Second Chance Cinderella. Carla Capshaw

gaze slid back to the mansion. His eyes narrowed on the glossy front door. Curiosity burned in his veins. “Yes, and if you hurry I’ll give you two.”

      Georgie took off at a flat run.

      * * *

      Praying she’d come to the right place, Rose knocked on the kitchen door. Ever since she’d become a Christian eight years ago, she’d relied on the Lord to direct her path. Relying on His guidance eased her mind when the shifting letters and numbers others seemed to read with ease made little sense to her.

      The scuffed black door swung open. “Ye’re late,” said a young, frowning kitchen maid.

      She blinked, surprised to see a woman instead of a footman answer the door. “I know. I apologize. The coach from Paddington station suffered a broken wheel.” Her heart racing from the mad pace she’d kept in her failed attempt to arrive on time, she switched her battered valise to her other hand and descended the final step into the basement. A blast of heat assaulted her along with the aroma of roasted fowl. “I had to walk the last few miles and I lost my way a bit. I came as quick as I could.”

      The door slammed shut behind her as the dour-faced Scot ushered her farther into the entryway. A stone arch separated the small space from the ovens and activity of the kitchen beyond. The harried staff reminded her of the frantic crowds in the maze of streets outside.

      “Then yoo’d best get settled an’ tae work straight awa’,” said the maid. Dressed in a column of black wool and a sullied white apron, the young woman inspected her with a quick, unimpressed glance. “I don’t ken how ye bumpkins in th’ coontry work, but our cook, Mrs. Pickles, isna a body for tardiness or excuses of any kind.”

      Taking exception to being called a bumpkin, Rose bit back a tart reply as she followed the maid down a hallway that led to a spiral staircase. Before leaving Hopewell Manor, the Malbury family’s country estate where she’d been in service for the past eight years, she’d been forewarned of the infamous Mrs. Pickles’s reputation as a taskmaster. It was said the cook ran her kitchen like Wellington at Waterloo and with nearly as many casualties.

      The mere thought of losing her job made Rose’s stomach churn. It was imperative that she make a favorable impression on the irascible woman who held Rose’s job in her hands. Rose was on excellent terms with the staff at Hopewell Manor and only in London for a fortnight to help with a shortage of trained servants in the townhouse kitchen, but that did not mean she couldn’t be dismissed. The tragic death of the previous baron and his wife had put the livelihood of every Malbury employee in jeopardy.

      Apparently, the new baron had inherited the title and lands with very little coin to sustain the expenses that accompanied the prize. His servants worried he planned to terminate long-term staff in favor of importing cheaper, Irish labor. Nothing could be taken for granted, nor a foot placed wrong. She could not afford to be sacked. Finding another position was nigh impossible for anyone and doubly so for a woman in her precarious situation.

      “My name is Rose Smith, by the way,” she said over the banging of pans and calls for more boiling water.

      “Ah be Ina McDonald.”

      “Have you been in service here long?” Rose asked as they reached the third floor.

      “Six months. Five and a half too many if ye ask me. Min’, th’ auld baron an’ baroness were kind enough, but Mrs. Pickles makes every day a sour circumstance.” Ina took a skeleton key from her skirt pocket and unlocked a door across the hall. “Ye’ll be sharin’ quarters wi’ me whilst ye’re here. Keep yer belongings tae yer own side of the room an’ we’ll get on jus’ dandy.”

      Rose found the converted attic similar in size to the room she shared with Andrew at Hopewell Manor. Her former employers had always displayed a unique sense of Christian charity toward their servants’ well-being and the snug space was pleasantly situated. Morning sunlight and a cool breeze streamed through two dormer windows dressed with faded blue curtains. Simple white moldings edged plastered walls painted in a cheerful shade of yellow.

      Three single beds hugged the opposing sides of the room. Ina had claimed the one left of the door and arranged her few belongings with obvious care and neatness in mind.

      “Hurry, if ye ken what’s good fur ye.” Ina headed back to work. In a rush to follow her, Rose moved to the bed nearest the windows and set her valise on the scuffed, but freshly swept wood floor. She would have to make up the bare mattress later.

      She hung her cloak and bonnet on the wall hook at the end of the bed before opening her valise to fish for a fresh apron. The faint hint of talcum clung to the extra work frock, Sunday-best dress and other belongings that filled the case. With no more time to find the small mirror she’d brought, she did her best to repair her hair and repin the long blond tendrils that had bounced free when the coach suffered its broken wheel. She wished she could remove her shoes and rub her throbbing feet. They ached from miles of walking and she had a long day ahead of her.

      As she stood to tie the apron around her waist, she glanced out the window and took in the bird’s-eye view. Amid the colorful parasols and scurry of pedestrians, a tall man on the corner of the square across the street drew her attention. The refined dark business suit and top hat he wore vouched for his importance, but there was a solitary quality about him that she recognized in herself.

      Despite the need to make haste, she remained nailed to the floor. The distance between her perch and the square kept her from seeing the gentleman’s face. She willed him to move closer.

      Instead, the newspaper boy he spoke with darted toward the Malbury townhouse whilst the man turned his back to her and made for one of the ornate, wrought-iron benches set along the gravel path. Tension wafted off him in waves.

      A flock of pigeons scattered like feathers in the wind, jolting Rose from her musings. With no more time to spare, she dragged herself from the window and shut the door behind her as she left the room.

      The stirring of curiosity toward the stranger surprised her. Not since Sam had she noticed a man with any personal interest on her part. After all they’d meant to each other, he’d simply forgotten her. He’d been gone for over a year before she’d given up all hope and admitted to herself that he’d cast her off the same as everyone else in her life had done. In turn, she’d banished him from her heart and mind—or at least tried to.

      “How good of you to join us,” a stern voice said the moment Rose reached the bottom of the stairs. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust well enough to see the gaunt, gray-haired woman in spectacles at the opposite end of the hot, dimly lit corridor.

      “I am the household’s cook, Mrs. Pickles. You shall report to me or the housekeeper, Mrs. Biddle, while you are employed here. Ina informed me your less than punctual arrival this morning is due to the state of the roads and an unreliable vehicle. I shall let the incident pass this once, but do not test me on future occasions. I do not abide tardiness in my kitchen. Since we’re short staffed, you will work as a between maid whilst you’re here. However, since the lion’s share of your time will be spent in the kitchen and scullery, rather than the rest of the house, you shall look to me should you have any questions. You are expected to be ready for work promptly at half past five each morning. To my way of thinking Mrs. Michaels allows you far too many liberties at Hopewell Manor. Be mindful that those privileges won’t be extended here.”

      A ring of keys she extracted from her pocket jangled as she unlocked and opened a dark-paneled door. “What are you waiting for? Come into my office, and be brisk about it, if you please.”

      Rose’s black skirts swished around her ankles as she rushed past the older woman whose rigid spine, stiff shoulders and prim collar made Rose wonder if she’d bathed in starch.

      The spotless office smelled of pine oil and drying herbs. A battered bookcase bowed with old crockery and receipt books stood in one corner. Rose checked her posture and waited like the wayward servant Mrs. Pickles apparently believed she was. The cook folded into the chair behind the heavy oak desk with the ease of bending stone and removed her wire-rimmed spectacles.