Master's Match Read online

  “The master asked fer clear soup, bread, and cheese. I declare, sometimes my talents are wasted here.” She glanced at the cooling cake on the counter. “He’ll usually take dessert if I have it, though. That’s why I made it.”

  “Oh!” Becca couldn’t help but eye the fluffy-looking treat as though she were an ant at a picnic. She inhaled to allow its sweet scent to fill her nostrils.

  Cook chuckled. “There’ll be enough fer ya to have a thin slice. The master don’t mind. He can’t eat a whole cake anyway.”

  “But what about the rest of dinner?” If she had enough money to live in a fine home and pay servants well, she’d eat like a queen every night. “If he’s eatin’ that poor, are we servants on bread and water?” Eager for information, she had blurted the term “servant” for the first time in reference to herself. The idea sounded so strange she wondered if she could ever become accustomed to it.

  Cook let out a hearty laugh. “We’ll be havin’ the same. I know that sounds odd, and in most fine homes, I’d venture it would be odd. But he lives simply. All that’ll change when Miss Caldwell becomes his wife. Mark my words. Now off to the scullery with ya. Ye’ve got work to do.”

  Scrubbing pots wasn’t easy, but she already knew that from her chores at home. Throwing herself into the task, she relished the chance to prove her worth. If she failed at this job, an unwanted match with Micah awaited.

  Soon she heard Cook’s exasperation. “I’ve got soup to prepare. Why must she leave the silver in the way?”

  Becca rushed to the main part of the kitchen and saw Cook with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at silver implements on the table. “Shall I move those, Cook?”

  Cook thought for a moment, then looked at the kitchen door. “No tellin’ where she went. Oh, all right, girlie.” She picked up a set of silver candlesticks with marble orbs in the center and matching marble platforms on the ends. “I think she’s gettin’ ready for Miss Caldwell to visit. She demands that all the silver stay shiny whether or not it’s bein’ used at the moment. She looks in the drawers, ya know.” Cook scrunched her nose. “Here. Put these in the sidebar in the dinin’ room.”

  Becca took them and found herself surprised by their substantial weight. “Yes, ma’am.”

  One candlestick in each hand, she pushed open the door that was already ajar and entered the formal dining room. She’d prepared herself to see luxurious furnishings, but when she saw the extent of the room, she stopped and took a breath. The space seemed more immense than her entire home. A mahogany dining table with twelve matching seats beckoned guests to a party. Carved corner cabinets displayed dishes too pretty to use for eating—even for formal dining. Oil paintings of floral arrangements added beauty to the room, as did a table runner with intricate embroidery. Brass candlesticks with tapered, cream-colored beeswax candles adorned the table.

  Gawking too long wouldn’t be advisable, since Cook was sure to call her back into the scullery if she lingered. She looked for the sidebar and found a heavy piece of furniture with a mirror. It had two rows of drawers she suspected held utensils and table linens. On the bottom, two doors looked as though they concealed spaces tall enough for the candlesticks to be stored standing. She decided to try one of those. As she shifted both candlesticks to one hand so she could open the door, one dropped. The thud it made against the floor made the chime in the floor clock across the room vibrate.

  “Oh!” She gasped. Bending down to retrieve the fallen stick, she realized her hands shook, and her heart beat with such fear her body felt like one big pulse.

  Cook ran into the room. “Girlie! What happened?”

  “I–I’m sorry. I dropped one. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

  Harrod entered. “What is all the commotion?”

  Cook pointed at Becca. “She dropped a candlestick. She didn’t mean no harm.”

  “Give that to me.” Harrod extended his hand and took the candlestick. Becca watched, still shaking, as he inspected it. “No harm done. Amazing.” He looked at the floor. Bending toward it, he squinted and pointed. “What is that I see? A dent?” He pursed his lips.

  “She didn’t mean it,” Cook protested.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Harrod looked her in the eye. “You have done irreparable damage to the master’s residence. Such clumsiness will not be tolerated. Miss Hanham, pack your belongings and prepare to leave at once. You are dismissed.”

  Three

  From his upstairs study, Nash heard voices in the dining room. The butler sounded upset, a condition unlike his usual composed self. Nash ventured into the room to assess the situation.

