“I haven’t,” Clarissa admitted.
“Is there chicken left from last night?” Mrs. Warbler asked Jane.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Excellent. We will prepare quite a late breakfast for you, Clarissa. Now, you run up the stairs and see to your needs. You know where to go. Dierdre, please join us,” Mrs. Warbler said to Mrs. Summerall. “I shall grab the sherry bottle.”
And that is exactly what she did.
When Clarissa returned feeling much better for warm water and a lovely-scented soap, she found the table was set and her friends waited for her. Mrs. Warbler poured a too-generous glass of sherry for Clarissa. The bread was still warm.
“Eat, eat. We don’t stand on ceremony here. You know that,” Mrs. Warbler said.
The food tasted delicious, even the cold chicken. However, once her appetite was not the first thing on her mind, Clarissa knew she had to be honest.
“I was sacked,” she announced bluntly, wanting them to understand they should not be so happy to see her. She had shamed them.
Mrs. Warbler pressed the sherry glass into Clarissa’s hand, wrapping her fingers around it. “Emerald Emsdale is known for the abrupt departures of her employees. You are not the first. You will not be the last. Drink.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Clarissa asked.
“And jinx you? No, I wouldn’t do that. Besides, you didn’t have any references. You had to start somewhere. And now, not another word until you have finished that sherry.”
Clarissa would have preferred a cup of tea. Still, she did as ordered and gave the sherry a sip. It tasted good. Before she knew it, she’d drained the glass.
Mrs. Warbler refilled it.
Clarissa drained the second glass as well.
“Elizabeth,” Mrs. Summerall said, “perhaps a good cup of tea is in order.”
“Except sherry has edifying properties,” Mrs. Warbler countered, sipping her own third drink. She did adore her sherry.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Summerall answered. “Except you do want to hear her story, don’t you?”
“Jane, brew tea.” Mrs. Warbler twisted in her chair to face Clarissa. “Now, what happened? Because I know you, my dear. There is no way you didn’t try your best.”
“I did and yet it was never good enough.”
“I warned you she was a sour one. Emerald has always nitpicked and complained. Even in school. I don’t believe she is happy unless she is unhappy.”
“You did warn me and I believed I could please her.” There was some validity to Clarissa’s belief. She’d always been able to ingratiate herself to even the most difficult of people. She had a skill for it.
Twenty-four years ago, Clarissa had been abandoned as a newborn on St. Martyr’s step. Old Reverend Taylor and his wife had adopted her, and they had been more than kind. However, they had also reminded her that she’d been one of the lucky ones. She could have been sent to a foundling home. Instead, she’d spent the bulk of her life serving the needs of the parish as a minister’s daughter. That meant being sweet and thoughtful, anticipating the needs of others at all times, and carefully blending in wherever she was. When the Taylors had died, the matrons had found a place for her with Squire Nelson and his family. They had also arranged for a husband. Clarissa was no fool. She knew they had badgered Mr. Thurlowe into making an offer. Unfortunately, all their efforts had been for naught.
Still, what better training could one ask for a hired companion?
“Were you ever successful at pleasing her?” Mrs. Summerall asked.
“Oh, yes,” Clarissa said, smiling gratefully to Jane as the maid delivered a cup of strongly brewed tea. While the sherry had been restorative, it had also made her head spin a little. Jane had also thoughtfully brought another plate of bread. “Mrs. Emsdale claimed she had never had a companion who was so attentive.”
Clarissa had taken pride in that compliment, even though working for the old woman had meant almost stupefying boredom in between the rudest comments. A more cantankerous, difficult person one could hope never to meet. Mrs. Emsdale could be up a good part of the night and expect Clarissa to read to her or to play cards. During the day, Mrs. Emsdale spent her hours tatting lace and issuing numerous silly orders such as Move that vase to the left, Clarissa. No, you went too far. Move it back. I didn’t mean all the way back. To the left, and so on and so forth until Clarissa could have politely screamed.
But she didn’t share this with Mrs. Warbler and Mrs. Summerall lest they think poorly of her. Instead, she waited for the question she knew they were going to ask . . . and Mrs. Warbler did not disappoint her.
“So, why did she let you go?”
Clarissa took another sip of tea, and then said, “Mrs. Emsdale has a grandson she is very fond of—”
“Warner,” Mrs. Warbler injected, sitting back and crossing her arms.
“Warner?” Mrs. Summerall echoed.
“A little toad of a man. She sent him to the duchess last year, hoping she could convince Her Grace to encourage Winderton to recommend him for a position in government.” She referred to Lucy, the Dowager Duchess of Winderton, another of the Matrons of Maidenshop. The Winderton they spoke of was the current duke. “Her Grace said the lad is stupid.”
“Oh, he is,” Clarissa assured them. “And mean. Except, she dotes on him.”
“What did he do?” Mrs. Warbler asked as if she already knew.
Clarissa felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I never encouraged him.”
Mrs. Warbler placed a reassuring hand on Clarissa’s arm. “None of us believes you would.”
“He was very forward in his intentions,” Clarissa said. “However, never in front of his grandmother. I mean, the other servants saw, but they said nothing, even when he made me very uncomfortable.”
“Of course he was rude,” Mrs. Warbler said. “What can one expect of someone named Warner?”
Clarissa relaxed slightly, encouraged that her friends seemed ready to believe her. The rest of the story came pouring out. “I refused his advances. Repeatedly. Then, the other night, I went to my bed and he was in it. Without clothes.” She wished she could erase the image from her mind.
“The outrage,” Mrs. Summerall said stoutly.
“Impudent,” Mrs. Warbler pronounced, her lips curling in disgust. “A very unattractive feature in a man.”
“It was all unattractive,” Clarissa admitted.
Mrs. Summerall leaned forward. “What happened?” Even Jane lingered by the table for the rest of the story.
“I ordered him to leave,” Clarissa answered. “Instead, he jumped off the bed and attacked me.”
Mrs. Summerall grabbed her heart in alarm. Jane gasped. Mrs. Warbler’s brows came together as she asked, “What did you do?”
“I ran. I opened the door and went out in the hall. He followed me. He tried to grab my arm and drag me back in. I pushed him and rushed to the door at the end of the hall, the one that separated the servants’ quarters from the family’s rooms. I opened it and saw he was going to follow. The door opens to the inside. I slammed it shut as hard as I could—” She broke off, almost overwhelmed by the memory. “He grabbed the door to stop me.” She looked to the other women, begging for their understanding.