The Pages of Time

Gilded Summers-14

“I see no reason to go that far, Millicent.” Finally, Father spoke, softly but firmly. My frozen heart melted, a drip. “I do believe the Vanderbilt girls are receiving the same tutelage, are they not?”

It was rare for Father to speak against my mother"s dictates; thoughts created fewer arguments. When he did, he did with great keenness. I would have rather he fought for my painting supplies to be returned, but this was enough, for now. He had hit her tender spot, for my mother cared about nothing more than doing what the leading families did, including my brother and me.

“Well, yes, Orin, I do believe they are.” Mother"s face, blackened like a storm cloud, turned to look out the window. I could see the hold she had on her other glove; the white knuckles of her grasp were just like mine.

“Then I believe it best…,” my father began.

“Yes, yes. It is best.” Mother pulled on the glove with sharp irritation, the same clipped edge in her voice.

“Continue on then, Pearl.” She could not have said my name with more disdain. “But if I catch you with that peasant again, you will lose all. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Mother.” In truth, I did not want to lose my lessons. I treasured learning as my mother did her jewels. I simply wanted more.

“Come along, Orin.” Mother sashayed quickly from the room. My father lingered. He stood by my chair and leaned down to me, a hand on my shoulder.

“I understand you, my Pearl, I see you,” he spoke softly, whether to offer me solace or so that Mother would not hear, I didn"t know. “But I can only protect you from her so much. I can"t protect you when I"m not here.”

He stopped. Closed his eyes for a moment.

“And I can"t protect you from the world. Our world can be a hard place. Do you understand?”

I nodded, though I didn"t understand fully, not yet. I understood only his comfort.

My father gave my shoulder and squeeze and left me.

* * *

I woke from the nightmare gasping. My face wet from tears and sweat. The shadows in my room had taken on the shapes of the awful dream. I needed my father.

I slipped from my bed, shivering from the cold in the stillness of the hot summer night. I didn"t knock but entered my father"s room in a rush. His bed was empty and as cold as I. I couldn"t bear searching for him, too afraid of what lay in the dark parts of the house, there were so many of them, too many and of all sorts.

I would go to my mother. Is that not where all children go when in need? She could give comfort when she wanted, though she rarely wanted to. Perhaps I needed it from her especially. I knew her door to the corridor would be locked, it always was. I hurried through my father"s room, through the bathroom between, and reached for the door connecting her room to his.

The doorknob would not turn. This door too was locked. She locked out not only me but him as well.

I slipped away from Pearl, slipped away from our place beneath the beeches, though I didn"t want to. Everything looked different—felt different—after being in there with Pearl. Surprises came in the strangest of packages. There were no words, in my language or hers, that could describe it. I no longer walked through life quite as alone, though I was very alone as I followed her directions to the side of the house and the servants" entrance there.

As I wandered into the circular drive, its canopy of wisteria and wrought iron, though beautiful, felt like a trap closing down on me, but now I could see the holes in its teeth. Happiness seemed to die when Mama died. Beneath the Beeches, I thought I had glimpsed it again, at the least the shimmering promise of it.

Pearl promised me, before I left, that this was not the first and last time we would be together beneath the beeches, rather it would only be the first of many. She promised to find a way to let me know when we could meet, if I could get away to meet her. A promise such like that of the buds of spring.

I slipped in the door to another white tiled foyer. I could see the cold kitchen just beyond another frosted door. I could hear the voices of many at work. But no one saw me. I quickly stepped to the stairs on my left, the servant stairs, pleased with myself for slipping back into the house unnoticed. Too soon.

“Figlia?” My father was there, just as I rounded the landing to the next set of stairs. “Daughter,” he said again in Italian, there was none of his sparse affection in his tone or upon his face.

Figlia“Where have you been? That Mrs. Briggs came to me, looking for you.”

“I…I…,” I stumbled. “I had to put a dress, in the lady"s room. I got lost.” It was the truth, but only some. I lied poorly, whether this was a bad or good thing, I wasn"t sure, I was only certain it was my way, a way beyond changing.

“Tell me the truth.” He was as stony as the statues posing everywhere in and out of this house.

I told him everything, fixing the dress, hiding, and being found. I told him of Pearl and my time with her beneath the beeches. Happiness chirped in my voice. None of it showed on his face.

He said nothing for a very long time. When he spoke, I wished he hadn"t. His words fanned the sparks of my own doubts.

