While I would adore a future where I could draw a bath at a whim or flick a switch and have a hearth magically ignite, I would happily forgo those creature comforts for one where a man could be a housekeeper or a woman a stable-hand, if they so desired.
That is, I decide, what has happened in this future. Not industrial advances but social ones. And if anyone were to hire a male housekeeper—or male nanny—it would be the Thornes.
That does, however, still raise the question of what I am to do about this unexpected resident. I still need to borrow clothing and orient myself in the future world before I leave the house, and yet I cannot remain with someone here.
I will begin by confirming that it is indeed a member of the indoor staff. Otherwise, if it is a groundskeeper or stable-hand, I need but wait for his departure.
I take the steps one at a time, all the while tracking the noises, which emanate from the kitchen, further suggesting a housekeeper. He seems to be fixing lunch, the curse coming when he dropped something.
I consider my routes. Then I crouch down, waddling duck-like into the parlor. Thorne Manor is not overly large. It is, after all, a summer house, though the Thornes have made it their year-round abode. The large country parlor leads into the kitchen at the back of the house, and I position myself behind the sofa and adjust until I am on an angle to see through the open kitchen door and—
Oh, my. That is a sight.
2
Were I to hire a male housekeeper, his appearance would not play into my decision, no more than if I were hiring a stableboy. I know many a lord of the manor who insists on “helping” choose house maids. Even if they do not intend to prey on them, they choose the pretty ones as they might choose a pleasing piece of art. It is pleasant to gaze upon and reflects well on their taste. Some women also take a hand in choosing grooms and valets. That is equating people with possessions, which is undeniably wrong. If I were to choose a male housekeeper, I would do so based entirely on his skills.
That is real life. In books, though, there is a place for the handsome groom in tight riding trousers who will ask if there is any other way he can be of service to his lady, and that lady, if she is possessed of my imagination, will know endless ways they might enjoy one another’s company, so long as he is equally enamored of the idea because otherwise . . . Well, I cannot see the appeal of “otherwise”—of a groom who would only offer because he felt obligated. No, in a proper romantic novel, he must be as enthusiastic about the idea as I am. Er, as the lady of the house is, I mean.
The point is that, if I were to conjure up a fantastical male housekeeper, the man in the kitchen would fill that role in every physical way. Tall and well-built with his sleeves rolled up to show leanly muscled forearms. A perfectly sculpted jawline. I am very fond of jawlines, being more fond only of eyes, and from what I can see, his are the richest brown. Dark curled hair cut very short. His skin is also dark, and I have no fetish about that—I’ve known women who do—but nor do I care what color the covering on such a fine-looking man. It does, however, make me reflect that if the future is forward-thinking enough to cast men in the role of housekeeper, one might also think it would cast darker skinned people in roles other than household staff, but I suppose even the future cannot be perfect.
While I can see enough of the man to know I would like to keep gazing on him indefinitely, he is still partly cast in shadow, and I can make out only his upper body as he sits, eating his lunch. While something about him seems familiar, I cannot imagine what it is, and I decide he must vaguely remind me of someone I’ve met.
He is not so much eating his lunch as devouring it with a gusto that makes me hunger for something other than food.
Enough of that, Miranda. You may indulge in such thoughts later, when seeking inspiration for your next novel. The point is that this man is the Thorne’s housekeeper and . . .
And why am I so certain he’s the housekeeper?
That was an arbitrary role I’d assigned him when I first heard noises. Yet now I’m looking upon the man and . . . I don’t see a housekeeper.
He’s sitting at a work table in the kitchen, where he’s pulled over a stool as a seat. He’s plowing through thick pieces of bread stuffed with meat. There’s a cup at his side and from here I can smell ale. When I glance under the table, I note a remarkable pair of boots, with gleaming coppery buckles.
Those boots . . .
Where have I seen—
The man shoves back the stool with a squeak. When I glance up, I still can’t make him out entirely, but there is something very familiar hanging at his side.
Is that a sword?
I blink and pull back. Mere moments ago, I’d been inwardly joking about dwellers of the future carrying swords. Now I see one with a sword?
I give my head a shake. I’m mistaken. I must be. That is some modern implement at his side where another might carry a sword. Even in my day one hardly sees them outside of a gymnasium.
I lift my head just as he reaches for something on the table. Something embedded in the table. It’s a bone-handled knife with the tip wedged into the cutting-block tabletop.
That is not a housekeeper, Miranda.
It is a . . .
Well, I’m not certain of the specifics. He is far too well-dressed to be a vagrant, and he does not strike me as a thief. Not a common thief, that is.
He grabs the knife and flips it, nimble and confident, at ease playing with a deadly weapon. He gives it a twirl and then sticks it into a sheath at his side.
A well-dressed, well-groomed man, confidently playing with a knife as if it is a mere tool. A tool of the trade.
Not a common thief, yes, but this is not a common home. One would need to be exceedingly confident to break into a house such as this. And to not only break in but help oneself to lunch.
A gentleman thief.
A highwayman.
My heart does a little flutter even as I hear Portia telling me there is no such thing as a gentleman thief. No real-life Robin Hoods, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. If I ever did meet a highwayman, I’d be vastly disappointed, finding myself in the clutches of a smelly ruffian with filthy fingers plucking at my jewelry.
Perhaps, but that is in the present. Perhaps in the future, such creatures have sprung from the pages of melodrama and taken shape.
Either way, the important part here is that this man is not the housekeeper, and he is in the Thorne’s house, with a knife, while they are in London.
I must drive him out. While there is always the temptation to run at him, a knife in each hand as I snarl in fury, it doesn’t work as well as one might expect, at least not when one is a plump young woman with blond curls and, apparently, an angelic countenance. I have channeled my inner Valkyrie, only to have my opponent dub me “adorably fierce.” He might have meant it as a compliment, but I have never felt so infuriatingly dismissed. Worse yet, he then told me how attractive a quality that was in a woman and asked if he might see me again later, preferably when I was unarmed.
That experience, while still able to rouse a flare of indignation, taught me a valuable lesson. What I see as defects can become assets, if used to my advantage. If men expect me to be wide-eyed and innocent, soft and defenseless, then that is exactly what I shall be . . . right up until I put my blade at their throat. That is the theory anyway. I have yet to put it into practice. Most men that I need to fend off require a kick between the legs more than a blade at the throat, especially when the blade could inflame the very passions I am attempting to discourage.