Chapter Eighteen

"It's over and done," Prudence Crewe scoffed.

"It's neither over nor done." Miss Poole said, handing up another book. "He's escaped before. He could do it again."

"From Elba, yes. He was free to do as he pleased there." Prudence put the last tome in place, pulling it forward to match the others. "Not on Saint Helena. It's too far off and they say they have him under guard day and night."

"It's not as if he has no allies left. Even here in England, Bonaparte's considered a rather romantic figure," Miss Poole countered. "Byron's still writing a never-ending ode to him, and if he has that sort of support here, then I can only imagine, in France—"

"Byron can write all the odes he wishes," Prudence broke in, hopping down the library's ladder. "Boney's only romantic because he's tragic now."

"He's tragic for now," Miss Poole said, "and I thought you liked Byron."

"I like most of his work. But for every Childe Harold or stirring speech in the House of Lords, there is also the odd Hours of Idleness or sap-filled verse to some poor lady he'll likely torture if he wins her. His behavior with them is certainly not beyond reproach, if you ask me. And I—" Prudence stopped, realizing Miss Poole was very close now, and staring at her strangely. "I mean, if you ask Miss Crewe. She's really the expert on such things, not I." She moved herself and the ladder to the other set of shelves.

Really, Emilia was quite the expert on Byron's exploits, as she was quite voracious for gossip, but she had no thoughts on the war, apart from relief it was ending so she might find her favorite French face creams in the shops again.

Pru really needed to control herself. She'd been much too free with her opinions today. Arguing about the military was something frowned upon within their sex in the first place, let alone if one was a servant talking to a naïve young lady.

But it did feel so nice to discuss such things with someone.

Papa might entertain her thoughts on such subjects sometimes, but the moment they disagreed, he'd pat her on the head and attribute her very wrong opinion to her sex, though he'd often give her more to read on the matter, which she liked. But when she came back, if not in agreement with his opinion, suddenly it was her age that was the problem — and there was no reading matter capable of improving that, apparently.

"It's funny but, the more we talk, the less you mention Miss Crewe," Prudence heard Miss Poole say behind her.

"Oh... Well... It should be assumed it's Miss Crewe's opinion as I... I learn most things from her."

"Is that so?"

"Aye, Miss. Shall we do the agricul... er... plant books next, Miss?" She started as she turned to find Miss Poole even closer now, and still staring.

"Yes, agriculture," Miss Poole finally said. "You had it right the first time, yet you changed course. I wonder why."

"I wasn't quite sure that was the word. Glad to know I—"

"You are allowed to have opinions of your own," Miss Poole tilted her head, "at least in my eyes."

"Well, that's very kind of you."

"There's nothing kind about it. It's essential," Miss Poole said, rather passionately. "No matter the person, their thoughts and feelings, their opinions should be heard. So I wish you wouldn't keep pretending..."

Despite the fact that Pru quite agreed, she held her breath. Damn it, Miss Poole had found them out for certain this time.

"...not to be as bright as you obviously are," the girl finished. "I am not fooled, you know."

Prudence hid her relief and tried to look flattered. "It's so very nice of you to—"

"Nice, kind... Call it what you wish. Earlier, I was quoting a stanza from The Iliad to illustrate a point, and you corrected me on it."

"I didn't mean to be so impertinent," Pru rushed to say. "Now that I think on it, you very likely had the right of it."

"You corrected me in Greek," Miss Poole said with a knowing glance.

"I... did, didn't I?" She hadn't even realized it. Greek and Latin came so naturally to her. She'd always been so obstinate about reading the classics in the language they'd been written in. Her mother thought it a waste of a tutor when Charity's proficiency in French was much more likely to impress, but she'd acquiesced. Prudence thought now that Mama would likely be very satisfied to know that it wasn't only a waste, but something that could actually get her into trouble, as Prudence stared at Miss Poole, thinking the jig was certainly up now.

"Why pretend? Are you doing it for the sake of Miss Crewe?"

