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First, Serafina knew, she must defy him.  

From Forthenby’s room, she could hear the sound of movement, vague, a sense of things being moved about, of – she assumed – men dressing for the day. A sudden, wild resolution seized her – she would go in there when the villains descended to breakfast. She would look about and see if she could find the poor creature whom they had abused. She would offer… something. A coin from her store, kind words, an embrace. She would do something to purchase her pardon, to buy some fashion of redemption for her cowardice of last night. 
 
Swift, silent, Serafina pulled off her nightgown and stood in her shift. Laurette would complain about the mess she made of its ribbons, but she could pass it off with some comment about not wishing to disturb her after having kept her so unconscionably late last night. Such deceits came easily to her: she had been trained in them her entire life. 

She had always dressed herself as a girl, so it was no trial to slip in to the one of the old muslin dresses she had insisted upon bringing with her. She had thought they would do for something comfortable to wear during the days when she was not visiting, but Laurette had refused to permit her mistress to wear such plain, such shabby things.

And, indeed, so they looked in the opulence of this room: worn, childish, and common. 

Serafina laced her stays over her slip, and pulled on the rest of her clothes, comforted by the old struggle with stockings, the fuss of layering up her petticoats. In her hurry, she made a bad job of it, but no-one would see her dishevelment. She looked in the mirror and, for the first time in weeks, recognised herself: no fine lady, merely genteel girl. Her hair hung down about her ears, auburn and wild. She supposed she ought to dress it herself, in case she was seen.

But why should she trouble herself? The door of her Forthenby’s suite opened, then close. She did not have long.  

This is futile, she told herself, this is deliberate mystifying, but she was twitching with inactivity, was nearly distracted with it. A night of broken sleep, the clinging memory of those screams. The knowledge she could not simply flee.

So it was, in bare, stockinged feet, Serafina crept over to her door, and out in to the hallway. But even as she did so, she almost collided with her husband’s valet.

“Oh,” he said, and stepped back, bowing in that insolent, swaggering way of his. “Your pardon, Miss... Uh, My Lady.”  

 “Peach.” His stock was askew, as it often was, and his waistcoat rumpled. For once, though, he actually appeared to be wearing his periwig. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. He looked hardly more than a boy, dark skinned and bold. His unkempt attire was more charming than offensive. How could Forthenby – ostentatious, proud and haughty – be served by a boy like this?

 “Anything I can help you with, my Lady?”

“Oh, I,” she fumbled for a lie.  “In fact, I was looking someone. Perhaps you would help. I need some assistance with my buckles.”

“Your buckles,” he repeated, as though it were the most ludicrous untruth he had heard in quite some time. 

Which, in fairness, it probably was. 

“Yes, I–”

“Ain’t you got,” a pause, as though he was catching himself, “I mean, isn’t your maid supposed to help you with stuff like that?”

“I’m fear I was terribly selfish last night,” she charged on with it, breathless, “and kept Laurette up far too late discussing some trivial details of jewellery.” She hoped that, in bringing up such matters, she would cause him to lose interest but Peach was still staring at her with a faint smile. “I felt I simply must permit her to have a late morning.”

“So you dressed yourself,” he said, with a certain flat inflection. 

Clearly he thought she was simple.

“Yes, and it’s only these buckles that are causing me a problem, I’m afraid, they’re-”

“It’s not just the buckles that have been giving you trouble, really, is it, my Lady?”

Serafina touched her hair, and felt the skin of her face grow hot. It was a moment before it occurred to her that this was unforgivable insolence.

But for all the ghost of a smile was on his lips, for all the wry amusement in his eyes, he was looking at her with such obvious tenderness that she did not wish to reprimand him. 

She would need all the allies she could get. 

“You sure you don’t want me to touch the rope for Laurette?” Peach asked.

“I–” 

There was something about this boy, something about his dark skin and his dark eyes and the way that he did not stand at a respectful distance, which made her falter. He meant her well. Somehow, she knew that he meant well. 

Somehow, she trusted him.

“Best not to bother her, eh?”

“I wouldn’t wish to–”

He grinned, took another step forward, “You won’t be the first Lady what I’ve helped dress.”

Serafina’s hand went to her throat, and she fell back. 

He was Forthenby’s servant. Of course.

Peach shook his head, looking down, and said, gentle “You want help with your buckles, my Lady?”

This is improper. This is desperately wrong. 

Serafina fell back another step, almost afraid. But the boy was all kindness, all teasing solicitude, and besides, she had already agreed. “Yes,” said Serafina and summoned every inch of decorum she could muster, “Yes, thank you Peach.” 