  He saw Harrod, silver-and-marble candlestick in hand, along with Cook and a servant he’d never before seen. He studied the girl and was struck by how familiar she seemed. Who was she? “I say, what’s happening here?”

  Taken by surprise, Harrod straightened, then answered, “Mr. Abercrombie, sir. I beg your forgiveness. I was quite distracted by an incident here, and I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Judging from her mode of dress, Nash discerned the girl was the new scullery maid. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep from staring at the brunette beauty.

  The girl surveyed him, fear lighting her eyes. She blushed and averted her gaze to her feet.

  “The girl will be gone within a quarter hour. You have my word,” Harrod said.

  Nash shook his head and held up his palm. “Wait.”

  The girl looked back up with crystal blue eyes peeking at him from under midnight black eyelashes. Her pale, heart-shaped face stirred a memory; suddenly he knew. Before him stood the girl who sold him that box of lucifers so many years ago. Except now she was a woman. An extraordinary-looking young woman. The light in her eyes told him she recognized him, too. Her lips parted, and her fear seemed to diminish. If only he could paint a portrait to capture such loveliness!

  “Where is she going?” he asked Harrod without looking at him.

  “Sir?” he responded. “Why, I suppose she shall be returning to her home.”

  Nash kept looking at her. Just seeing her brought to his heart emotions he’d never felt, emotions far beyond compassion and pity. He was drawn to her in a way he had never been drawn to a woman. The feelings took him by surprise in their existence—and their intensity. He could hardly speak. “Whatever for?”

  Harrod touched his arm. “Sir, this, this—girl, dropped one of your dearly departed mother’s candlesticks and caused a dent in the dining room floor that I do not believe can ever be repaired. If you will inspect the damage, sir.” He pointed to a small nick in the floor, causing Nash finally to take his gaze from the new maid.

  “Oh, that. Well.” He searched for a defense. “That could have been made by my boot this very morning. And as for those candlesticks, I never liked them.”

  “But, sir!” Harrod protested.

  Nash focused on the girl. “What is your name, miss?”

  She curtsied. “Becca. Becca Hanham, sir.”

  Seeing her legs shake in fear, he felt pity.

  “I–I’m sorry for my mistake, sir. I pray you will forgive me.”

  “That’s all I needed to hear. Becca, you shall remain in my employ if that should please you.”

  She blushed a most flattering shade of rose. “I couldn’t ask for a better answer to my prayers, sir.”

  “You were actually praying that I could keep you on as my scullery maid?” Nash couldn’t imagine anyone wanting a job of low station so much.

  She looked him in the eye. “Yes, sir. I’ve seen the Lord answer prayer before, and He sure did this time.”

  “Indeed.” Nash smiled at her, and her face softened.

  Harrod cleared his throat. “Of course your decision is final, Mr. Abercrombie. She will continue to function as your scullery maid. However, I assure you, never will she touch a piece of valuable silver again.” He eyed the tiny nick. “If I may say so, Miss Caldwell will be very upset to spy such a spot in a dining room where
she will be entertaining once she is your wife.”

  Nash tried not to shudder. Though Hazel would never entertain in his home, he wanted to avoid unpleasantness with her all the same. “Please have it filled in, then, if possible.”

  “I’ll do my best. Restoring it now would certainly be wise.”

  “She’s going on a trip to Hartford. There should be time to have it repaired before she returns.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harrod examined the nick once more. “The cost could be considerable. May I suggest we subtract the amount from the girl’s pay to compensate for the damage? She should not have been so careless with that candlestick.”

  Harrod had his full attention. “No, I shall cover the expense. She admitted her mistake, and that is enough for me.”

  “Very well. You are too kind.”

  “Yes, sir,” the girl agreed. “Thank you, sir.”

  Seeing her straight on, he knew for certain the match girl stood before him. He remembered the encounter well. He wasn’t supposed to be out that night except he had forgotten his father’s birthday—a lapse that still made him cringe to remember—and he needed to purchase a last-minute gift. He hadn’t planned to stumble upon a destitute girl begging any passerby to purchase her wares. Papa’s prosperity and the Abercrombie position had shielded him from the realities of child labor and deep poverty. When the Abercrombies bestowed Christian charity—and those occasions happened often—Papa made the decision. Before that evening, no one beseeched Nash for help. The girl’s pitiful clothing and the way she shivered against the cold had brought him to such sorrow he felt led to buy enough lucifers to last a year and then pay more than they were worth. His generosity was his first step as a Christian man, young though he was.