Prudence considered relaxing, since obviously the jig was still on, but she also didn't know what lie she was to go with now, so she asked, "Whatever do you mean?"

It would give her more time to either craft a competent story or decide that maybe... just maybe this ruse should end. She liked Miss Poole and she didn't enjoy lying to her. It wasn't often one found a kindred soul and, though Miss Poole was closer to Charity's age than Prudence's, she certainly shared more of Prudence's interests than Charity ever had. She adored her little sister, but the last time she attempted to debate Napoleon with Charity, despite fifteen years at war with the man, Charity's only thought was that he must be a pitiable soul.

"It's no wonder he finally lost. It's very foolish to grasp far more than one needs," Charity had tutted, only last month when she and Ian had been visiting Crewe House. "If he can't be content with France — the home of ballet, champagne, and the very best pastries — then there's no hope for him." Ian also had little to say on the matter, apart from some complimentary comments on the canning practices used by his soldiers.

"I mean," Miss Poole was saying, "that one shouldn't be limited in learning by the circumstance of their birth. You could be so much more than a lady's maid. If Miss Crewe is holding you back from—"

"Oh, nonsense. Miss Crewe is very keen on me... moving forward." But was she? What if Emilia wanted to be more than this? Pru hadn't even considered it until now.

"I certainly hope so. You could be a governess, a secretary, or—"

"Oh, yes. If I wished to, but I've no such plans," she said. At the very least, she was certain Emilia would rather go back to the scullery than contend with children. "I beg you not to think ill of Miss Crewe. She has been... quite generous in sharing her knowledge with me," she forced a laugh, "even when I wish she wouldn't rattle on so." It was quite true. Prudence often attempted to engage Emilia in such discussions, and was often rebuffed by Emilia, who had "no time nor use for such talk."

"I've yet to witness her rattling on," Miss Poole said, not looking convinced. "I confess, I've found my conversations with her lacking."

"Well, I... I told you. She can be very shy."

"Yes, she also mentioned as much. But I didn't expect her to be so... baffling when she did speak."

"If this is about Mansfield... Well, didn't you say all persons' thoughts should be heard? I think Miss Crewe's opinions on Fanny Price are as valid as anyone's. They are opinions, after all."

"Aye, that they are," Miss Poole slid her a sly glance, "but some can be quite confusing. When I asked her opinion on Sense and Sensibility, she said they were very fine qualities," she finished, staring hard at Prudence. "I thought you said she'd read every book that mystery lady has ever written, some several times over."

"Well, o' course she did. She was just having a laugh." Prudence forced a giggle. "Very fine qualities, she said, did she? How droll. You know, her humor can be so very dry at times that it might not seem as if she is joking at all, but I assure you—"

"Oh, no. I've sampled Miss Crewe's humor. But it seemed to consist mostly of puns."

Prudence held in a groan. Incorrect word usage, to Prudence's mind, was not half as funny as some people thought it was. She tolerated the odd painful pun in Shakespeare, but often declared them to be a very annoying form of wordplay.

"Ah, that Miss Crewe. She does love her... puns," Prudence finished reluctantly. Drat that Emilia. She hoped she wouldn't walk away from this party with a reputation for such a thing. Pru might not care much whether she was considered pretty or popular, but to be considered a pun enthusiast... She held in a shudder.

"You know, I am starting to wonder if—" The clock chimed then, striking noon, and Miss Poole sighed. "How has the time gone so quickly? I'm to meet Adele for lunch and, though it's not precisely a pun, there is also Mrs. Baddeley's 'get to sew you' session," she said with a cringe that Prudence quite agreed with. "I'll just get these out of the way." She started to straighten the piles of books still left.

"Oh, no, Miss. I can see to that," Prudence said, grateful to shoo her off.

Miss Poole hesitated, but finally started for the door. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Aye, Miss! Lookin' forward to it."

Miss Poole turned back as she opened the door. "That accent of yours seems to come and go as well, doesn't it?"

