Second Chance Cinderella

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.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Pickles released Rose to work. Armed with the names of her superiors, the litany of her duties, a lecture on propriety and a key to her room, Rose aimed for the door.

“And one last thing,” Mrs. Pickles said the moment Rose turned the smooth brass doorknob. “I trust you aren’t in any trouble. Your personal difficulties won’t be tolerated in this household.”

Rose paused, unable to hazard a guess as to what the cook meant by that cryptic remark. Was she warning her against the prospect of bringing Andrew up to London? “I assure you I’m only here to do my duties to the best of my ability, ma’am. I’m grateful for my place at Hopewell Manor and look forward to returning there once you no longer require my assistance. If you’re referring to my son, he’s staying with a relative in the country. I assure you I have no intention of bringing him here.”

Mrs. Pickles returned her spectacles to the bridge of her nose before folding her hands into a tight knot on the desktop. “Ah, yes, the child.” Her thin lips curled distastefully. “Michaels mentioned him when she wrote to me about you. It seems everyone at Hopewell Manor, including the former master and his family, is quite taken with the pair of you. However, you are no pet here. I warn you that I’m wise to women of your questionable character, who put on airs and mimic their betters—”

“Pardon?” Rose grew hot in the face. She didn’t mimic anyone. Aware that most people considered her far beneath their notice, she’d made a concerted effort to capitalize on the education she’d received while living at the orphanage.

Although her inability to learn to read embarrassed her, she’d striven in other ways to improve herself. She had no wish to disgrace her son or give the other parents and children additional reasons to look down on him because of her lowly background or poor speech.

“—and bear children out of wedlock, then take advantage of the charity of others. Be aware that this is a respectable household. If you wish to sell your favors or dangle men on a string, then I suggest you go elsewhere for I’ll have none of your antics taking place under this roof.”

Offended to her core but forced to tread lightly lest she lose her much-needed employment, Rose prayed the Lord would guard her mouth. “Mrs. Pickles, I’ve made mistakes in the past to be sure, but I promise you I don’t participate in the behavior you’ve described.”

“Then be so good as to explain why, within minutes of your arrival, a boy came to inquire about you at the behest of a man waiting across the street.”

“A boy?” She frowned.

“Yes, the paper hawker from the opposite corner. He asked if Rose Smith worked in service here. When Miss McDonald told him you did, he explained about the man who’d sent him, then promptly ran away.”

The image of the well-dressed gentleman popped into her mind and an unexpected surge of excitement made her heart flutter. “Did the lad happen to mention the gentleman’s name?”

Mrs. Pickles shook her head. “Am I to assume you may be familiar with the identity of your admirer?”

“No, ma’am.” Rose’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “I haven’t the slightest idea why anyone would seek me out. This is my first venture to London and other than asking for directions from a rag woman a few streets over, I’ve spoken to no one.”

Mrs. Pickles stood, her expression skeptical. “You may claim you’re not looking for a man, but according to the boy, there is definitely one looking for you.”

“I assure you, ma’am, I—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve no idea who he might be,” the cook said. “We shall see. Off to work you go. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

Rose wasted no time leaving the office and making her way to the scullery. Smarting from the housekeeper’s accusatory manner, she despised her lowly lot in life and her inability to defend herself. The foul odors rising from the buckets lined against the stone wall gagged her. Towers of breakfast dishes stood beside the sink filled with food-crusted pots and pans. Dampness from shallow puddles on the floor pervaded the small, windowless closet of a room.

Resentment rippled through her. Thanks to someone else’s whim, she’d been sentenced to the kitchen’s dungeon once more. The years she’d spent toiling her way up to kitchen maid, then cook’s assistant might as well have never been.

After fetching and heating the necessary buckets of water, she filled the sink and rolled up her sleeves before placing a stack of plates in to soak. She reminded herself to be grateful she had a job at all. The walk through London’s crowded, fetid streets this morning had proven she could ill afford to be particular. At the best of times, females had few, if any, real choices and a woman like her—with a young child to care for and no husband to rely on—had fewer options still.