  Because it was the first time he’d acted on his own to give charity to another person, remembrance of the brief event stayed with him. From time to time he recalled her cherubic face and wondered what had happened to her. The unmistakable wide blue eyes, soft pink cheeks, and dark hair falling in curls spoke of her as a young woman. What a beauty she had become!

  He couldn’t believe it. So the girl had grown up and become his scullery maid. His heart lurched, almost stopping with happiness at finding her once more. His stomach quivered with an unfamiliar, disconcerting, and strange type of excitement. He wanted to experience it again.

  Without notice or beckoning, an idea popped into his mind. An idea that could change his life forever.

  ❧

  Of all the houses in Providence, she had somehow stumbled on Nash Abercrombie’s—the boy she had been praying for all these years. How did that happen? Was it the Lord’s doing?

  The master’s authoritative voice resonated in the room, and Becca recognized its beauty. The tone sounded as comforting as it had the night she first met him, but the pitch had grown deeper, more mature. Hearing him made her skin prickle in delight, much like listening to a sentimental song.

  And to look at him! His very presence affected her. She hadn’t expected to see him again, looking so comely with lustrous hair that rippled like the bay waters at midnight and eyes as brown as a luxurious cup of coffee. His glance left her weak to the core. Becca felt her face warm. Her breathing became rapid, and her knees felt as though they could no longer hold her weight.

  “Off with you, now,” Harrod said, though not in too harsh a tone.

  Cook nodded and gave Becca a gentle shove to prod her into the kitchen. Becca wanted to look back at the master one last time, but she knew better.

  The kitchen, with its cooking aromas and warm fire, seemed like a place of sanctuary. As soon as the door shut behind them, Becca headed toward the table, pulled out a chair, and plopped into it. She couldn’t resist allowing her gaze to fall toward the door. “So that was the master,” she whispered.

  “’Tis he.” Cook made her way to Becca and placed her hand on her new charge’s shoulder. “Ya had quite a scare, almost bein’ fired. Good thing Mr. Abercrombie showed up when he did.”

  She nodded.

  “Ya seem flushed.” Cook touched Becca’s cheek with the back of her hand. “What’s the matter? Are ya ill?”

  “N–no.” She may have seemed ill but felt far from it. If her feelings were illness, she wished she could be sick all the time. To demonstrate Cook need not worry that Becca couldn’t work, she forced herself to stand.

  “But I wouldn’t imagine ye’d be expectin’ to see the master yet. And ya won’t be seein’ him any more tonight, either.” Cook shooed her new scullery maid with a swoop of her hand. “He’ll be with us tomorrow mornin’ at prayer time. But ye’re to speak to him only if ye’re spoken to, ya hear?”

  “Oh.” He would never remember her. She felt her hopes that she could ever thank him melt.

  “Ya do understand.” Cook’s voice sounded sterner than Becca had heard from her. “Harrod hired ya to do yer work invisible-like. Ya ain’t allowed to take liberties in talkin’ to anybody who’d employ ya, or you’ll be turned out on yer ear in no time.”

  So she was no longer a person. “I understand.”

  “I have a feelin’ ya ain’t used to bein’ a scullery maid, are ya?”

  She shook her head.

  “Haven’t ya ever worked a day in yer life?”

  “Of course. At home.”

  Cook waved her hand at Becca. “No wonder ye’re so sheltered. Ye’re a pretty girlie. I imagine ye’ll be movin’ on to better things shortly. But for now, do yer best at the job before ya, and all will work out. Especially if ya take my advice and behave as ye’re expected. Ya see, us downstairs servants ain’t allowed to be visible to the master. If he sees ya, look down at the floor and stay still till he passes.”

  This advice came as a shock. “That don’t seem polite. Not so much as a greetin’?”

  “Never. Speakin’ to the master’s very impolite. And you most assuredly don’t want ta speak to his new wife once he marries.” While Becca hid her thoughts, Cook rattled on. “Just between you and me and the fence post, I don’t much like that woman what’s been chasin’ him. But I’m just a cook, so I got no say in the matter.” Cook leaned close enough to whisper. “Her name’s Hazel. We servants call her Witch Hazel.” She laughed so that her chest bobbed up and down, but she clapped her hand over her lips to stifle herself.

