Rags-To-Riches Wife. Catherine Tinley

if you like. We have three of them in the one room, with a spare bed free.’

      A perfectly suitable arrangement! Jane breathed a sigh of relief.

      Mr Kendal, however, was not to be diverted so easily.

      ‘Or Miss Bailey could have the bedchamber and I could sleep somewhere else.’

      Jane gasped. ‘I am quite content with the innkeeper’s suggestion, sir. I am well used to sharing a bedchamber with other female servants.’

      His gaze swivelled towards her, grey eyes meeting blue. ‘But...’ He frowned. ‘It does not seem right.’

       Has he forgotten I am a serving maid?

      ‘It is entirely reasonable, sir.’

      He looked confused, then nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you have the right of it.’ He turned back to the landlord. ‘Very well. I should also like a private parlour for dinner.’

      ‘Yes, sir. That I have got.’

      The innkeeper’s relief was palpable. Taking a key from a cupboard behind him, and a lighted candlestick from the table, he led Mr Kendal up a twisting narrow staircase to the upper floor. Jane trailed behind, hovering on the narrow landing as Mr Kendal followed the innkeeper into his allocated bedchamber.

      The landlord lit a branch of tall wax candles from his single one, casting warm light around the room. Moving to the fireplace, he lit the fire that had been set there. From her position in the dark corridor Jane glanced around. The chamber looked spacious, comfortable and clean.

      ‘Would it please you to dine in one hour, sir?’ The innkeeper paused, awaiting his guest’s response.

      Mr Kendal consulted his pocket watch. ‘Very well. Er... Miss Bailey?’

      Jane started. She moved to the doorway. ‘Yes, sir?’

      ‘I shall expect you to dine with me.’

      ‘Yes, Mr Kendal.’

      He frowned. ‘That is to say I should like to request that you dine with me.’

      Jane’s brow creased in bewilderment. What was the difference? ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘But, no, I...’ He glanced at the landlord, whose puzzled expression mirrored Jane’s own. ‘Never mind.’

      Jane considered the matter as she followed the landlord to the servants’ quarters, but was unable to fathom Mr Kendal’s meaning.

      ‘Here you go, miss.’ The innkeeper opened the door at the top of the attic stairs and stepped inside.

      Jane followed, shivering as a blast of icy air hit her.

      ‘A bit draughty in here, mind, but once all the others are in here with you it will soon warm up. They are all busy below, and shall be until around ten o’clock.’ He lit a small tallow candle, which sputtered in the draught. ‘This bed is free.’ He pointed to a slightly stained pallet—the second in a row of four to Jane’s left. ‘I shall send up a sheet and a blanket for you later.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      The door closed behind him and Jane sank down onto the thin pallet. Oh, how she ached from being stuck in the jolting carriage for most of the day! The pallet was nothing to her comfortable bed at Ledbury House, but was typical of servants’ accommodation in less wholesome establishments.

      Reaching for the tallow candle, she carefully inspected the pallet for lice and fleas. There were none visible, which gave her some hope. They might not survive in a room this cold.

      She shivered again. Nor might I!

      Carefully she searched in her bandbox for her woollen stockings and put them on, on top of the thin pair she was already wearing. Keeping her cloak on, she wrapped it tightly about her, but decided to remove her bonnet as the straw was beginning to scratch at her scalp.

      Drawing the hood of her cloak up, she concentrated on watching her breath fog the air in front of her and, despite the cold, on enjoying not being in a moving carriage.

      Finally—thankfully—she judged that almost an hour had passed, based on the tallow candle having shrunk to half its length. She unfolded her legs and stood up slowly. Since sunset the temperature had kept on dropping. There would be a sharp frost in the morning.

      With some regret, she removed her cloak, folded it, and left it on the pallet.

      The thought of seeing Mr Kendal again made her heart skip momentarily. She could not quite divine why it was behaving so erratically.

      As she descended she could feel the air getting warmer. By the time she had reached the ground floor there was a welcome warmth which danced on her skin and heated the air in her lungs.

      One of the chambermaids showed her to Mr Kendal’s private parlour. He had not yet arrived. Jane made straight for the fireplace, which boasted a small but cheerful fire. Hurrying across the room, she held her frozen hands out towards it. It surely was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen!

      The door opened and closed behind her, sending a puff of smoke billowing out into the room. It must be him! Briefly, the heat reached all the way to her elbows, then subsided again.

      She turned. ‘Good evening, sir.’ Her voice sounded normal. Good. At least her stuttering heart had not revealed itself in her tone.

      Mr Kendal had changed his clothing for dinner. She could not resist running her eyes over his fine figure.

      ‘Good evening, Miss Bailey.’

      He frowned, causing her to run a nervous hand over her hair, wondering if she were untidy. There had been, of course, no looking glass in the attic. At her back, slight heat from the fire began to penetrate through her dress and thin shift. Strangely, and most inconveniently, she now began to shiver. But she was warming up. It made no sense.

      He strode towards her, peering into her face. He was still frowning. ‘Miss Bailey,’ he announced. ‘Your lips are blue.’

      She brought a hand up to touch her mouth. ‘Th-they are?’

      He nodded grimly. ‘Give me your hand.’

      She obeyed instinctively. He took her right hand, then the left, but she could barely feel his touch. With a muffled exclamation he wrapped both his hands around hers, rubbing gently.

      ‘You foolish girl! You are half-frozen!’

      ‘Oh, n-no!’ she lied. ‘I am j-just a little chilled.’

      ‘Your teeth are chattering, your hands are like ice, and your lips are as blue as—as your eyes,’ he muttered. ‘How on earth did you get so cold? Have you been outside?’

      ‘No! Of course not!’ His eyes bored into hers. ‘I have been in my chamber.’

      His lips pressed into a single angry line. Releasing her hands, he walked to the table and drew forward a stout wooden chair. The stiffness in his spine and the set of his shoulders displayed his irritation. Arranging the chair directly in front of the fire, he bade her sit.

      She did so, anxiously aware that she had displeased him. Schooled her entire life to be complaisant, obedient, and most of all unobtrusive, she was aware that right now she was being much too visible.

      Without a word, he left the room, closing the door gently and carefully behind him. She shuddered at this evidence of his carefully banked anger.

      Oh, no, he meant to speak to the landlord!

      Unhelpfully, at that precise moment her mind decided to entertain her with the memory of a previous occasion on which she had caused trouble for those around her. It had been four years ago, when Lady Kingswood—then living under a false name—had been working as governess to Lady Cecily, Lord Kingswood’s ward. Jane had inadvertently revealed that the governess was not, as His Lordship had believed, Anne Bolton, but Miss Marianne. This had