“If you like Greek Revival, you will truly admire the house.” He lifted a finger to point ahead. “We’re approaching it now. This place is called Beacon Hill and it is bordered by the Charles River. In the 1780s they actually burned fires up here to warn ships of how close the shore was. Bullfinch and a partner cut about sixty feet off the top of the steep hill where you see the houses there. Town houses were just finished a few years ago there at the top at Louisburg Square.”
“And your house is there?” she asked, a little amazed a single man would choose such an exclusive area of a city to build a house in.
He nodded, glancing away from the window. “The architect’s name is Alexander Parris. He’s probably considered the best in America today. He stopped building houses a few years ago as he’s engaged with federal work, but he did this as a favor. He and my father were friends.”
The carriage was slowly climbing the hill and Sapphire struggled to try to see to the top. “Which house is yours?”
“The one with the gray stone and the double bays rising above the roofline.” He nodded in the direction of a magnificent house built of granite with its rusticated front wall that gave it a monumental tone. There were cartouches on the bowed front, which Sapphire thought to be French in design, but somehow the house still seemed to fit among the neighboring federalist-style homes.
“It’s just called the Thixton House. We Americans are not like the English, naming houses with creativity.” The carriage pulled up to the front door of the massive three-s
tory house overlooking the bay, and several servants ran to catch the horses’ harnesses. “And here we are.”
The moment the carriage rolled to a stop, the door swung open. “Welcome home, Mr. Thixton,” said a young man dressed in a smart green livery.
“Thank you, Billy.” Blake stepped out of the carriage and Mr. Givens followed, leaving Sapphire to exit on her own.
They entered the house through massive double cedar doors which were opened by another male servant, also in dark green. “Welcome home, Mr. Thixton.”
The same greeting was uttered with equal respect half a dozen more times before Mr. Givens left them in the enormous front hall. The moment they were alone, she pulled herself from the fascinating seascape oil paintings that hung on the walls in the entry room to confront Blake.
“All right,” she said quietly. “You’ve had your fun. You’ve humiliated me in front of your assistant and your servants. I’d like proper clothing and I would like it now, please.”
“You asked for clothing to fit your station, and I provided that. You are a simple girl, attempting to better yourself in the world, to rise above your birth…or are you my mistress?” He lifted an eyebrow.
It took a moment for Sapphire to realize what he was saying. She could hear footsteps on the slate floor and the jangle of keys as someone approached from the long corridor. She lifted her chin to meet Blake’s eyes, and the determined look on his face angered her.
“Say it,” he whispered. “That’s my housekeeper coming. Her name is Mrs. Dedrick and she’s a stickler for propriety. Maids don’t stand in the front hall talking with the master of the house.” He paused. “Not even maids I’ve brought with me from my new home in London.”
She was so livid that she could barely speak. How dare he do this to her after what they had shared. How dare he! “I am not your mistress.”
“My mistress would sleep in an elegant bedchamber on the third floor.” He indicated the wide, spiraling marble staircase in front of them. “She would wear gowns of the latest fashion and accompany me to the dinners, receptions and balls I am required regularly to attend as well as play hostess to the affairs I hold here in my home.”
When she didn’t immediately respond, he went on. “My maids, however, sleep in the attic where there are dormitories. I’ve only been up there a few times, but there are just small windows, so I imagine it’s a little warm this time of year. And of course, you already know what my maids wear.” He looked down at her shapeless, worn clothing with disdain. He paused. “Feel free to take some time to think it over.” He glanced down the hall. The sound of footsteps was growing louder. “But not too much time.”
“I am not your mistress,” she repeated again.
“Fine.” He turned away.
“Mr. Thixton, welcome home,” a small, thin woman in a gray dress said as she approached them. She wore a belt from which a ring of keys hung—the jangling Sapphire had heard. “And what ’ave we ’ere?” she asked, taking one look at Sapphire and lifting her nose scornfully.
“This is Sapphire. I have inherited several homes in London and I…found this poor orphaned young woman on the street. I thought she had promise as a maid, though she has no such experience, so I brought her back with me. I apologize for not asking you beforehand. If you don’t have room for her on the kitchen or house staff…” He let his last words hang in air that seemed to crackle with tension.
“Cehtainly not, sih,” she said.
The housekeeper’s speech sounded strange to Sapphire’s ears. In each place where an r should have been pronounced, she used something akin to an h sound.
“This way, gihl,” she said sternly. “I’m cehtain the masta wishes to rest and not be bathehed by the likes of you.”
Sapphire glanced at Blake but he had already turned away, headed for the staircase. “I’ll be in my study, Mrs. Dedrick. Could you send up some coffee and perhaps a little something sweet, like some of Mrs. Porter’s cinnamon rolls?”
Sapphire’s mouth watered. She’d had nothing but half a cup of coffee this morning and her stomach was now protesting.
“Of course, Mr. Thixton. Baked fresh this mauhin’, just come out of the oven, I believe in anticipation of your retuhn.”
Blake rested his hand on the smooth, carved mahogany banister and started up the curved staircase. “Excellent.”
“Well whatayou stahing at?” Mrs. Dedrick asked Sapphire.