicent didn’t spend a week in her room this time. She lounged in the conservatory, regaling her mother with complaints. “It’s a perfectly horrid place, Mother. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in that cold, dreary place.”

“Did you attend church with Susanna?”

“Of course, but I didn’t like the vicar at all. For all his kind attention to Susanna, he was quite dull.”

Back in the kitchen, Enid sighed. “More likely she tossed out her line and didn’t even get a bite.”

Another letter came from Rosie. She had married Arik, and she expected to be blissfully happy for the rest of her life. She wished the same to Marta, who felt a sense of loss and envy. Ashamed she could resent such happiness, Marta prayed God would bless them and spent a month’s salary on white lawn, Irish lace, satin ribbons, silk embroidery thread, needles, and a hoop. While others slept, Marta sat in an alcove with a candle burning and made a dressing gown fit for a princess. It took two months to finish it.

I have never worn anything so beautiful in my life! Even my wedding dress could not compare. I have wonderful news. Arik and I expect a baby to arrive just before our first anniversary.

I can’t express to you how happy I am. I pray God will bless you with happiness, too, Marta. I pray you will meet someone you can love as much as I love Arik.

Marta folded the letter away and added it to the growing bundle. Love could be a two-edged sword. What guarantee was there that it would be returned? Solange and Rosie had been blessed by the men they loved. Mama had not been so fortunate. Marta began work on a christening gown and bonnet.

10

A strained ambivalence took hold of Marta. She continued to save money, but she stopped making grandiose plans about having her own boardinghouse. She tried to follow Mama’s advice and count her blessings. She had grown deeply fond of Lady Daisy and enjoyed being her companion. She respected and had great affection for Enid. She liked Welton, and she had befriended Gabriella, the new girl from Italy. Marta set herself the task of learning Italian while teaching her English. Life was good enough in Lady Stockhard’s household. Why change things?

Marta had collected the best of Enid’s recipes and tucked away the book Rosie had given her. She didn’t write letters to Rosie as often as she had during her first three years away from Steffisburg. Rosie’s letters still arrived with regularity, filled with glowing words about Arik and going on and on about every little change in baby Henrik. And now she expected another. Rosie had always been a wonderful friend, but there was an unconscious insensitivity in the way she shared her joy. Each time Marta read one of her letters, she felt as though salt were being poured over her wounds.

She could almost empathize with Miss Millicent’s increasing frustration over not finding a suitable husband.

Every Sunday when Marta went to church, she imagined Mama sitting beside her. She prayed God would have mercy on Elise’s soul. Although the dreams had stopped after a year, she sometimes longed for them to return, afraid she was already forgetting Mama’s and Elise’s faces. The ache remained like a heavy stone inside her. Occasionally, unexpectedly, the grief would swell up and catch hold of her throat until she felt she was choking on it. She never cried in front of anyone. She waited, searching desperately for something to do to keep her mind occupied. At night, she had no defenses. In the dark, she felt free to release the pent-up pain inside her.

When she couldn’t sleep, she borrowed another book from Lady Daisy’s library.

Time passed most pleasantly when Miss Millicent was off on one of her hunting expeditions, far less amiably when the miss languished at home. Marta liked having Lady Daisy all to herself. She thought Miss Millicent the most foolish girl she had ever met to take her mother so for granted. Lady Daisy had entered her declining years. Someday she would be gone. Who would love Miss Millicent then?

A year passed and then another. Marta took comfort in her routine. She got up early every morning and helped Enid prepare breakfast, then did housekeeping chores with Gabriella. Every afternoon, rain or shine, she took Lady Daisy on an outing to Kew Gardens. If Miss Millicent was home, Gabriella did the running to and fro. Marta wrote once a month to Rosie, though she had less and less to tell her friend.

Often after everyone had gone to bed, Marta would sit in the library and read. One night Lady Daisy found her standing by the shelves. “What have you been reading?” She held out her hand, and Marta handed over the book she had intended to return. “The Battle for Gaul by Julius Caesar.” She chuckled. “Rather grim reading, don’t you think? Certainly not something I would ever choose.” She smiled at Marta. “It was one of Clive’s favorites.” She handed the book back to Marta, and Marta slid it back into its place. Lady Daisy pulled a slim volume from a shelf. “I prefer Lord Tennyson’s poems.” She held it out to Marta. “Why don’t you take this with you tomorrow when we go to the gardens?”