“Bloody ’ell?” muttered a voice.

“Queenie?” I demanded and fumbled to light my candle. My maid stood before me, hair disheveled, cap askew, blinking in the candlelight.

“Cor blimey, miss,” she said. “You didn’t half give me a nasty turn there. Scared me out of me ruddy wits.”

“I scared you?” I tried not to sound too shaky. “How do you think I felt when I touched a cold hand when I was expecting to feel an eiderdown? What were you doing on my bed?”

She had the grace to look somewhat sheepish. “Sorry, miss. I came up after me supper to put your hot water bottle in and I just sat down for a minute on the bed and I must have nodded off.”

“I’ve told you before about lying on my bed, haven’t I?” I said.

“I know. And I didn’t mean to, honest. But I get so sleepy after all that stodge they feed us in the servants’ hall. I swear we’ve had stew and dumplings three nights in a row.”

“You should be glad you have enough to eat,” I said, trying to sound like a mistress putting her servant in her place. “When I was in London you should have seen all those poor wretches queuing up for soup. You have a job and a roof over your head, so you should work harder to make sure you keep them.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I do try, miss,” she said. “Honest I do. But you know I’m thicker than two planks. You knew that when you took me on.”

“You’re right, I did.” I sighed. “But I had hopes that you might improve, given time.”

“Ain’t I improved at all, then?”

“You still haven’t learned to call me ‘my lady’ and not ‘miss.’”

“Strike me pink, so I ain’t.” She chuckled. “I try, but when I’m flustered it goes right out of my head.”

I sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Queenie? My sister-in-law is badgering me every day to get rid of you.”

“Spiteful cow,” Queenie muttered.

“Queenie. You’re talking about the Duchess of Rannoch.”

“I don’t care who she is, she’s still a spiteful cow,” Queenie said. “And ungrateful too, after all what you’ve done for her. Staying up here, month after month, because she wanted company, and now she turns on you like this. If I was you I’d get out while the going is good and leave her to get on with things by herself.”

“I may just do that,” I said. “Can you find me another candle? I want to write a letter.”

“Bob’s yer uncle, miss,” she said, instantly happy again. “I’ll go and take the one out of her bathroom—then just see how she likes going to the lav in the middle of the night in the dark.”

“Queenie, you’re incorrigible,” I said, trying not to laugh. “There’s a perfectly good candle on top of my chest of drawers. Then tomorrow morning I want you to bring my trunk down from the attic.”