Prudence let out a nervous laugh. "I wish it would go and stay that way. I try so very hard to sound more genteel-like. I must be doing better! Thanks ever so much for noticing."

Miss Poole regarded her, leaning in the doorway. "Very well. Keep pretending. But you could be so much more than you think. I am certain of it."

Prudence expelled a long breath when she finally closed the door. She should be bothered about how close she and Emilia were to ruining everything, yet she couldn't help being more irked by Miss Poole's words — not about her, but about Emilia — and whether they were right.

***********************

Emilia didn't know precisely what had got into Prudence, but she was awfully frustrated as she dropped her needle a third time "This is torture!"

"You said you wanted to do it," Emilia reminded her. They'd decided to retire to the bedroom, to see how much could be done on Mary's things before this gathering of Mrs. Baddeley's. She couldn't very well see herself mending Mary's underthings in the midst of four young ladies practicing their embroidery.

Miss Prudence had offered to help, but she was, as expected, more of a hindrance than a help.

"I am trying," Miss Prudence insisted, "but how does anyone do this? It's impossible!" She dropped to the carpet to search.

Emilia held in a smile. "Not for the vast majority of us."

"I'm convinced you must be holding back some trick of it for your own amusement." Prudence held the needle up in triumph. "Aha!" She took her place beside Emilia on the window seat again. "So... what is it?"

"Sew... is a thing you do with a needle," Emilia said on a laugh. "I thought you knew that."

"God save us," Prudence groaned. "I mean, what's the trick?"

"There's no trick to it." Emilia set aside Mary's stockings, as they were finally all repaired, and took the needle and thread from Prudence. "It's just concentration and a steady hand... there!" She held the threaded needle up.

"Yes, but how?"

"Just keeping tryin'. It comes with practice." She nudged her sewing basket toward Prudence before moving onto one of Mary's dress' necklines. If she wanted them lower, then so be it. Mary would very likely catch a scolding from Mrs. Hartley when she returned home. But Mrs. Hartley was, luckily, not Emilia's concern. "I'll need the blue for this one, if you want to try again."

"Very well, but don't expect greatness," Prudence grumbled.

"You work with your hands all the time, with paints and pencils. How is sewing so much harder?"

"I've never been sure. Mama certainly excels at it. Every time I come home, there's a new hanging or cushion or set of monogrammed handkerchiefs, but Charity and I are both hopeless."

"Charity rushes things far too much. When she slows down, she does much better, so perhaps if you—"

"Slow, fast... It makes no difference for me. When I sketch, I can erase. When I paint, I can paint over it if I don't like what I see. I think sewing takes a degree of precision and planning that I lack. And I can't abide being made to do things I know very well I'm no good at. So I'd rather... Darn it!" She dropped to the carpet to search again.

Emilia laughed. "I doubt you'll be able to darn anythin' if you can't find the needle."

"Ah, yes. Very funny," Prudence mumbled as she took her seat again, staring at the needle and thread as if preparing for battle. "While we're on the subject of wordplay, I would greatly appreciate you doing it a bit less, at least while playing this part."

"Why?"

"Puns, Emilia," Prudence said with a withering look, "are a very silly form of humor and I would not like to be left with a reputation for such a thing."

"Pish tosh! It's no sillier than you and Charity and your little letter games!"

"Alliteration is different," Prudence grumbled. "It's poetic."

"So are puns. They rhyme, don't they?"

"But they rhyme incorrectly! And Miss Poole has noticed, so—"

"If we're on the subject of Miss Poole, if you stopped your library nonsense," Emilia couldn't help but point out, "she'd have much less to notice."

"That library is an offense to any reader and I will not stand by—"

"You really are in quite a dreadful mood this afternoon," Emilia huffed, snatching the needle and thread again. "No wonder you have no patience for even the simplest thing." She quickly worked, then held up the threaded needle. "See?"

Prudence crossed her arms and sat back, pouting. "You keep making it look simple, but I am convinced it is not."