She had retreated all the way back in to her room, permitting him to enter. He clicked the door closed behind him. 

Peach glanced around at the disorder she’d created and gave a low whistle, “Want me to get some skivvies sent up to sort this out, my Lady?”

“Um, yes. Yes, if you would.”

He nodded. “So, where’s these buckles then?”

“On my shoes. They’re in my,” she pointed to her bedchamber. 

Without invitation, he strolled in and came back with them, “Was it these ones, my Lady?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you Peach.”

“How about you just sit yourself down,” he nodded to the armchair where she had spent most of the night, “and I’ll see what I can do.”
Serafina sat, trying not to fidget, to look about her, to break her composure. 

Peach knelt down at her feet with a light intake of breath, as though he were sore from riding. From the angle, she could see the long curve of his neck, disappearing in to the white fabric of his stock. His skin was clear and soft as a girl’s. 

“Hold your foot out,” he said.

A heat rushed up her neck, across her face as she complied.

“Warm in here, ain’t it?” he said, as he took her foot in one and smoothed her stocking with practiced fingers. He pressed her ankle, her heel, her instep, taking his time. “There, that should be more comfortable for you.” With the same firm, careful gestures, he placed the shoe on her foot, buckling it snugly, running his finger around the inside to check the fit. “Not too tight?”

“No,” she nearly whispered it. “Not at all.”

“That’s one. Shall we do the other then, my Lady?”

“If,” she tried to summon the correct tone, “if you would be so good, Peach.”

He held out his hand, cupped, waiting for her other foot. She arched it, letting him reach up and take it, rather than dropping it unceremoniously in to his grip. Again, he rubbed the fabric smoothed, massaging the bones and flesh of her. “You can call me Henry, my Lady, if you like.”

“Henry,” she said, and felt a little breathless. 

She needed allies, that was all. 

“Tell me, Henry, is my Lord at home this morning?”

“He’s about,” Peach conceded, “but I think he rides later.” A pause. “He’s down at breakfast at the moment.”

“And last night?”

“He dined out with a friend.” Another pause, “Who is also at breakfast.” Lingering, he pushed her foot in to the shoe. “Did you want a word with him?”

“What? No. No. If only, um, if only he would arrange a chaperone for me, today. I wish to see some fabrics.” The lies poured out of her with no purpose and there was a heat burning inside her, bewildering. 

“I’ll pass the message along to him, shall I? And there, and that’s all done for you.” Peach glanced up at her with a touch of mischief, “although if you’re shopping, my Lady, you might to reconsider your attire.”

“What?” She should say something haughty, damning, cold. Peach still held her shoe in his hand. “I–”

“You look very fetching, my Lady, but this is Paris.”

He meant she should ring for Laurette. 

She knew that she should ring for Laurette. 

“I could help you with that, if you fancied it.” She sensed there was something more to the offer than the obvious.

Serafina drew a deep breath. “How long have you been in my Lord’s service, Peach?”

He looked up from beneath dark eyebrows, still kneeling on the floor. He was massaging her ankle, subtly, “I told you to call me Henry, my Lady.”

“Henry, then. How long?”

“As my Lord Forthenby, it’s been almost two year. But I was with him before he was called that and all.” 

Her foot was set firmly back on the floor.

“Oh.” She leaned back in the chair, trying to steady her breath, feeling her stays pinch at her for some reason. “And would you say,” she looked for her fan, but it was out of reach. He was right, the room was rather warm. “Would you say he was a fair master?”

“Fairer than most. Though I see why you don’t think that.”

It was as though she had been struck, or breathed deep of smelling salts. His words yanked her out of the strange dreamlike mood which had seized her. How much did this man know? 

“But he grows on you,” Peach went on, not seeming to have noticed, “if you let him. He ain’t a wicked man.”

“Peach,” she said.

“I’ve told you, my Lady. It’s Henry.”

“I believe you overstep yourself, Peach.” She was on her feet, moving towards her bedchamber door, watching the look of assurance upon the valet’s face turn and become closed, uncertain. “Kindly ring the bell for Laurette.”

“My Lady...”

“Tell my Lord that I shall join him at the table, when I am more suitably attired.”

A pause. For a moment, Peach seemed about to impart some new confidence or insolence, but instead it was as though he pulled it all down beneath the surface, drew it back inside. 

His bowed, his face blank, quite the proper servant for the first time, and touched the bell. “As you say, my Lady.”

The moment the door closed behind him, Serafina tore of her shoes and cast them across the floor, doing her very best not to burst in to tears.