He thought she might have smiled—just a little, very fleetingly. “Is there some problem with James’s maids?”
She threw him a look. “Why do you ask? Because I’m doing this?”
He nodded. “Unfamiliar though I am with the ways of tonnish ladies”—he ignored her soft, incredulous snort—“I’m certain folding washing isn’t a gazetted occupation for daughters of the nobility.”
“This daughter of the nobility finds the occupation relaxing. While my hands are busy, I can think.”
He longed to ask her what she was thinking about; instead, he watched her deftly unpegging, shaking out, and folding, and decided she was right. There was something inherently soothing in the simple domestic task.
“There are a number of issues on which I need to consult you.” The words came without effort, without real thought. He paused, considered, then decided they would do; they were the simple truth.
She glanced briefly at him, but he could read nothing in her eyes or face. “Such as?”
“The church flowers for one.” Exasperation colored his tone. A slight smile curved her lips; the sight sent a shaft of unexpected desire through him. He remembered all too well how they felt, how she tasted. Frustration on a number of counts lent an edge to his voice. “Can you explain what the devil’s behind this roster?”
Clarice sighed, and shook out a sheet, her gaze traveling up the garden to the house. “It’s all about status, I’m afraid.”
Succinctly, she explained what lay behind Mrs. Swithins’s desire for preeminence. “Poor Swithins—his mother expected much better from him, but although he’s just a curate, she’s determined to make the best of it, indeed, to push the standing his position affords her as far as it will go. Doing the flower arrangements for the Sunday services, as distinct from the minor Wednesday offices, is but one feather she’s determined to seize for her cap.”
“Thus putting Betsy’s and Mrs. Candlewick’s and Martha’s noses out of joint.”
She glanced at Jack. “Not just theirs. You’ll discover Mrs. Swithins is at odds, in one way or another, with most of the females in the parish.”
He groaned. “Just as long as I don’t have to adjudicate between them.”
She didn’t say anything to that. She was acutely aware of him two yards away, large, lean, and incredibly vital, sitting on the wall, his gaze on her.
“What about you?” he asked. She looked at him, and found him eyeing her with spurious innocence. “Does Mrs. Swithins think to lord it over you?”
She met his eyes, then flicked out a napkin; it cracked like a whip. “Not even Swithins is that foolish.” Creasing the napkin, she bent and set it in her basket. “No—to me she’s ingratiating, which I find equally obnoxious.” She glanced at him, realized with a jolt that his gaze had lowered—to her breasts, partly exposed by her scooped neckline. She straightened. “Wasn’t she the same with you?”
He wrinkled his nose; his gaze slowly made its way back up to her face. “Yes, now you mention it. She could toady with the best of them.”
Turning to the line, she tugged it and the next napkin to her; she’d wager her pearls he
hadn’t even registered he’d been ogling her breasts.
“So what should I do about the roster?”
She unpegged the napkin, folded it, kept her gaze on it. “Tell them all that, after due consideration, you’ve decided to revert the roster to what it was. Swithins does every second Sunday and the alternate Wednesdays, and between them, the other three do the other Sundays and Wednesdays. Mrs. Cleever and the maids from here freshen the vases in between, and for all the major celebrations, Mrs. Connimore and the maids—and indeed all the others except Swithins—use the flowers from the manor to decorate the church.”
Without looking his way, she dropped the napkin in the basket and reached for the tablecloth.
“All right. Next, how much should Mary Wallace’s marriage portion be?”
She looked at him, and saw no sign of irritation that he’d been forced to retreat and support her decision over the roster. She raised her brows, outwardly in inquiry, inwardly in surprise.
He explained, “Wallace tells me his Mary and Roger Hawkins are close to tying the knot. I assume he told you?”
“Everyone knows, but I didn’t ask what advice he wanted.”
“He’s trying to decide on the right size for Mary’s marriage portion given the match, his other daughters, and his son’s inheritance, but I’ve no idea what sum would be appropriate.”
She looked past him as she folded the tablecloth, mentally calculating. “Thirty guineas. A goodly sum Wallace can afford, not just for Mary but later for her sisters. A nice start for the new couple, and one Hawkins can match, either in cash or kind.” She met Jack’s gaze. “It’s important neither family is seen to be overwhelming the young couple.”
His brows rose. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
The light in his eyes as they met hers made her feel ridiculously pleased, as if he appreciated her insight, even valued it.