"And I am convinced I've more reason to be put out than you do. Or are you the one handling Mary's petticoats and stockings and her barbed comments and—"

"Yes, I agree. And that's just the problem. I did promise not to leave you alone with her ever again, but I still feel as if..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I don't quite know how I feel right now."

"If I've accepted it, you can."

"But how?"

Emilia considered it as she worked. She had felt much more anxious and angry about Mary this morning than she did now. Sewing always set her back to rights. "I don't usually grouse about things for long. If I have an unpleasant chore—"

"Something Mary certainly is, in every sense of the word," Prudence interjected.

"That she is. But eventually I must come to accept that no amount of hand-wringing or bellyaching will get it done. Best to accept it and get to work. Perhaps it helps that this is the kind of work I find soothing. I'd always rather alter a dress than repair it. I imagine I've made it new."

Prudence sighed. "I would find it quite soothing to paint, but I feel useless at this. You have all this extra work to do and I wish I could help."

"Then why don't you simply hand me things as I need them? That would be a help." Emilia held out a hand. "Scissors?"

Prudence hesitated.

"They are the long things with two—"

"I know what scissors are," Prudence huffed before handing them over.

"Really, what has you so upset?" Emilia asked after a few moments. "Has Miss Poole caught us, then? Have I single-handedly destroyed our ruse with puns? Because we can stop any time."

"No, it's not that," Prudence regarded her closely, "but if you want to stop this minute, I will—"

"No," Emilia sighed. "I shouldn't like to see any of the other maids subjected to her, at least not before I've got the bulk of her demands out of the way. But what of Miss Poole?"

"It did seem close a time or two. Apparently, I'm arguing my opinions on Napoleon too readily and correcting her Greek."

"Well, then I beg you not to do that while playin' your part." Emilia gaped at her. "The servants already think I'm some sort of radical, thanks to you."

"There are worse reputations. Pun-lover, for instance," Prudence said dryly.

"Has she found us out or not?" Emilia asked impatiently.

"No," Prudence admitted. "But she did say something and it's got me thinking..."

"You? Could be dangerous."

"Ha, ha, ha," Prudence droned. "No, it's just... Miss Poole seems to think Miss Finch could do better, be educated more, that she has the potential to be a governess or secretary."

"Ah, middle class life for Miss Emilia Finch." Emilia couldn't help but laugh. "Fancy that!"

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Fancy that, I mean," Miss Prudence said, staring at her quite intently, "for yourself?"

Emilia frowned down at her work, but said nothing more.

"If you did, I wouldn't hold you back," Prudence insisted.

Emilia continued sewing. She was coming to a tricky, tucked corner. She glanced up at Prudence, who looked all too eager to hear what she might say — until she said it, "Thimble?"

"Emilia!" Prudence whined, though she did dig out the piece in question. "Am I stopping you from doing something you dream of? Is there some other destiny out there that could shape your end? Is being stuck as my lady's maid keeping you from it?"

Emilia only stared back.

"I shouldn't wish you to live a life of regret. So what is it? What do you dream? And please... don't be afraid to tell me. I would die to think you intimidated by me. I shall be so much more amenable than you—"

"When have I ever been afraid to tell you anything?" Emilia scoffed, plucking the thimble from Prudence's hand. "You are not as intimidatin' as your Aunt, however you may pretend. Really, you sound as silly as your sister, much as I love her! Destiny! Dreams!" She laughed. "Really?"

"It's not silly. Are you saying you have no dreams?"

"There is one," Emilia said, hesitantly.

Prudence leaned forward.

"The two of us are wearin' snowy white dresses, lyin' in a field of grass."

"How idyllic!" Prudence gasped. "White dresses could denote purity, innocence or--"

"Yes, all those things," Emilia cuts in eagerly, "that is, until this wave of mud, big as those waves in Brighton, comes for us. I run away, but you dive right into it, to your own peril and obviously that of your dress."

Prudence groaned. "You know very well that's not the kind of dream I mean. And I'm certain you made that up just now!"

