Lily Read Online Free

master’s house is in Cornwall, why don’t you look—”
    “Because the estate is isolated, and it’s hard to find any but slovenly country girls who’ll stay past a month or two. The master’s particular and won’t put up with sluts. It was only an idea,” the sour-faced woman added ungraciously. “I thought to ask, though I didn’t really expect you to know anyone who would do.”
    Mrs. Bickle’s smile finally wavered, and her curtsey was the merest bob of the knees before she turned and left the room.
    She was hardly out the door when Lily stood up and followed her.
    She found the landlady in the inn’s private parlor, pouring tea for an old man who was reading the newspaper in front of a coal fire. When she saw Lily, her smile came back. “The privy’s behind the house, dear, just through this—”
    “Mrs. Bickle, I have a favor to ask you. I have no money, nor am I likely to get any soon, so I won’t pretend that what I need is only to be a loan. I want to write a letter. It—it’s rather urgent. I don’t need a stamp, just pen and ink, and perhaps an envelope if you—”
    “Is it a piece of paper and a quill you want?”
    “I—yes.”
    “Well, for goodness sake.” She looked relieved that it wasn’t more. “Come over here, lamb.” She went to a writing desk in the corner of the parlor. “Can you see in the murk? I can light a candle if you want it.”
    “No, this is fine. Thank you so much, I can’t tell you—”
    “Nonsense, help yourself and take as long as you like.” She gave Lily two bracing pats on the arm and went out.
    She sat down. The paper was plain but surprisingly good—an unhoped-for piece of luck. She found the newest-looking quill and dipped it in the well inset in the desktop. After a minute’s thought, she began to write.
    “Lily Tr—” She stopped short, amazed at the stupidity of what she’d almost done. What would her name be, then? T-r what? A tiny smile pulled at her lips and she set the pen to paper again. “Lily Troublefield has been in my employ for the last year and a half. During that time she has shown herself to be a biddable, honest, and able girl in the capacity of maid-of-all-work in my household. She leaves my employ because”—she paused again and tapped the quill against her lips thoughtfully—“because I am about to embark on a year-long journey on the European Continent, and Lily is unwilling to continue in service away from home for so long a time. I know her to be of good character and cheerful disposition; she is naturally industrious and uncommonly intelligent for a girl of her class. My recommendation of Lily is unqualified.”
    Had she overdone it? Probably, but she couldn’t help liking the “uncommonly intelligent” part. With a self-conscious flourish, she signed the paper, “Dow. Lady Estelle Clairton-Davies, Marchioness of Frome.”
    There really was such a person—she owned a country house outside Lyme, and once Lily had seen her rather grand coach-and-four waiting beside a jeweler’s shop in the town. But she’d skillfully gotten rid of her ladyship by shipping her off to Europe, so the likelihood of anyone writing to her to verify the truthfulness of this reference was small—a risk worth taking. She sprinkled silver sand across the paper, waited a moment and blew it away, folded the letter, and tucked it into an envelope. It looked too crisp, too clean. She massaged it between her fingers for a few seconds, folded it in half, unfolded it, folded it again. Better. She slid it into her pocket and stood up.
    How did she look? Her dark-blue dress of cotton cambric was shabby enough, but was it too fine nonetheless for the likes of a humble maid-of-all-work? Perhaps, but then again, perhaps not for one who had worked in the home of so illustrious a personage as the Marchioness of Frome. It didn’t matter, she had nothing else. And there were other ways to convince the prune-faced lady from Cornwall that she was a maid.