Thankfully, she wasn’t alone. She had the Lord to depend on and He had yet to fail her. She never forgot that before she loved Him, He had loved her. Even in her darkest hours, when she’d been near starving, expecting a child and leeched of hope that Sam would ever return, He had not forsaken her. Instead, He’d brought Harry Keen into her life and then the Malburys, a loving and godly family who cared more for people than convention. Without them and their willingness to take her on despite her being an expectant mother, she would never have been able to keep Andrew or supply a roof over their heads.

Picking up two of the buckets by their rope handles, she headed outdoors. The thought of losing Andrew chilled her to the marrow. He was a gift from the Lord and the center of her existence. She’d do anything to protect him, to ensure he remained with her and in the happiest home she could provide. If that meant scrubbing pots and pans until her fingers bled, then that’s what she would do.

The first luncheon dishes arrived to be washed just as she finished drying the last pan from breakfast. By midafternoon, her hands were raw from the hot water and strong soap, and her feet ached from the hours she’d spent standing on the unyielding stone floor. It was a great relief when Ina fetched her to help the chambermaid make beds upstairs.

Early evening found Rose back in the scullery, another teetering mountain of pots and pans beside the sink to be washed. Hearing Mrs. Pickles’s joyless voice in the corridor set her teeth on edge. She glanced around for a bucket to empty outside as an excuse to escape the stern woman.

“Smith, there you are.” The cook stopped in the doorway. “I have revised instructions for you tonight.”

Rose faced the older woman. “What am I to do, ma’am?”

Mrs. Pickles dried her hands on her long, white apron. “You’re to go with Ina to a house on Hanover Square. There’s a well-to-do gentleman, a Mr. Samuels, I believe, who is short staffed for a dinner party he’s hosting this evening. Baron Malbury is keen to win his favor and has graciously offered to send the two of you to assist.”

“When are we to leave?” She wrung out her dishrag and laid it over the edge of the sink to dry.

“Immediately. I’ve already given the address to Ina. Be certain you change your apron before you depart. You look like day-old porridge,” she tossed over her shoulder as she left.

Rose wiped a trickle of perspiration from her temple and pushed back the damp tendrils of hair falling around her face. As she climbed the stairs to her room, she removed the offending apron and wished she could crawl into bed. Exhaustion crippled her. Considering the day had started with a carriage accident before dawn and gone progressively downhill from there, she began to wonder what trials the night held in store.

A downpour accompanied Rose’s unfamiliar trek through Mayfair’s confusing maze of slippery cobblestones and fog-shrouded streets. Her shoes squeaked from more than one dunk in a mud puddle and her soggy bonnet had quit shielding her face from the rain two blocks earlier.

The short jaunt should have been uneventful, but due to a pugnacious individual who seemed to believe he owned the entire footpath, Ina had been pushed off the curb and sent reeling into an open sewer. Her twisted ankle and filthy skirts left her unfit for work. After calling a hack to convey the other girl home, Rose had pressed on alone.

Shivering and keenly aware that she was late for the second time in the same day, Rose made use of the knocker on the glossy, black kitchen door of the Samuels’s townhouse. As she always did when visiting a new place, she worried she’d misread the address and come to the wrong establishment.

The door swung open. Heat from the stove and the delicious scents of savory dishes emanated from the large work area beyond. A uniformed footman stared down at her.

“Hello, I’m Rose—”

“My name is Robert. Weren’t there to be two of you?”

“Yes.” She explained about Ina’s predicament. “She twisted her ankle and had to return home.”

“I suppose that’s why you’re late?”

She nodded.

“The master’s waiting for you and his guests are expected soon. Follow me.” The footman stepped back to allow her entrance into the warm, cavernous basement that smelled of herbs and cinnamon.

“The master wishes to see me?” Struck by the oddity of the situation, she handed over her sodden bonnet, muddy cape and umbrella. Damp patches spotted her gown and a rip marred the hem. Water from her wet hair trickled down her temples and the back of her neck. “You must be mistaken. I’m in Baron Malbury’s employ. Mrs. Pickles sent me to help with the shortage of kitchen staff this evening. Why should your master wish to see the likes of me?”

Robert shrugged. “It’s not my place to ask, miss.”

“Does he interview all the temporary help?”