Emilia hid a smile. "Well, what do you expect me to tell you? That I've always wanted to be the first woman in Parliament? I'd rather not be a secretary. I do pride myself on my penmanship, but to do nothing but that all day would be tedious. And to be a governess..." She shuddered slightly.

"I'd thought you might not be tempted. If you hate my mess, I can only imagine contending with sticky-fingered children and their clothing."

Emilia laughed. "It's not something I think of much, having more. Sometimes I think I'd be content having a mistress that values my opinions and dresses as I say and doesn't dirty all of her—"

"Yes, we all know how trying I am," Prudence sighed. "But the way Miss Poole seemed to encourage me, I... I wonder if there's more I can do for you."

"You mean, apart from what I just said?"

"I'm quite serious. If you have dreams of a different life than this, I'd like to see you achieve them and if I can help in any way—"

"But I don't really know what that means, a different life. I've been in service since I was a child. It's a secure sort of existence. You never have to wonder where you'll sleep, how you'll eat. Really, it's the safest job a person could have."

"Aye, safest. But does it excite you? Does it make you eager to face the day?"

Emilia had to laugh. "That's not the nature of work. There's no eagerness about it, but more an expectation. You know how your day will play out and there's a comfort in that." She shrugged at Miss Prudence. "And if you think my life as a lady's maid is the end of all things for me, it's not. There is more in store." She glanced down at her work. "It's not known to all yet, but Mrs. Douglass wants me to replace her as housekeeper and your mother agrees."

"Oh... well..."

"When she retires to Scotland, I'll take her place, and be the topmost servant in the house, and I'd not even be expected to live in it. I'd have my own cottage, if I wished. Won't that be somethin'?"

"Will it?"

She glanced up at Prudence.

"I just mean that... You don't sound very excited about it."

"I assure you, most of us in service are not lookin' for excitement," Emilia said, even as she agreed that the idea made her feel almost stifled, sometimes. "Service is not supposed to be thrilling, if you're doing it right," she reminded herself. "It's supposed to be a steady, work-a-day sort of life, a secure life, where you can only hope to advance to a position where you are in command of others, rather than at the very bottom... like poor Evie, for one."

"Poor Evie, indeed," Prudence sighed. "She always tells me she wants to learn her letters, but I can barely teach the girl. The moment she retires to our room, she falls asleep immediately. She must be so exhausted."

"Aye, but that's what she must do. Takin' on Lady Adele on top of her duties is a chore, for certain, but she must learn new things if she is to advance." Emilia set her work down, frowning. "And though I will say learnin' to read might help her, I hope you don't go off making her read all that nonsense you do. She'd best learn enough to read the fashion pages before you start bombardin' the poor girl with Homer and Shakespeare."

"I'm certainly not silly enough for that. If you must know, I've been trying to teach her letters, then reading, but also French so she can better serve Lady Adele. Sadly, the only French books in this house are Moliere and not a primer or book of nursery rhymes in sight, so I'm having the Devil's own luck. If only I'd learned French. I hate to say it, but Mama told me I'd likely need it more than Latin or Greek and she was...right," Prudence finished as if the word pained her.

Emilia chuckled. "Evie wouldn't have time for it, even if you were the greatest French tutor in England. Have you any idea what a scullery maid does?"

"She doesn't talk about it much, but the word has roots in Latin to 'scutella', so... dish-washing?"

"If that were all there was to it, it wouldn't be the lowest position in the house. No, she also scrubs down the kitchen, mops the floors, heats the water for the dishes and for all the baths, lights the morning fires if there's no hall boy, which there usually isn't, assists the cook and kitchen maid at dinner as needed, very often the laundry is also tossed upon her if there's no laundress and..." Here, Emilia shuddered. "...empties and cleans all the chamber pots."

"But that's certainly too much!"

"Aye. Why do you think most houses have to find new scullery maids every year or so?"

"And you were a scullery maid at Hartley Hall," Prudence said, aghast. "However did you bear it for five years?"

