The Lady in Disguise

Chapter Twelve

Sculthorpe Abbey

Thursday - 6 o'clock in the morning...

Anyone who had ever shared a bed or even a bedchamber with Emilia Finch quickly learned two things: the first was that she was never still in sleep — whether she was flopping herself over or kicking or even, Charity once swore, launching her bedmate across the room and nearly out the window — and the second was that, once Emilia had finally stilled, waking her was near impossible.

"See, that's because you wore yourself clean out in the night," her father would say. "Any sound that comes after that may well be a lullaby."

Emilia supposed he must be right. Sounds did very little. Neither roosters nor church bells, far or even directly near, came close to rousing her. Even village knocker-ups, no matter how harshly they tapped on the window, routinely failed to make her stir.

Emilia's "useless layabout tendencies" had earned her more than a few wake-up slaps from the housekeeper at Hartley Hall in her first year, since the scullery maid was meant to be the first to rise. Luckily, the old harridan eventually got tired of the task and, as the other maids shaking her awake only worked on occasion, the tried-and-true method became the downstairs maids wringing a wet rag over her face at various levels of cleanliness — mostly not so — until she woke gasping and spluttering.

As in all things, it had been better at Crewe House. Neither Cook nor Mrs. Douglass had ever slapped her, and both had been quite horrified when Emilia suggested it as a way to wake her if all else failed. No dirty rags were wrung over her head either. If her night's exertions were too much, when shaking her or pulling off the covers did no good, she more often than not woke to Cook gently wafting a plate of bacon or that morning's baking under her nose. Scent often worked best, and Emilia preferred when it was something sweet like a nutty bun and not something sharp like spirits of ammonia — saved for only the most dire bouts of sleeping in. That one was worse than a slap, but when needs must...

This morning's wake-up scent, however, was uniquely disgusting. It wasn't that caustic, smelling salt aroma, but something she couldn't quite place. In her early haze, she imagined Cook was standing in front of her bed at Crewe House, wafting a boiling pot of house slop, adding to the rude awakening by running a smelly rag up and down her cheek. Emilia pulled the blankets over her head to stop the onslaught, while Cook let out a series of little whines.

It was then that Emilia opened her eyes to find the covers in question were far too fine to be her own comfortably worn set at Crewe House. And the thing now nuzzling its way underneath was certainly not Cook.

"That explains the whining," she huffed as Mopsy poked his cold snout into her nose before licking it, "and the wetness," she added, holding her breath until she got out from under the counterpane, "and the smell," she choked out. "I wonder how I might go about cleaning your teeth."

Mopsy made no protest as he was too busy failing to get himself out from under the heavy fabric. She swept it off him with a laugh, actually surprised to find all the blankets weren't on the floor or twisted around her legs. She woke that way more often than not. Then again, she did remember waking in the night, possibly trying and failing to roll over, only to find a soft, furry head and a warm paw on her belly. She must have decided not to disturb him.

Still, she felt refreshed. More so than she had since she could remember. After the events of last evening, she'd thought she'd be tossing the night away. Mary Hartley's presence brought with it memories of all the pain and degradation of those years. By all rights, she should be feeling miserable. The only answer she could find as to why she was not was Mopsy. "Perhaps that's the secret to a good night's sleep," she sighed, looping an arm around his fuzzy neck, "a proper cuddle."