The Hampton Hotel, Harrogate
September, 1815
Doro Bigglesworth was rather startled when her employer, Horace Crowley, stopped by her office. Office may be too grand a word. Doro managed the kitchen and catering service bookkeeping from a windowless room no bigger than a linen closet.
“A guest wishes to see me?” Doro asked.
“Aye. One of the posh guests in the Grand Duchess Suite.” Crowley started to laugh. “Full fancy duchess she is with an entourage. She must think we’re all upper folk here. She called you Lady Dorothea. It was all I could do not to laugh! You best go see what the grand dame wants. Try to act a posh lady when you do.” He left chuckling.
Doro’s heart sank. She kept her title to herself here. Socially prominent guests would be horrified at an earl’s daughter working for wages. Worse, Crowley and the other staff would treat her as an oddity. She’d lose their comradery or, worse, find herself unemployed.
A young woman, wearing a plain but well-made afternoon dress, opened the door to Doro’s knock.
“I’m, ah, Dorothea Bigglesworth. Someone wishes to see me?” she asked, hoping it was a mistake.
“Thank you for coming, my lady. Her Grace will be pleased.” Before Doro could think, deny, or react, the woman showed her into a sitting room, and she was confronted by one of the most powerful women in Britain. The Duchess of Haverford smiled across at her.
The duchess appeared much as she had six years before when they had met at a house party. She had the inherent dignity of a duchess and the profound beauty of a woman whose character and bone structure combined to allow her to age well. Their encounter had been brief, and Doro couldn’t imagine what this august person might want with her.
“It is you, Dorothea! I was certain I recognized you working in the dining room this morning, but I feared my memory might be faulty.”
Doro sighed. Most people saw what they expected to see and would have seen only a hotel employee. Her Grace was sharper than most.
“Please come and sit with me for a while. I suspect you have a story to tell, and I’d like to hear it.” The duchess glanced at her companion, who bowed out and promised tea. Doro doubted she would be there long enough for it to come up from the kitchens, but she sat across from Her Grace as requested.
“This hotel is charming, but it must be fine indeed if it can manage to include an earl’s daughter among its employees,” the duchess said, sympathy and curiosity radiating from her expression in equal measure.
“They don’t know about my status, Your Grace. My employer didn’t believe the message. He assumed you were mistaken, and I would prefer to keep it that way,” Doro said. “I know what I’m doing isn’t the done thing, but I want neither pity nor scorn, and most people—”
“I am not most people, and I have no doubt you have your reasons. Dare I ask you to share them with me?” the older woman asked.
Tea appeared miraculously from somewhere in the suite, along with some rather lovely biscuits. If Doro hadn’t been so distressed, she might have asked the source and the recipe.
“I’m not the dragon many call me, Dorothea. If you are in distress, perhaps I could help.”
The sympathy, the tea, and some magic all the duchess’s own, soon had Doro spilling out her heart. The entire haut ton must know about her father’s death, his lack of an heir, his five wives in succession, and his overabundance of daughters. The rest, too embarrassing to bandy about, had been less well known. She explained about the lack of provision in her father’s will, her distant cousin’s rapid seizing of her childhood home, and his vile wife’s treatment of Patience, her stepmother and good friend.
“All of you? Living in a tiny cottage in Starbrook?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Patience has a toddler and two half-grown stepdaughters to raise. Most of my sisters live there still, but we have all tried to fend for ourselves, and, where possible, send her money to help with expenses.” Doro leaned forward urgently. “Please know that I don’t mind it. I board here, freeing board and space. I rather like working. It gives me pride, and I love Patience. We’re all doing what we can.”
“You never wished for a come-out? Marriage? A home of your own?” The duchess asked.
“Once. Mourning followed by poverty made a Season impossible. That time has passed, however, and I am content.” She was. Doro sincerely meant it. Mostly. Except walking out with Mr. Clarke on her half days had allowed hope to creep in to her lonely heart. She saw no reason to share that bit of information.
The Duchess of Haverford appeared skeptical but was too generous to voice her doubts. She put down her teacup. “Thank you for sharing your situation. I’m not sure what I can do to help you or your stepmother, but know that I will keep you all in mind should an idea occur.” She raised a brow as a thought occurred. “Lady Patience is the cousin of Lady Rose St Aubyn is she not?”
Doro agreed that was true, but could see no way it mattered. The duchess brushed it aside.
“I regret I may have complicated your life, Dorothea. What will you tell your employer?”
Doro grinned. “I’ll tell him you discovered that The Hampton’s famous current buns were my doing and you wanted my recipe. I’ll tell him I refused. We can’t have Hampton’s treasures bandied about.”
The duchess laughed gleefully. “I admire your backbone, Dorothea Bigglesworth. You are a woman of strength and courage.”
Doro returned to her little cupboard with a song in her heart. The office may not be much, but it was her domain and she, Doro Bigglesworth, was a woman of strength.
Doro Bigglesworth is the heroine of Caroline Warfield’s “Lady Dorothea’s Curate”, a story in Desperate Daughters. On preorder now. Only 99c until publication.
