The Emerald Duchess Read Online Free

dearie,” the little voice in her head said. “How will you get on? The money Lord Wyndham left you will not last long.”
    “I don’t know,” Emily said crossly. Suddenly she caught sight of herself in the glass over the dressing table. In the black dress, with her hair pulled back so severely, she did not look at all like Althea Wyndham. Why, she thought, I look almost like Withers did when she was Mama’s maid. All I need is an apron and cap!
    Abruptly, she sat down on the little satin stool and stared at her reflection, her eyes wide. The answer to her problem stared back at her. With growing excitement she thought of this new solution. Was she not, by training, a most superior dresser, experienced in all matters to do with caring for a lady of quality? Had she not learned all the tricks of presenting her mother at her best, from creating her elaborate hairdos to coordinating her outfits and jewels, as well as mending and laundering her clothes? And then, because she had been such a solitary child, there had been all those hours spent watching Withers: the way she spoke and acted and conducted herself with the other servants. Of course it was ridiculous that a Wyndham of Berks should ever lower herself by going into service, but there was nothing else she could do. And surely even being a servant was more comfortable than starving and less demeaning than becoming a Cyprian like her mother.
    Emily got up to pace the room again. I shall not be Emily Wyndham, she thought, for that would never do. As her uncle had pointed out, there were too many people who would remember the dashing bark of frailty who had brought to the name of Wyndham such infamy and shame. No, not a Wyndham at all. She would take her mother’s maiden name and her own middle name as well. Yes, Margaret Nelson, that sounded prosaic enough. Or should she be Maggie or Meg? She reminded herself she was about to become the most-sought-after, most superior dresser in all London: Margaret it would be, or perhaps just Nelson.
    Suddenly she bent and stared at her reflection in the glass again. She knew it was the perfect solution, so why did she feel this terrible sense of unease, of doubt? She did not think it was because she was afraid of hard work, although she knew that she had never really done much of it until the last few months of her mother’s life, and even then she had always summoned Betty to carry the slops and chamberpots and change the soiled sheets. And she knew that taking care of her mother had not really prepared her for serving as a stranger’s maid, forced to live in close proximity and involved in all the intimate details of her life. She would have to help her mistress from her bath, dry her, clip her toenails, and pluck her eyebrows, as well as wash her soiled linen and care for her when she was ill. And perhaps her mistress would have rotting teeth and bad breath, or a foul body odor. Ladies of quality were not all sweet young things, not all beautiful, fastidious Lady Wyndhams. She shook her head and swallowed. She would just have to adjust, she had no other choice, and if a situation became too unpleasant, she could always hand in her notice. Besides, this was the only solution that made any sense at all; the days when Miss Emily Wyndham could pick and choose were gone forever. No, Margaret Nelson it would have to be.
    “I don’t think it’s that easy, m’dear,” the little voice warned. “How will you get a position? You can’t just knock on imposing doors and bid the butler present you to the lady of the house.”
    Emily sank down before the fire and pondered this new problem. Of course, she would need references, very, very good references. But where on earth could she get them? She supposed she could write them herself, but what if her employer checked up and discovered that Lady So-and-So and Countess Such-and-Such did not exist? What, then?
    Suddenly, a picture of Lady Wyndham’s fat, disagreeable face came to mind,