Authors: Elizabeth Townsend
“You will? How interesting. Go away!”
I could hear her poking around and the creak of her weight on the stairs. Her voice floated back down to me: “And you can wash my blue morning dress….”
I didn’t answer. There was a faint charred smell gently making its way from the stove, just noticeable above the bath salts. Teeth gritted, I climbed out of the tub, wrapped myself in a towel, and approached the oven. Hmmm. The carrots did appear a bit scorched. I ladled a dipperful of water into the pan, and the smell of charred steam now added its perfume to the air. Bah. I stalked back behind the screen and dressed.
By the time I had my hair done, there was a charcoal beef and potato smell to match the scorched carrot smell. And when I had finally hauled out the meat and potatoes and served some uneven slices onto the plates, I surveyed it with disgust. The beef was burned on the outside and rare inside. The onion skin was still tough. The potato skins were blackened, as were the bits of potato that had stuck to the oven interior. (The muffled popping noise I had heard had been three of the potatoes exploding.) The carrots had burned patches and a smoky taste.
I leaned over to peer into the oven at the potato fragments. What a horrible mess. Henry would not be pleased when he cleaned it again on Thursday. I wiped my forehead, which was perspiring from the heat, and stared glumly at the food. Oh well, might as well serve it and get it over with.
I loaded the tray and headed upstairs. Gerta looked up as I backed into her room. She wrinkled her nose as I put a plate down on her table. “Aren’t we eating in the dining room?”
“No. It’s not clean yet.”
She stared at her plate and made a face. “I told you it was burning. And what happened to the meat? I like mine well done, not rare!”
“Then eat the outside bits,” I said shortly, and took the tray in to Lucy. She looked up at me and raised an eyebrow.
“Good heavens, Ella, couldn’t you wash? You look like a grubby scullery maid!”
I drew myself up tall, but couldn’t help glancing in her mirror. My forehead was smudged, my hair drooping. “Excuse me, Lucy,” I said between clenched teeth, “but as I seem to be the only one around here doing any work—”
“Work!” Lucy pushed her plate away. “It doesn’t take much work to burn food!”
“More work than to sit around giving orders! But I expect you’re afraid you’ll spoil your complexion.”
“At least my complexion isn’t covered with dirt!”
“It isn’t dirt, it’s just a little ash from the oven. I just got a few smudges after I took a bath.”
“Oh?” Lucy looked me over and raised an eyebrow. “So it’s something new, Ella dear?” She picked up her knife and fork and pushed her carrots around. “Yes, I see it. Bathe, then rub with cinders. Ella—no, Cinder Ella, displaying the latest scullery maid facial treatment.”
“Why don’t you try it, Lucy?” I hissed. “It couldn’t hurt, and it might help!” And I slammed my way out the door as her sallow face turned red.
Stepmama was snoring gently when I laid her plate by her bed, so I was able to slip back downstairs, eyes stinging, without having to talk to anyone else.
Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a cloth and scrubbed my forehead until it hurt. Then I sank down at the table and held my head in my hands. How was I ever going to manage this? I was a lady! I wasn’t a grubby scullery maid, I wasn’t!
The still-burning logs popped and settled in the stove. I looked over at it with loathing. Never again! From now on, we would eat salads and sandwiches. Anything, anything that didn’t need the oven. Boiling water over the hearth would be as far as I would go, and I would bring a mirror downstairs, and wash my hands and face after I touched anything to do with fire—
And I got up and scraped my dinner into Archibald’s bowl.
4
The Season of Madness
A week later, when I entered Lucy’s room to deposit her supper on her little table, she turned, frowned at the plate, and whined, “Sandwiches? Again? This is the fourth time that we’ve had ham!” She lifted the top slice of bread with a disdainful finger. “Surely we could have a real meal, something cooked, once in a while?”
“I seem to recall we had soup for dinner.” I turned toward the door.
“And for the past week!”
“Yes, because it’s so economical, Lucy!”
