A Christmas Waltz. Jane Goodger

I also need a maid.”

      “A maid? My mother does maid stuff.”

      “No, a personal maid. You will do my hair, help me change. Take care of my clothing. Make certain it is fresh and the wrinkles removed.” Amelia shrugged. “I’ve been making do, but most of my gowns are simply impossible to put on by myself, never mind my good corset, which laces in the back.”

      Dulce shook her head, her eyes incredulous. “You want me to dress you?”

      “Well, yes. To assist me,” she said, feeling somehow ridiculous for wanting such a basic thing. “Look at this dress,” she said, opening her trunk and taking it out. It was a lovely gown, made for her London Season by one of the best dressmakers in town. She held up the deep blue silk gown, and turned it round to show Dulce the intricate back held together by tiny buttons. “I could never get this on or off without assistance.”

      “We don’t have fancy dances around here where you could even wear such a thing,” Dulce said, eyeing the gown as if it were made of rat fur instead of the finest washed silk. Amelia could already see that Dulce didn’t put much thought into her own wardrobe. She wore a loose blousy top and a plain brown skirt, but she looked hardly ordinary. There was something wild about Dulce, some underlying smoldering heat that was difficult to pinpoint. She had the look of what her brother would have called a “tart.”

      “Oh,” Amelia said, looking down at the gown, which was one of her favorites. “Practically the only dress I have that doesn’t button in the back, besides the few I’ve been wearing, is my riding habit.”

      “You have a special dress for riding a horse?”

      Amelia dug through her things to find her favorite article of clothing, her dark green wool riding habit. She loved its smart looking jacket, with its wide shawl collar and sleeves that puffed near the shoulder and narrowed on her wrist. She wore the cutest little top hat with it and felt so jaunty and unconventional, and she’d pictured herself many times riding beside Carson in his fancy cowboy gear.

      “Of course. Isn’t it lovely?” she asked, holding it up for the skeptical Dulce to see. “I’m not very good at riding, but I’ve been practicing so that I might be able to keep up with Mr. Kitteridge.”

      “Waste of cloth if you ask me.”

      “I didn’t,” Amelia said, with a flash of anger showing in her eyes. “If you could hang up all my dresses and take care of my things, that would be lovely.” She was done trying to make polite conversation with this difficult woman.

      “What are you going to be doing?” Dulce asked, completely taking Amelia aback. Clearly this girl had never before been hired as a servant—and Amelia had never before been confronted with such hostility from an employee.

      “I’m going to be doing whatever I please,” she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing Dulce frown fiercely. Amelia was normally an exceedingly polite young woman, but she’d had quite enough of Dulce’s criticism and hostility.

      She walked from the room, trying to look like a queen, but the anger flushing her cheeks ruined the effect entirely, she realized. She didn’t know why the girl rubbed her the wrong way, but she did. Perhaps she should try to be more patient with her—and act slightly less rigid. It was clear that the behavior of servants was not the same here in this land.

      As she walked down the hall, she realized she was still wearing the same dress she’d had on all day. It was a wrinkled mess, with a fringe of dust along the edge of the skirt. Amelia frowned, knowing she couldn’t return to her room now and ask Dulce to help her dress for dinner.

      The apartment part of the building was simply a long hallway that stretched back toward the courtyard from the mercantile. On either side of the hall was a series of doors that led no doubt to other bedrooms. When she found herself at the back entry to the store without having encountered another soul or even another room, Amelia stopped, turned, and looked back, thinking she’d somehow missed something. There was nothing to do but begin opening doors and pray she did not walk into someone’s bedroom.

      When she opened the first door nearest the garden, she smiled. It was the kitchen and it was completely empty. Her stomach rumbled as she looked around for someone preparing food. But no, she was completely alone.

      Amelia had not grown up in a wealthy home, but she’d always had a few servants running about: a maid, a cook, and a housekeeper. Her family had been poor compared to the way her friends had lived because her father had been a second son. Her brother had inherited the earldom only after their childless uncle had died.

      Still, Amelia was not used to fending for herself. Stealing pastries from Cook’s tray was her only experience foraging for food. She stepped into the room and began looking into cupboards.

      “You won’t find anything,” Dulce said cheerfully from the door. “At least nothing fancy.”

      “Do you know what time they dine?” Amelia asked, ignoring the way the other girl was attempting, rather poorly, not to smile.

      “I have no idea when they dine,” she said, putting stress on the last word as if she somehow found it offensive. “But I do know if they did, they would have done it already. It’s nearly eight o’clock.”

      Amelia stared at the empty kitchen with a certain amount of dismay. Eight o’clock was when she usually dined at home, and often later if they were eating out at another estate.

      “Where is everyone? Where are Carson and Boone?”

      Dulce shrugged. “I’m going to bed. You’re all unpacked. And if you hear screaming, don’t worry, it’s just Boone.”

      She said the words with a certain amount of glee, as if she were trying to frighten Amelia. Still, Amelia couldn’t resist asking, “Why would he scream?”

      “The devil visits him at night,” Dulce said, a wicked gleam in her eye. Then she shrugged, as if knowing she wasn’t frightening her listener. “He has nightmares. Wakes Carson up near every night when he’s here.”

      “I’m certain I won’t be disturbed. Good night.” Amelia didn’t think it was possible that the girl had managed to hang and fold everything neatly, but she didn’t say anything. Suddenly, Amelia felt a fierce longing for home, for the polished marble floors, the thick velvet drapes, the smell of flowers blooming madly outside her window. She missed the bustle and politeness of efficient servants, her brother’s friendly banter, the laughter and general noise of her little cousins.

      Amelia had spent much of her childhood utterly alone. Her older sister had died when she was eight, her parents when she was twelve. Her brother, Edward, had gone into the military because there was no other way to respectably make a living. Of course, their uncle, the earl, had been kept oblivious to any of their financial worries, her brother’s pride knowing no limits.

      But Amelia hadn’t minded being part of the poor gentry. They’d had enough income from their rather sad estate to support a small staff and the upkeep of their home. She’d never felt poor or deprived. But, Lord, she had felt lonely. Her brother came home when he could, but his visits seemed few and far between. She grew up in a household of elderly servants who hadn’t a clue how to make a young girl happy.

      When her brother inherited not only the earldom but also his stepaunt’s six children, Amelia had been ecstatic. Finally, she had a family, someone to talk to. She wished more times than she could remember that everything could stay the same, that she would remain a young girl surrounded by children and an adoring stepaunt. She’d never been happier in her life—until she’d met Carson.

      It had been perfect. Her brother was getting married, her stepaunt and her cousins were moving into their own lovely little estate, and she was going to Texas to start her own life, her own family. Because more than anything in the world, Amelia didn’t want to be left alone, an afterthought, the extra wheel that really didn’t belong.

      She swallowed down the burning in her throat, squeezing her fists in disgust that she had allowed