"Because I kept being promised relief or advancement. Once I finally realized neither would come, I left. But no point dwellin' on what's past. It's better now. I haven't been overworked at Crewe House. Even when I was kitchen maid, Cook and Ian always lightened the load. Being a lady's maid has been a jolly holiday, your stubbornness aside. And I've never been slapped at Crewe House."

Prudence scoffed. "If that's the criteria, then I think it a bit low for... Wait just a moment." She stood, looking incensed. "Slapped? Does that mean you were slapped at Hartley Hall? Did Mary ever slap you? Ooooh! I shall give her such a slap if—"

"I beg you not to. And no. Mary never slapped me. Except possibly with her words, the little viper," Emilia finished on a laugh.

"I don't find this amusing is at all. How much slapping was there in that house of horrors?"

"Not as much as you're thinking." With the housekeeper and Cook, it was only once a week, but Emilia decided not to tell Prudence that lest she rush there the moment they were home and do some slapping of her own. And she also wouldn't tell her that Mrs. Hartley had indulged in slapping her twice — once when she spilled a bucket of ash on the front hall's parquet, and again when she was still doin' the fires in the morning room when she and Mr. Hartley entered arguing. She'd been accused of dallying and spying. Only the first was true, and only because she'd been so exhausted that she could barely see — spectacles might have helped then, looking back, though she hated to admit it. "It's simply a fact for most of us in service."

"That still doesn't make it right," Prudence said, staring at her with concern. "Are you certain you must do that now? Why not rest before you do yet more sewing? I can wake you when it's time. Shall I bring you something to—"

"Goodness, perhaps I should have told you about the slapping years ago if I thought you'd be moved to coddle me so!" She laughed. "Anyhow, there's no need for it. I like to sew. I'm even looking forward to the little 'get to sew you' party," she went on, ignoring Prudence's loud groan. "I quite enjoy embroidery when I get the time. I've never understood why you young ladies complain about it so." She grinned. " And I also love a bit of gossip. Mary's presence notwithstanding, I might actually have a bit of fun."

"If you say so. It sounds dreadful to me. Still, if you'd like a nap..."

"Anyhow, the idea of falling asleep in the middle of the day is insanity. I tried, but it's not in my nature, I suppose. Besides that, 'a maid found havin' a nap will soon find herself havin' a slap,' as they say."

Prudence turned to Emilia, choking out, "What? Who says that?"

Emilia chuckled. "It's just a little rhyme. I'm not sure who wrote it, but at Hartley—"

"It's a cruel and horrifying rhyme!"

"Oh, nonsense! It's just a playful reminder. There are plenty of them, like 'a maid at rest is not doin' her best' or 'a servant who is not on time is guilty of a grievous crime' or 'a maid who tends to spill will not be eatin' her fill.'"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does! See, if I were to spill something while helping in the kitchen, I've spoiled the meal and my meal would be the price I pay for my clumsiness. It's only fair."

"It's not fair at all! It's outrageous!" Prudence paced the room now. "I cannot fathom how you can be so nonchalant."

"I've no idea what that means, but I can't see why you're so outraged. As I said, I've never been slapped at your house."

"You shouldn't have been slapped at all! Ever!"

"That's the way it is. The way it's always been."

"I don't care. The way it is or has been should change. Good Lord! Here, I was outraged at all the servants do here, but to be slapped—" She stilled, turning to Emilia. "Being a maid of any sort is a job. Do people slap their solicitors? Do they slap their stewards? Their doctors?"

"Those are educated jobs. And really, it's only the girls or the younger boys that—"

"Please! That makes it worse! Just because a person starts in a lower position doesn't mean they deserve to be abused! Could you imagine anyone slapping Cook and getting away with it? Or Mrs. Douglass slapping anyone?"

"Of course not." Emilia chuckled. "She only needs a word and we all hop to it."

"If you become housekeeper, would you think it amusing or acceptable to slap Agnes or Jeremy?"

"I wouldn't! And I'm not saying it's right. I quite agree with you on that, but most girls in service accept such things as part of the life."

