Ross stood and stared at her slender back, the brave set of her shoulders as she walked off into the unknown. Courage and humour when surely she had as much to dread from this landfall as he had. More, for he knew what he was going to. She was adrift in her own country with only a few guineas to her name.
‘Porter, sir?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at the man. ‘Take my luggage to the Red Lion Hotel.’ When he had left, that had been the most exclusive inn in the town. ‘I’ll follow you.’ He glanced back and saw that Meg had vanished. As though she had never been there. Off to a new life as a drudge to some invalid or to a post as a housekeeper before she set off, not knowing what awaited her when she got to what had once been her home. ‘No, wait.’ The man stopped, resigned to the whims of the gentry. ‘Wait one moment.’
‘This one along here’s where my sister got her post as a cook,’ the porter said, trundling his barrow along in the roadway while Meg walked on the flagged pavement. ‘She said it was a fine, smart place. Made her nervous to go in, because they only serve the real gentry there. No shop assistants or maids of all work.’
‘Thank you. I’ll try it first, then.’ Meg stopped outside the office and studied the shiny dark-green front door with its brass knocker. The plate read, Empson’s Employment Bureau. She struggled for calm composure, despite her anger and panic over the stolen money. Just a few weeks, she promised herself. I won’t need so very much, I can earn enough for the stage. ‘It looks very—’
‘Genteel, that’s what our Kate said,’ the man confided. ‘She got a smart lawyer to cook for. An Honourable, she says he is. And they don’t grow on trees.’
‘No, indeed,’ Meg agreed gravely, turned the handle and went into a square room with a row of upright chairs along one wall and a desk set across the far corner. An odd assortment of people waited in silence on the chairs. The man sitting behind the desk raised his head from a ledger and placed eyeglasses on his nose as she crossed the boards, conscious of every squeak of her shoes on the surface. Genteel. How on earth am I going to learn to look genteel? I must not look too desperate, however I feel.
A wiry young man with highly polished shoes glanced up at her from the book he was reading, then politely looked away, but the plump woman with a vast bonnet stared openly and the neat woman in black next to her watched her from the corner of her eye.
Valet, cook, governess, Meg guessed.
‘Yes?’
‘Good morning. I am seeking a position as an assistant to a housekeeper or as a nurse-companion.’ Meg placed herself before the desk. A sign on it read Eustace Empson, Proprietor.
‘I see.’ Mr Empson opened a ledger, picked up a pen, dipped it in the standish, peered at the page, then sharply up at her. ‘Name? Experience?’
Meg set herself to make the very best of her somewhat chequered past, editing the details heavily. ‘…and I am told I read aloud to invalids most effectively,’ she finished. ‘Oh, yes, and I speak Portuguese and Spanish fluently.’ Behind her the doorbell tinkled.
‘Hah! Not a lot of call for Portuguese housekeepers in Falmouth,’ Empson said sourly. He scribbled on a form, handed it to Meg and gestured at the chairs. ‘Wait your turn there. Mrs Empson may have some nurse-companion positions. You have your references, I trust?’
‘Of course,’ Meg lied, inwardly cursing. She had never thought of that. References? Where was she to get those from? ‘At my lodgings.’
‘Did you say Portuguese-speaking housekeeper?’ a deep voice enquired.
Meg dropped the note and her reticule and scrabbled for them on the floor. It cannot be… But it was. Her gaze, ascending from her crouched position, travelled up scuffed boots, salt and smoke-stained uniform trousers to a broad chest and a very familiar, very forbidding face.
‘Indeed, sir.’ From Empson’s voice he was a trifle uncertain as to the status of this latest arrival. Ross Brandon sounded like an officer and a gentleman; he hardly looked like one as he loomed over the desk with her crouched at his feet. ‘A Mrs—’ he glanced at his ledger ‘—Halgate who has just registered is so qualified. You seek such a person?’
‘Yes,’ Ross said, standing in the middle of the immaculate, prim office like a prize fighter in a vestry.
‘Er…I see.’ Mr Empson, in the absence of any further explanation, patently did not see. ‘I believe you are not registered with us as seeking staff, Mr, er—?’
‘Lord Brandon,’ Ross said and Meg stood up so abruptly that she banged her elbow on the edge of the desk. Lord Brandon? ‘Very well, I will register if that is required. Brandon, Trevarras Court. Do you need anything else?’
‘No, my lord. Indeed not.’ Mr Empson was on his feet, washing his hands together in an ecstasy of delight at having secured a titled client. ‘May I offer my condolences on your recent loss? A great man, hereabouts, your late father.’
‘Thank you,’ Ross said, his voice frigid enough to stop Empson’s gushing dead. ‘And the ho
usekeeper in question is where, exactly?’ He gazed past Meg, who stood rubbing her elbow and trying not to gape.
‘Here, my lord. Mrs Halgate stands before you, my lord.’
The black eyes travelled up and down as though assessing her plain gown and modest bonnet. As though he had never seen her before. A perfect example of an arrogant lord, the clever man. Or perhaps it was not pretence. Perhaps this really was Ross. ‘Very well. She will do.’
‘We have not yet seen Mrs Halgate’s references, my lord,’ Mr Empson blurted, prudence finally overcoming his desire to offer his noble client immediate gratification of his needs. ‘We cannot guarantee…The reputation of the agency requires—’
‘If she turns out to be inadequate or dishonest, or her Portuguese grammar is faulty, I will return her to you.’ Ross sounded profoundly uninterested in Empson’s worries. ‘Mrs Halgate? We may discuss terms later.’
‘I believe you also require a valet, my lord.’ Ross, Empson and Meg all stared at the wiry young man who had got to his feet and was addressing Ross.
‘I do?’