“It will never last,” he said flatly. “We will never be friends with these people. Do your chores and stay out of sight.”

It was a cruel scolding. He walked around me, walked away from me, and back down the stairs.

Stay out of sight, he had said.

Stay out of sightStay out of mine, it was cruel thought my mind flung at him, but I didn"t put it there. The little between us, the little I received from him, with such coldness, it almost chased away the joy Pearl had given me. Almost.

Stay out of mineI hurried up the next flight of stairs, through one door, to the sewing room.

She stood there, waiting.

“Where were you?” Mrs. Briggs" pale face turned as red as the walls in Mr. Worthington"s rooms.

“I…,” I started, stopped, not knowing my way.

“Never mind, shut your bone box. I really don"t care. And I don"t care how young you ah. In this house, everyone works.”

From the foyer, the yelling reached us. Mrs. Briggs fell silent, listening, as I did. We heard every word. My heart ached. It was my fault. Nothing Mrs. Briggs could do to me now would punish me more than what had happened to Pearl. Though she tried her best.

Her long bony fingers grabbed my upper arm and with a hard yank, pushing me down in the chair before the long sewing table. For the first time, I saw what was on it.

Socks. Piles and piles of socks.

“These are the servants" hosiery, almost all of it. You are to match them up, see which needs fixing, and fix them.”

There were enough socks to keep two sets of hands busy for hours. I sat before the piles unable to say a word.

A bony finger poked my shoulder.

“Get to it,” she sneered, “and don"t come out until you"ve finished, not even when you hear the dinner bell.”

* * *

For hours, I sat there until my hands hurt. The flickering light of the gas lamps showed every painful, red pinprick dotting my hands. My stomach grumbled, angry with me for not tending to it, but I still had so much to do. I wanted to cry again, like this morning, but within my empty gut, only anger grumbled.

Without pushing back my chair, I slipped from it. Stopping at the edge of the opened door, I peered out, seeing no one. I slipped downstairs, past Chef Pasquel and the kitchen maids, still hard at work.

I had missed dinner long ago. Not another servant was in sight, not a sign of Mrs. Briggs either. All had made for their beds save those who waited to serve their masters—the valets and Mrs. Worthington"s maid, and those finishing the kitchen cleaning. I slipped past them unnoticed.

The long, narrow workroom they had given my father smelled like the forest I played in back in Foggia, and the idea of tears came back to me with the memory. Fresh wood of every sort and size stood in piles against the wall. In the corner, on a table of polished oak, my father worked, making the violin for the young man of the house. He stroked the wood as if it were alive and could feel the caress of his hand.

“I need help, Papa,” I said in Italian.

Without looking up, my father shook his head, light found his skin through the thinning grey hair. “English.”

My jaw jutted forward. I struggled for words in my own language that would convey my struggles.

“H…help, Papa,” the word came to me on the memory of Pearl and her offer of it.

At last, he looked at me, his gaze as dead as my mother. He shrugged. He didn"t understand. It was an admission he hated to make. In our language, I told him of the housekeeper and the socks and the lack of dinner.

He turned to me. Nothing in his features gave me any hope.

In Italian, he told me, “Do what they tell you. Finish the work. You will eat tomorrow.”

I shivered at the cold, in his words, in this house. I turned without a word.

“Ginevra.” He called me back and I turned out of duty.

He thrust his head to a small table in the opposite corner. “Pane.”

PaneMy mouth watered at the sight. On the table sat a chunk of bread, large beside the crumbs of what looked like cheese and perhaps some sort of meat. I ran to it, and with two hands held it to my mouth, tore at it with my teeth.

With my treasure in hand, with at least ten more bites left, I made for the door. I turned to thank him, but my father had already turned back to his work, to the sanding of wood, the stroking of it. I left him, still devouring my bread, focused on the food hitting my angry belly. But not so focused that I didn"t see the trash bin in the laundry room and what lay in it.

* * *

My mission complete, I slowly climbed the stairs, my aches my only companions.

The hall was empty, almost dark. I slipped into my room, for the first time so grateful for it.

And for the first time, I found Greta in her bed. From beneath her nightcap, I could see thick curly red hair, a deep, dark red. Beneath the covers, she faced the wall, her small body curled in a ball. Her hair and her small build I remembered as one of those at table, one who had not said a word to me, though she must have known, both last night and that day at breakfast, who I was, that I was to share her room.