House of Rougeaux(35)

Martine arrived at the Braddocks at eight o’clock, as usual, and let herself in the back door. The Braddocks were finishing their breakfast in the dining room and Caroline was cleaning up in the kitchen.

“Morning, Miss Caroline,” Martine said, hanging her coat by the door and taking an apron down off another peg.

“Honey, see to those dishes, would you?” Caroline said, clattering pot lids. “I’m about to overcook these greens.”

Martine tied the back of her apron standing at the sink, looking out the window at the wide back garden. It was a pity to have to be inside.

Caroline stepped over to the kitchen door and cocked her ear toward it, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “I think they’re done.” She nodded at Martine by way of asking her to go out to the dining room to finish clearing the table.

Mrs. Braddock was on her way upstairs for her bath, and Mr. Braddock was in the front hall putting on his hat. He caught sight of Martine in the dining room and touched the brim with two fingers. He was the kind of employer who was congenial with the help, more so than his wife, but Martine didn’t like how his lips looked, wet under the sandy moustache, and always felt much more comfortable at work when the Braddocks weren’t at home.

An hour or so later Mrs. Braddock was on her way out too, to the hairdresser or dressmaker no doubt. She left the house reminding Caroline that her Horticulture Club was coming at tea time, which set Caroline to muttering to herself as she peeled the onions for that night’s supper. No one tried Caroline’s patience so much as the ladies of the Horticulture Club.

Martine knew better than to interrupt, but when Caroline had finally vented, Martine asked her how her little niece was getting along. The child had been ill that winter with whooping cough.

“Oh she’s right as rain now,” said Caroline, pleased to be on the subject closest to her heart. “I made her the prettiest little dress. You should see it. The collar and trim are real velvet.” Martine smiled as Caroline went on about the dress; she wondered which Caroline liked more, her niece, or the fun of dressing her up.

Midmorning Martine was busy brushing the furniture in the parlor. Caroline went out to do the marketing. She left some chops for Martine to prepare for braising. “Mind you,” she said, just before stepping out the door, “I just sharpened that knife.”

A quarter of an hour or so later she heard the heavy click of the front door latch. Caroline must have forgotten her grocery list again. There was movement in the foyer and then Martine heard footsteps behind her. It wasn’t Caroline, it was Mr. Braddock.

“Hello Martine,” he said, “has Caroline gone out?” Martine didn’t have time to answer. “I have some briefs to pick up I suppose I left them in my study.”

“Yes sir,” she answered, turning back to her work.

A few moments later she heard his footsteps again, this time from the dining room, the light slap of something hitting the table and the scrape of chair legs on the floor.

“Oh, Martine,” Mr. Braddock called out, “why don’t you bring me a cup of tea, eh? I’m just going to look these over while I’m here.”

“Yes sir,” she said again, a little uneasy. She had never been alone with him in the house before. On numerous occasions she had served tea to Mrs. Braddock and her guests, but guessed now that Mr. Braddock would like something quicker and would not need all the usual accoutrements.

“Good girl,” Braddock said when she came in. He smiled at her again. “Why don’t you have a seat with me.” He pushed his papers to the side, clearing a space in front of the chair next to him. Not daring to disobey, Martine lowered herself slowly down and perched on the edge of the chair. She stared at the silver tea service where she saw her reflection, bright and small in a strange fishbowled room.

“Ah, this is nice,” said Braddock. “A little break. The office can be monstrous busy, you know. Clients on my back all the time, the partners shouting, letters piling up….”

Martine hadn’t the least clue how to respond, and desperately hoped this little interlude would end quickly. She peeked up at him, just at his mustache, which was working from side to side. He pursed his wet lips and took a drink of the tea.

“Well,” he continued, “then I come home, and my wife–” he paused to plop a lump of sugar in his cup, stir it and tap off the spoon. “It’s just she doesn’t understand me.”

Martine looked back to the tea service.

“You seem like a sympathetic person, Martine,” he said next. “Are you? A sympathetic person?”

All at once he reached over and gripped her hand. His shadowed gray eyes seemed to bore into hers.

“A man needs a woman who understands him.”

A heavy thud was heard from the direction of the back stairs.

Martine shot up. “That must be Caroline,” she stammered, leaping at the door. She rushed to the kitchen window and spotted a pair of flour sacks on the back porch and the retreating figure of a delivery man. She thought of running after him, but then behind her, several rooms away, she heard the heavy slam of the front door. Mr. Braddock had left.

Nothing bad had happened, so why was she shaking? It might be hours before Caroline returned, and for all Martine knew Braddock could come back.

Get your things, she told herself. She found her coat, her handbag.