“But it’s all the same! Sandwiches for supper, tea and toast for breakfast—”
“That’s not true, we had eggs on Sunday.”
“One egg doesn’t make any difference! I insist on more variety in our meals, and I shall speak to Mama about it!”
“What a good idea!” I smiled an unfriendly smile and added, “More variety! I think I’ll make porridge tomorrow.”
In Gerta’s room I found her trying on a ball dress and primping in front of her mirror. “What do you think? Is this dress too big on me?” she asked as I set down her sandwich. She was pinching in the sides of the gown and staring at herself from all angles.
“No, but it doesn’t look too tight.”
“I really think I’ve slimmed down a bit.” Gerta lifted her head and continued admiring herself.
“Really?” I couldn’t tell. “Perhaps my cooking has been just what you need.”
“Do you know, I think you’re right!” She turned and gave me a condescending smile.
“Then why don’t you tell your mama how much good it’s doing you? Think how pleased she’ll be!”
“Oh, I will. And it’s so nice—” she twirled in front of the mirror, hands clasped, “—so nice, because the Season starts next week, with the ball at the Duke of Reynham’s! I shall be much slimmer by then, and by the end of the Season I’ll be a perfect sylph!”
I thought the possibility remote. Gerta had been plump as long as I had known her. Once she got to parties, she’d eat again, and soon she’d be chubbier than ever. But I didn’t say anything. I had a bone to pick with Stepmama, and as I laid down her sandwich plate, I pounced on her with a question.
“Stepmama, why wasn’t I invited to the Duke of Reynham’s?”
“Eh?” Stepmama started and looked up, confused, from the book of edifying essays she was reading. “Why? Because, because you’re not out yet, dear.”
“But I was going to debut this Season! Ever since I was little, I knew I would debut this spring!”
“Plans, plans— How many plans have died this last year? It doesn’t bear to think of it!” Stepmama sniffed and applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
“But we’re out of mourning, and I have all the dresses I need. Why can’t I debut?”
“You don’t have a court dress,” Stepmama pointed out, sniffing gloomily. “We shall have to get one made for Gerta, and they’re terribly expensive. That’s why we couldn’t engage a housemaid, you know, and I still don’t know how we shall manage, I really don’t!” She took refuge in her handkerchief again.
“But Gerta already has a court dress!”
“It’s from last year, dearest! And then she wasn’t able to use it at all because of your father dying right before the start of the Season. Not that I mean to blame him, of course!” Stepmama’s pale blue eyes brimmed with tears. She gulped and added, “So Gerta must have a new dress for the new Season. I’m sure you understand.”
I grasped desperately at a last chance. “I could wear Gerta’s dress from last year. We could alter it.”
“Oh, no,” said Stepmama, waving her handkerchief feebly. “No, that would never do. It would be so, so penny-pinching, which would present a very bad appearance, besides not looking well on you at all, because it’s such a pale blue, which suits dear Gerta because she’s blond, but you’re so dark, my dear. No, it really wouldn’t do at all. We mustn’t think of it.”
“Then when shall I debut?” I demanded.
“I suppose it shall have to be next year! If only dear Charles hadn’t died when he did!”
“But what about the Little Season, in the fall?”
“But the dresses…I don’t know, Ella, I would like to. We shall think it over, dear! One can always hope!”
Hope. That was all I had, then. I’d been cheated out of my father, my home, and my inheritance, and now my chance to enter society was gravely threatened. But I could hope! Hope for what? A raven to drop a bag of gold down our chimney? Or for my stepsisters to marry well? Either one would solve my problem, but the raven seemed more likely.
Still, there were things I could do to remind myself that I was a lady and that my depressed state was only temporary. For one, I absolutely refused to do the laundry. Lucy raged, Gerta whined, and Stepmama moaned, but I held firm. We all wore the same things for a week until Stepmama finally gave in and arranged to hire a laundress (recommended by the agent, Mr. Simms) as Lucy snapped, “There goes my new necklace for the ball!”
