The Pages of Time

Gilded Summers-6

We were in a company of mostly English, Irish, and a few Germans. They came from countries where service had been an accepted form of occupation for hundreds of years, where accepting one"s rank was a natural order of life. There was not another Italian among them, nor a single American.

I whispered softly to my father who listened with no expression. I"m not sure if it was the story or his shame that he could not understand which kept him so stone-like.

“Ya"d best believe it,” this from another woman.

“I knew you"d agree with me, Nettie,” Mrs. Briggs garbled, her mouth full. They said Italians had no manners.

Nettie sat tall in her chair. Her uniform was much finer than those of the other women, even that of Mrs. Briggs. Her silk black blouse was edged in white lace and cut with fine tailoring. Her black skirt wasn"t nearly so full and yet, when she moved, I thought I heard the swish of a petticoat or whatever these women wore as fine undergarments. Her hair was done up smartly and her hands were clean and without callouses. A ladies" maid; the lady"s maid.

the“Doon" ya know the story of Mrs. Belmont"s wedding dress?” she asked the table at large, her voice thick with Ireland. When all at the table shook their heads, she almost seemed to smile as she began to tell.

“Well, Mrs. Belmont had ordered her dress from Worth"s, of course.”

I did not know who Worth was, so I did not understand her “of course.” I felt pulled into her tale no matter. I felt I should know more about who this Worth was.

“She ordered it late though and feared it wouldn"t arrive in time. So,” Nettie waved a hand, “she had another made in New York. Which she ended up wearin". When the exquisite Worth dress arrived, she gave it to a friend, I forget which, who had just announced her engagement.”

She paused, whether for effect or breath I couldn"t tell.

“And…?” one of the footmen prodded her. The men too were well into the story, but they had no patience for her dramatics.

“And the woman accepted it. Within a few days, the engagement was broken.”

“No!” Edna gasped. She thought twice now about accepting Mrs. O"Brennan"s offering, the wariness ran all over her face. I looked upon her heartbreak with sad eyes.

“Oh, but it doesn"t end there,” Nettie enjoyed herself now. “That poor broken-hearted woman gave the same dress to another friend. Hers was a sad, unhappy marriage.”

“So are a lot of marriages,” a man whose name I didn"t know muttered with a nasty grin.

“Doon" be smart with me, Silas,” Nettie scolded. “For that is not the worst of her story. Not only was she unhappy, but she died. In childbirth. Within a year.”

Nettie sat back in her chair, her pleasure at shocking the room as evident as the shine on her skin.

The room filled with noise once more, allowing me to translate to my father without much notice. They chattered like the gazza, the, how you say, magpies, that filled the cypress trees back home, their never-ending chirping a constant sound, a wonderful sound there. Was this the entertainment in these servants" lives? As if there was so little true living in them, they filled the holes with the lives of others.

gazza“Do you believe in such silliness?” I asked my father at the end of the tale.

He turned a gloomy gaze on me. Nodding, in his low voice he told me, “I have heard such tales before. Never doubt, Daughter, either bad luck or good.”

He called me daughter, as he always did—my name rarely touched his lips—but it was few occasions when I heard him speak so seriously, gave me advice of any sort.

Mr. Birch stood and everyone at the table followed. My father and I hurried to do the same. “Ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen.”

It was a call to order. I would quickly come to learn the privileged lived an odd sort of free, even when it came to their hunger. Staff ate dinner at six, the family at seven. If there was a dinner party, service was precisely at eight.

My father patted me on my shoulder as he left, returning to the workshop he already loved. A pat here and there was all I received, no matter my need for more. I knew it should be enough, knew it was the best he could give, but it was sparse to the many hugs and kisses my mother had gifted me with during our years together. How I longed for them now. I shivered in my skin.

I stood at my place as others rushed into action. I had no idea what the second seamstress did during the family"s dinner.

“Back to the sewing room with you,” Mrs. Briggs was quick to educate me, even as she walked away, Nettie at her side. “And wash your hands and face. The mistress or the young lady may come to you if they spill on themselves. I surely hope you know how to treat stains.”

I nodded, though I didn"t. The other seamstress was also a laundress. I had washed my fair share and more of coarse wools, but never of silks or satins.

Mrs. Briggs grunted at me and turned to her company. She leaned down, closer to Nettie"s ear, whispering. Not quietly enough.

“How many nights has it been?”

I heard. I listened, taking my time to leave the room.

Nettie rolled blue eyes. “Every night since we arrived. He in his bed, she in hers, every night.”