  How horrible this Hazel woman must be. Yet no matter how awful she was, no one in Becca’s station stood a chance with an Abercrombie. Discouraged, she retreated to the scullery and busied herself with the pots. She scrubbed through the dinner hour, wondering when she would be able to eat her portion of delicious-smelling soup, but it stood to reason that the servants would eat after the master and then the upstairs servants.

  “Cook?”

  The older woman stopped kneading dough long enough to answer. “Yea?”

  “Do you think I could go home long enough to tell my parents where I am? I’m afraid Mother might worry.”

  Cook glanced outside and nodded toward the black night and newly fallen snow. “She’d worry more if she knew ya was walkin’ the streets this late. No, ye’d best go to bed. Ya can have a bit o’ leisure before ya shut yer eyes. Six thirty comes mighty early in the mornin’.”

  “Six thirty?”

  “If I was you, I’d rise at six. Ye’re lucky ya don’t work for a large household with lots of servants. If ya did, the pile of dishes ye’d be lookin’ at t’would be three times as high.” She glanced around the kitchen and grinned. “Ah, this is an easy life.”

  Becca doubted “easy” was the word, but gratitude for any mercy the Lord showed filled her heart. Thursday would arrive in a day. Then she’d go home and tell her parents what transpired.

  Harrod entered.

  “Yer cocoa’s up soon.” Cook’s voice betrayed her impatience.

  “I am not here for that.” Harrod regarded Becca. “Girlie, Mr. Abercrombie wishes to speak with you.”

  Using her peripheral vision, Becca could see Cook’s eyes widen. Becca pointed to herse
lf. “Me? Have I done somethin’ else wrong already?”

  “He says not. I do not know what his business is with you. Come with me.”

  Becca looked down at her clothing, splattered with grease, water, and soap. “May I freshen meself?”

  “There is no time. He awaits.”

  Though Harrod lingered at the kitchen door, Becca had to speak to Cook. “Ya—ya didn’t say I did a poor job, did ya?”

  “Oh no. Ya did a fine job, especially for one not used to such work. Why, I’d tell the master meself, if I wasn’t so busy.”

  Becca nodded. She believed Cook hadn’t complained about her. She had no reason since Becca had been careful to be obedient and industrious. She wasn’t as sure Cook wanted to face the master to defend Becca.

  “Come along, girlie,” Harrod prodded. “You won’t find out what Mr. Abercrombie wants as long as you keep standing here.”

  Trying to hide shaking hands by keeping them clasped, Becca followed Harrod through the house. While the furnishings and decor told the story of a wealthy man, the setting didn’t strike her to be as ostentatious as the house where she was interviewed by the aloof woman. She hoped her meeting with the master would go better than that.

  When they arrived at the study on the third floor, Harrod announced her. She entered, and Harrod shut the door behind her. Nash sat in a leather chair behind his desk. She held back a gasp with wonder at being so close to him once again. Nash’s face looked even more handsome and kind than she remembered. To be working for a man who exuded such generosity of spirit was nothing less than a gift from God. Yet she could only be a servant to him. And if she’d done something wrong to cause her dismissal, she’d lose even that status.

  Avoiding his gaze so as not to appear bold, she observed her surroundings. To her surprise, his study was small and dark with nautical touches. The room contrasted to Mrs. Gill’s spacious and light sitting room enhanced by floral wallpaper. Two hurricane lamps on Mr. Abercrombie’s desk provided him light. She withheld a smile. Perhaps a man felt more at ease in an atmosphere akin to a ship’s cabin rather than a rose-colored loft flooded with sun. She also noticed a fixed ladder left of the doorway and a hatch above. This must have been the access to the widow’s walk on his home. A small fire glowed in the hearth. However, his presence made the room seem as warm as the most appealing early summer day. Still, she approached him with trepidation, not looking him in the face. She felt uncomfortable talking to the master alone in defiance of her earlier instructions to do everything possible to stay invisible to him. She hoped she wouldn’t make a fool of herself. She said a prayer for wisdom.