Also, I refused to live in such horrid surroundings anymore. If my stepsisters were to have any chance of marrying, we needed to look like wealthy society members, and dirt and dust did not help.
So I enlisted Henry. He’d spent a few days planting the garden, but from then on, I drove him with a ruthless hand. He polished and shined the front door and windows (I had decided the back windows could wait). He scrubbed down the stone lions and the front steps and hall, complaining all the while. But I insisted, and then had him thoroughly clean the sitting room walls, dust the paintings, brush and polish the furniture, shake out the curtains, and beat the rugs. By the time he was done, he was barely speaking to me, but any caller coming to our door would be greeted by shining woodwork and the distinct smell of lemon oil, not dust. Of course, it was necessary to keep the doors to all the other rooms firmly shut.
“And you can answer the door when callers come,” I informed Henry, as I stood admiring the hall while he polished the kitchen doorknob.
“Me, miss? I’m not a footman! I ain’t got no livery, and I won’t do it. Besides, I’m only here three mornings, and part of the time I’m running errands. Who answers the door the other times?”
Who indeed. “Well, it won’t be me. I’m not a maid!”
“Well, then,” said Henry with great sarcasm, “If callers come, miss, you’ll just have to holler at them through the window.”
“No, no, I have an idea! When we see someone approaching, we can slip out the door as if going for a walk, and then invite them in!”
“Then who gets them refreshments, once they’re in?”
“We’ll—we’ll keep some in the sitting room at all times.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “You’re not fooling nobody, miss. Why not just open the door yourself? It’s not a crime to be poor!”
“We’re not poor! We have simply suffered—temporary reverses!”
“Then you could explain, miss—you’re just the temporary maid.”
“I am not a maid!”
“Well, you’re right about that,” said Henry, peering into the dining room, which was still dim and dusty. “A good maid’d clean this place up fast! My mum would, too. She’s a terror with a broom.”
“That’s different.”
“Or any of my sisters! Did I tell you, miss, that my oldest sister Lottie’s likely to get a place at the palace?”
“Really? As a housemaid?”
“No, in the kitchen. She’s a good cook, is Lottie, and really coming up in the world. She even learned to read! That’s important for a cook, what with recipes and all. Course they like to eat well in the palace. They’re very particular.”
“I would imagine.”
“Now Princess Seraphine, they say she’s very choosy, miss. Lottie works for the Earl of Totten, and last year when they had their ball, she told me how the Princess would only drink Veronian champagne, and they had seven different kinds of caviar and roast swan stuffed with truffles, just for her, and it was all frightfully expensive, let me tell you!”
“And what about the prince?”
“Prince Gregory? I don’t recall as she’s said. But he’s royal, miss, and don’t royal mean choosy?”
“Of course. Which is why it’s so important for me not to give people the wrong idea by opening the door. This time next year—” I paused and frowned. Chatting with the servants was just as unacceptable as acting like one. Turning away, I snapped, “Hadn’t you better get back to work?”
Next evening, when Stepmama, Lucy, and Gerta left for the Duke of Reynham’s ball, I had to admit that no one would have thought they were poor. On the contrary, they looked quite lavish, and Gerta, I thought, almost vulgarly overdone. The headdress she had chosen to wear with her new puce satin ball gown was a nightmare of ostrich plumes and dangling pearls. Lucy, on the other hand, was frighteningly fashionable in dark green silk and diamonds, draped in the ancient Entikan manner, with a sneer on her face guaranteed to snub the pretensions of anyone under the rank of Viscount. I could not imagine any gentleman wanting to get within ten paces of either of them, and as I watched them drive off in the hired carriage, I frowned. If only I had been able to go! How could I? I needed a plan!
Wandering into the sitting room, I sat down at a little table, picked up a pen, and stared into the fire that flickered and crackled, casting wavering shadows on the walls.