“Good day, Mrs. Crabtree,” Sophie said. “How is that beef stew coming along?”

“Fine, fine,” Mrs. Crabtree said absently. “We were a bit short on carrots, but I think it will be tasty nonetheless. Have you  seen Mr. Bridgerton?”

Sophie blinked in surprise at the question. “In his room. Just a minute ago.”

“Well, he’s not there now.”

“I think he had to use the chamber pot.”

Mrs. Crabtree didn’t even blush; it was the sort of conversation servants often had about their employers. “Well, if he did  use it, he didn’t use it, if you know what I mean,” she said. “The room smelled as fresh as a spring day.”

Sophie frowned. “And he wasn’t there?”

“Neither hide nor hair.”

“I can’t imagine where he might have gone.”

Mrs. Crabtree planted her hands on her ample hips. “I’ll search the downstairs and you search the up. One of us is bound to find him.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Mrs. Crabtree. If he’s left his room, he probably had a good reason. Most likely, he doesn’t want to be found.”

“But he’s ill,” Mrs. Crabtree protested.

Sophie considered that, then pictured his face in her mind. His skin had held a healthy glow and he hadn’t looked the least bit tired. “I’m not so certain about that, Mrs. Crabtree,” she finally said. “I think he’s malingering on purpose.”

“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Crabtree scoffed. “Mr. Bridgerton would never do something like that.”

Sophie shrugged. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but truly, he doesn’t look the least bit ill any longer.”

“It’s my tonics,” Mrs. Crabtree said with a confident nod. “I told you they’d speed up his recovery.”

Sophie had seen Mr. Crabtree dump the tonics in the rosebushes; she’d also seen the aftermath. It hadn’t been a pretty sight. How she managed to smile and nod, she’d never know.

“Well, I for one would like to know where he went,” Mrs. Crabtree continued. “He shouldn’t be out of bed, and he knows it.”

“I’m sure he’ll return soon,” Sophie said placatingly. “In the meantime, do you need any help in the kitchen?”

Mrs. Crabtree shook her head. “No, no. All that stew needs to do now is cook. And besides, Mr. Bridgerton has been scolding me for allowing you to work.”

“But—”

“No arguments, if you please,” Mrs. Crabtree cut in. “He’s right, of course. You’re a guest here, and you shouldn’t have to  lift a finger.”

“I’m not a guest,” Sophie protested.

“Well, then, what are you?”

That gave Sophie pause. “I have no idea,” she finally said, “but I’m definitely not a guest. A guest would be ... A guest would  be ...” She struggled to make sense of her thoughts and feelings. “I suppose a guest would be someone who is of the same social rank, or at least close to it. A guest would be someone who has never had to wait upon another person, or scrub  floors, or empty chamber pots. A guest would be—”

“Anyone the master of the house chooses to invite as a guest,” Mrs. Crabtree retorted. “That’s the beauty of being the master  of the house. You can do anything you please. And you should stop belittling yourself. If Mr. Bridgerton chooses to regard  you as a houseguest, then you should accept his judgment and enjoy yourself. When was the last time you were able to live  in comfort without having to work your fingers to the bone in return?”

“He can’t truly regard me as a houseguest,” Sophie said quietly. “If he did, he would have installed a chaperone for the protection of my reputation.”

“As if I would allow anything untoward in my house,” Mrs. Crabtree bristled.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Sophie assured her. “But where reputations are at stake, appearance is just as important as fact.  And in the eyes of society, a housekeeper does not qualify as a chaperone, no matter how strict and pure her morals may be.”

“If that’s true,” Mrs. Crabtree protested, “then you need a chaperone, Miss Sophie.”

“Don’t be silly. I don’t need a chaperone because I’m not of his class. No one cares if a housemaid lives and works in the household of a single man. No one thinks any less of her, and certainly no one who would consider her for marriage would consider her ruined.” Sophie shrugged. “It’s the way of the world. And obviously it’s the way Mr. Bridgerton thinks,  whether he’ll admit it or not, because he has never once said a word about it being improper for me to be here.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Mrs. Crabtree announced. “I don’t like it one bit.”

Sophie just smiled, because it was so sweet of the housekeeper to care. “I think I’m going to take myself off for a walk,” she said, “as long as you’re certain you don’t need any help in the kitchen. And,” she added with a sly grin, “as long as I’m in this strange, hazy position. I might not be a guest, but it is the first time in years I’m not a servant, and I’m going to enjoy my free time while it lasts.”

Mrs. Crabtree gave her a hearty pat on the shoulder. “You do that, Miss Sophie. And pick a flower for me while you’re out there.”

Sophie grinned and headed out the front door. It was a lovely day, unseasonably warm and sunny, and the air held the gentle fragrance of the first blooms of spring. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d taken a walk for the simple pleasure of enjoying  the fresh air.