"What constitutes a grievous crime? How was anyone inconvenienced?" Prudence demanded. "Did someone have to suffer through a momentary chill? Was the tea delayed by a few minutes?"

"Servants are meant to ease the way, are we not? If there are difficulties, then we are not doing our job. For you, I only have to clean your bedchamber, keep toiletries in order, dress your hair and choose your dresses — when you allow it, that is — keep things in good repair and see to your meals and tea when you're too busy painting to come down and—"

"So all you think about is how to make our days easier?" Prudence sat back down heavily. "And this is every day of your life?"

"Not every day. That would be far too much. Just every day I'm working. Most of us get half-days on Sunday, which is nice. Your mother gives me half-days Saturday and Sunday to see to my father, which is very kind compared to most."

"But that's still not—"

"And we have a place to live and food to eat."

"It's not enough." Prudence suddenly turned to her, grasping her and pulling her into a very awkward embrace over the sewing basket between them. "I won't gainsay you ever again. And I'll come to meals and tea if it means you must exert yourself further for me. And I'll paint in only one dress and—"

"These are all fine promises, but I'll wait till we're home to see if you mean them still." Emilia let out a laugh as she tried to pull away.

But Prudence wouldn't allow it. "I will see to it that you have so many hugs that they outnumber all the slaps."

"Well... thanks for this one, but I think I'll get my next from Mopsy. I'd best take him for his walk before I'm to meet Mrs. Baddeley and the rest." She patted her on the back, waiting for the hug to end, feeling a bit out of sorts with all this sudden affection. She expected it from Charity, who was quite lavish with her praise and her embraces. Prudence had always been a bit less likely to demonstrate affection in such a way.

As expected, Prudence did look a bit awkward as she pulled away, laughing. "I'm sure Mopsy is better at cuddling than I. I shall instruct him firmly to give you all the affection you require."

"I'll gladly take it."

Prudence was still staring at her, now quite serious. "And I meant what I said earlier. If there's something more you'd like to do, something better than this, better than housekeeping, I can be more of a help than you'd think."

Emilia stared back, curious now. "Does this have anything to do with all of your mysterious money?"

Prudence flushed and looked away. "I'm simply saying I have connections... as a favored niece of the Duchess of Dartmore."

"Thanks all the same, but I have a very clear and secure path ahead of me. I've no wish to travel to parts unknown, and there's my father to consider. I am quite content with what I have now and what I will have soon enough."

"But if you could do anything with your life, anything at all? Is being a Housekeeper what you would choose?"

Emilia started to answer, but Prudence put a hand up.

"I'm not saying you need to answer now, but to think upon it. Everyone deserves to dream, do they not?"

"It is not a luxury everyone has." Emilia set the dress aside, finished for now. "But if you insist, I'll happily daydream about my future as the Empress of Prussia and tell you all about it," she said as she started out. "Mopsy will, of course, be in my royal guard. I shall inform him now. He'll be ecstatic, almost as much as when he sees a rabbit."

"I am serious," Prudence said, stilling her. "You are clever and witty and capable of so much more than you think."

"It's very sweet of you to think so," Emilia said before closing the door, though she did roll her eyes, letting out a rueful chuckle as she made her way to the kitchens to fetch Mopsy. These Crewe girls. However much they moved in society, they remained so naïve. Cleverness and wit weren't valued among their sort, at least not for young ladies, and it went doubly so for her sort.

But she did find herself considering it, whether she might want something more than security, before she pushed it away.

Security should be more than enough. She was certain it would be, when the time came.

She would be perfectly content... she hoped.

TBC

************

I hope you enjoyed all my little servant rhymes. I made them up based on stupid stuff I heard while waitressing ("If you have time to lean, you have time to clean," for one), but they don't sound unreasonable for the time to me.

Come find me on Twitter @AWheelerRomance. I'd love to see you in those parts. You can bug me for updates, ask me any burning (or not-so-burning) questions, witness my GIF game, or just fangirl over Bridgerton with me. The options are limitless! :)