Mrs. Briggs clucked her tongue. “It"s not good.”

“It"s worse,” Nettie hissed. “They bicker, collie shangles for hours, almost every day.”

I had no idea what collie shangles were, but they did not sound a good thing.

collie shanglesA pucker-faced Mrs. Briggs shook her head in small, tight snaps. “A man of his prestige should not be with such a vulgarian. She has no idea how to behave.” Her hands tossed her frustration in the air. “She has no idea how to run this house.”

“All the better for me.” Nettie snickered.

“They have to work it out,” Mrs. Briggs sounded fierce. “If they split, who knows where we would end up?”

haveI left them then, hurrying by. The words made me sad. What a pity to hear Mr. Worthington suffered a bad marriage. A part of me, the part longing for home, felt a small spark of hope. I saw a way back. I couldn"t have been more wrong.

* * *

I saw nothing of my roommate that night—I was already asleep by the time she came into our room, exhaustion overpowered the fearfully unfamiliar, the roiling of thoughts and emotions—and she was gone before I woke up. Just as well, for I would not have wanted her to see the sweat of my dreams—running after my mother but never catching her, trapped in the bowels of the ship as it sunk, locked in a room with no latch.

I got up and lit the lamp by my bed. My room on the back of the house, the west side, was as dark as it had been when I went to bed. Little light found us here in the service tower. Even with the window shutters open, the barricaded wall deprived us of the sun"s cheery light until it traversed its path over the top of the mansion.

Or did I see only gloom? Like a silly little girl, I thought I would wake once more in my bed, where the sun streamed in as it crested the rolling hills along with the smells of the waking earth, rich and thick, full of life.

I left my room for my turn in the bathroom; there were three in all for the servants.

I stumbled down the hall as I passed one of the male servants, his body clad only in his robe. My eyes sought the floor as fast as I could force them, though they fought me. Heat burned upon my cheeks. I had never even seen my father in such a state of undress. I did not expect to find the men and women"s rooms so intermingled as they were here. I didn"t realize what it meant. How could I? My world, the one I still longed for, was a well-guarded one, especially for young women.

Mr. Birch roomed at one end and Mrs. Briggs at the other, in large rooms they shared with no one. I hoped any sort of misbehavior, despite such moments as these, might be difficult to do. Difficult, but not impossible. A person may be young and inexperienced, but it doesn"t make them a fool.

I scurried along and gratefully shut myself in the bathroom. One large, well-equipped, and always spotlessly clean bathroom. I dropped myself against the closed door finding my breath, eased by the soft pale pink of this women"s bathroom at the north end of the hall. It washed my discomfort away as I washed.

Mrs. Briggs had been strict in her instructions for the use of this room.

“We are allowed to use the facilities only when it is our scheduled time.” She said the word oddly, sheeduuled. “Get your business done quickly and get out. Most importantly, you must always, always clean up after yourself. Dry the tub, the sink, and the soap.”

Drying soap was by far one of the silliest things I had ever done. I saw my head shake in the glass above the sink; my lips formed a smirk.

I dressed and sat on my bed, a lifeless statue chiseled by fear and uncertainty. Shadows of loneliness surrounded me. I was untethered, adrift in a house—a world—I knew nothing of. Tears tickled the back of my throat, but I swallowed them away. I stared at the wall, seeing the rolling hills of home in the streaks of paint. The sight did not cheer. My leg bounced; my hands wrung. I needed to do something.

When the bell rang in the hall, I jumped up, opened my door, and poked my head out, eyes wide and searching.

“Come along with ya".” Beatrice fluttered a hand at me. “Thas the bell for breakfast.”

I followed her; relieved someone had spoken to me, relieved to learn something of the ways of the house. There were three bells to tell us what to do. A cowbell to start the day, a jingle bell for meals, and a tea bell alerting us if a family member needed service. Shrill and jarring, one would jump whether they needed to or not. The bells sat atop a box, a strange contraption with squares and flags.

If the silence and stillness of my room was a crypt, below stairs was a storm of frantic life. So many of the servants went about their work, lighting fires, as they would through the day, though a glimpse through the many windows on the narrow staircase showed the sky hinted at coming sunshine through the fog, promising some warmth. Summer mornings by the sea were a different kind of daybreak.

Farther below stairs, I heard metal tinkering, gruff male voices barking brashly.

The kitchen was as busy as a hive. Chef Pasquel gave precise instructions to the crowd of scullery maids helping him prepare breakfast for the families and the servants.