Love and Other Consolation Prizes(25)

She laughed. “Hardly. I’m not a working girl, I just work here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m a scullery maid—I work in the kitchen. The servants all sleep downstairs, but since you’re a boy I think Amber wanted you upstairs so she could keep an eye on you. You look familiar, by the way. I saw you from the pantry when you first came in and I thought, Hey, you’re just like me. I couldn’t wait to talk to you.”

Ernest wondered what she meant. He tried to imagine how many servants there were in such a big place. He’d seen so many girls earlier. They couldn’t all be maids.

“I bet you’re starving,” she said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because we keep pretty strange hours around the Tenderloin. Took me a little while to get used to the way Madam Flora and Miss Amber run things, but this is a wonderful place to work. You’ll get the hang of it,” she said. “Oh, and I’m not supposed to go upstairs at night, but I snuck up anyway and dropped something off. So go open your door and take a look.”

Ernest listened at the keyhole, then carefully turned the knob. As he cracked the door he heard more music, more bawdy laughter. He looked down and found a small package, cheesecloth tied with a piece of red ribbon. He picked it up and quickly closed the door and unwrapped the gift. Inside was a large handful of oatmeal cookies. He devoured one filled with walnuts and raisins. It tasted better than anything in the world at that moment.

“Do you like them?” she whispered while he ate.

“Very much.” Ernest spoke with his mouth full. “Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome. I made them after my duties, just for you.”

Ernest was still confused, but at least his stomach wasn’t growling. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked. “You haven’t even met me…”

“Because this is a tricky place. Your name is Ernest, right?”

He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yes. Ernest Young.”

“Well, young Ernest, as Madam Flora always says, this is a give-and-take business and a give-and-take world. But I wanted to do something for you—out of the goodness of my heart, because I like you already. I think we should stick together. So for now, this is my gift. Though maybe next time I go out of my way to do something nice for you, you’ll owe me one. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds okay, I guess,” Ernest said as he rubbed his forehead, utterly confused.

“Then it’s a deal. Get some sleep, young Ernest. Tomorrow’s going to be a very busy day for you—the first of many. I’ll see you at breakfast. The servants—we eat together in the kitchen, away from the rest—”

“Is Maisie May one of the rest?” Ernest interrupted. He surprised himself at how curious he was about her. “What does she do here?”

There was no reply.

“Hello?”

He listened intently but heard only the pinging of pipes somewhere in the basement or the boiler room. And at that moment Ernest could have sworn he felt the warm air from the heating vent turn a few degrees cooler.

Then he finally heard the voice grumble, “Just go to sleep.”





CRUSADERS OF WAPPYVILLE


(1909)



In the morning Ernest found a freshly pressed domestic’s uniform hanging on his doorknob. The simple black suit seemed much more elegant and grown-up than the uniforms he’d had to wear for school. He put it on happily, then took his mother’s pin and attached it to his lapel. After dressing, he followed his nose, and the smell of coffee and baking bread, to a narrow spiral of stairs in the back of the house, all the way down to the tiny servants’ dining room and the attached kitchen. There, a stout woman who appeared to be the house cook was bustling around, red-faced from her labors.

“Ah, you must be Ernest, the new man of the house, so to speak. I’m Mrs. Blackwell. You’re a welcome relief, I tell you what. Them britches fit okay? If not, someone can probably find a set of suspenders around here somewhere—all manner of things get left behind in a place like this, you know.” The woman guffawed as she set out a breakfast of hot rolls, jam, and stiff porridge. She wiped her hands on a flour-spattered apron and urged him to sit as she poured him a cup of coffee. He was apparently the first of the servants to appear for breakfast.

Ernest was grateful not to be wearing corduroy knickerbockers, or the type of puffy Little Lord Fauntleroy shirts that Mrs. Irvine had bought for him. The ruffled tops always made him feel like a girl in a frilly dress, two sizes too big.

“Thank you, ma’am. The clothes fit like a glove,” he said.

As he straightened his waistcoat, three young women walked in wearing long white aprons and short, tight bonnets. They looked at him and smiled.

“This is Iris, she’s the chambermaid,” Mrs. Blackwell said. “That’s Violet, who tends to the parlors and the library; and that’s Rose, our laundress. Yes, they’re all named after flowers. And no, they’re not in any way related. Madam Flora just has a way with colorful names.”

Ernest wondered if they were all adopted as well, and if so, from where.

Mrs. Blackwell seemed to notice his questioning gaze. “They’re castaways, just like you, lad. Iris was in an orphans’ choir all the way from Boston. She caught the scarlet fever and ended up in a hospital, and her church left her behind. Violet worked at a shoe factory, but couldn’t ever make ends meet, and refused the special attention from the floor manager. And Rose…” Mrs. Blackwell sighed. “Oh dear, our thorny Rose came to us from Portland, where she’d been wooed by an older gentleman, a rich Prince Charming who she later found out was already married.”