by Clara Cody
Drawing the covers up to her ears, she attempted to get comfortable again. Charles' stupid book wasn't helping her, either. She kept thinking she heard a thumping only to realize it was her own heartbeat. It was just the wind, she told herself, again and again. Nothing at all. Like Maggie said, these old houses have their...things.
She noticed a glint of moonlight bounce off her locket that sat on her nightstand. The chain hung down, off the side, swinging. I must have knocked it when I got back into bed.
Reluctantly, she reached a hand out from the protective covers to take it. Clutching it, she slipped it under the covers and over her head. The metal was like ice against her skin. She shivered at the contact. It brought her some relief and a feeling of security, almost like having her mother there with her.
If only.
"Hurry up, girl! You're late," Maggie said when Stephanie finally pushed through the doors.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize the time. The bedrooms took longer than I'd expected."
Maggie turned and looked her over. "Do you feel all right?"
Stephanie shrugged. "As right as any day, I suppose."
"Hmm. You look pale. Have trouble sleeping last night?" she said with a smirk.
Stephanie looked away, playing with the edge of her apron. "Certainly not. It takes more than a silly story to keep me up."
"Mmmm hmmm. He's only being a pest, you know. Ignore 'im, and he'll go back to pestin' me."
I've been trying. She wasn't really sure if it was true, though.
"Are you just going to stand there all day? Get a move on!"
"Oh," Stephanie cried, jumping. "Of course."
She raced out of the kitchen. As quickly as she could, she gathered the tableware and rushed into the dining hall. Mrs. Callowell was already sitting at the table, reading a book.
Stephanie took a deep breath, steeling herself, and stepped up to the table. "Sorry, ma'am," she said, eyes downcast as she placed the plate in front of her.
Mrs. Callowell looked up at her from the book. "What for?" She looked over Stephanie and to the clock in the corner. "Oh," she said, as though suddenly realizing. "Just don't let it happen again," she added, almost as an afterthought, while waving her off.
"Yes, ma'am."
She walked carefully back through the door but rushed through the kitchen doors and towards the dishes of eggs and sausage on the table. Balancing the plates on her forearms, while holding a jug of juice and another of milk, she slowly backed towards the swinging door.
"For Christ's sake, girl!" Maggie called. "You're gonna drop it all."
"No," she said, carefully eyeing her load. "It's okay. I can do it."
She turned slowly, releasing the door to swing backward. The whoosh of air and squeaking hinges must have drowned out the sounds of approaching footsteps. She didn't realize someone was entering the small room until too late.
The door swung open just as she was close enough to get hit. Charles appeared in the threshold just as she walked headfirst into the side of the door and the plates pressed firmly against her chest. A shout caught in her throat as her face met the side of the door.
Charles froze, his expression a mixture of horror and shock. The humiliation of having him looking at her was enough to take her mind off the hot grease soaking her dress, and her tender face.
Stephanie looked down at herself. She still held the plates against herself. Bringing her arms down would mean a bigger mess. Already, grease and egg yolk dripped down from the plates. Her lip began trembling. She looked up at Charles, not knowing what else to do.
The door behind flew open just as Mrs. Callowell appeared behind Charles. Maggie's hands were planted on her hips. "Girl, I told you, you were gonna—"
"What's happened here?" Mrs. Callowell asked. She looked neither cross nor sympathetic.
Stephanie opened her mouth to answer but Charles spoke up first. "It was my fault," he said, simultaneously speaking to both women. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and I...I ran into Stephanie."
"Really, Charles," Mrs. Callowell started. "You'd think that after so many years, you'd grow out of your clumsy stage. No matter. I'll just have some toast for breakfast. Seeing as how this is your fault, Charles, I assume that will suffice for you as well?"
"Yes, of course. Don't trouble yourself, Maggie."
Maggie just huffed in response, crossing her arms. "Since when do you use the servant's door anyway? Are you trying to catch Stephi in here or something?" She directed her attention back to Stephanie. "Well, then, don't just stand there, looking like a trout with your gob open." She patted Stephanie's shoulder. "We got to get you cleaned up."
Still clutching the plates and jugs, Stephanie let Maggie lead her out into the kitchen. She was surprised and very aware that Charles had followed them through.
"Lean over the basin," Maggie said, surprisingly gentle.
As she bent over, Maggie took the plates so that most of the food remained on them instead of her dress. Maggie took the jugs from her too and set them on the table. "Charles, hand me that cloth," she said, pointing.
He dove for it and handed it to her.
"Take this," Maggie said, covering the majority of the food on her dress with the cloth. "I'll go fetch a bit more water." In a moment, she was out the door and stomping towards the water pump, pail swinging in her hand.
Stephanie held the cloth to her chest, hiding her stained dress. She avoided looking at Charles. "You didn't have to do that," she said, quietly.
He stepped around in front of her. "It looked like it hurt," he said, lifting her chin. "Is your face all right?"
She nodded.
"You have a bit of yolk on your face." Putting a gentle hand to her chin, he used his thumb to wipe it off, with small, soft strokes. "There."
Maggie cleared her throat, loudly, from the doorway. Stephanie jumped, throwing her hand back over the towel on her chest. She immediately regretted the incriminating gesture. Maggie raised her eyebrow, looking from Stephanie to Charles and back again.
"I'll be upstairs," Charles said, turning away. "Send breakfast up later. I'm not that hungry."
Stephanie watched as he disappeared behind the door. She looked back to Maggie who was still staring at her, eyebrow arched. She put a hand to her cheek to hide her warm blushing.
"Mmm hmm," Maggie said, striding across the room. "Come on, let's see if we can't get some of that egg off before it sticks."
As Maggie helped to clean her off, she couldn't help but marvel at Charles. No matter how she tried, she just couldn't understand the man. He was arrogant and teasing, taking pleasure in her discomfort and trying to make her feel unwelcome. How could I not despise him? But then, there were moments, few and far between, but they were there, when he seemed different. Still arrogant and teasing, but different. Her life would be much easier if he would just pick one or the other.
And now, as if being utterly befuddled by him wasn't enough...now she was indebted to him.
Chapter Nine
Stephanie
THE REST OF THE WEEK, Stephanie made sure to not make any more mistakes. Not a speck of dust was left in any room she cleaned, meals were served with immaculate precision, and the pots shined brighter than they had in years. Still, she couldn't help but feel like she was just barely holding on to her position at Ripewood.
She stood in the parlor, dusting the credenza against the wall. Above it was a portrait of a very stern looking woman. The portrait didn't seem to fit, though. It was too small for the space on the wall.
Charles apparently spent a good deal of time outside chopping firewood while Mrs. Callowell cared for her husband. As a result, there was enough wood to build a fire in the parlor, which made the task of cleaning it much more pleasant. The fire had now withered down to nothing but glowing coals, but it still gave off more than enough warmth, for which she was grateful.
"Stephanie?" came a voice. Mrs. Callowell stood in the doorway, observing her. "I
s everything all right?"
"Yes, ma'am," she said, starting to courtesy.
"It's just...you seemed rather intent on that portrait there," she said, pointing behind Stephanie towards the portrait hanging on the wall. "And grasping your duster as though throttling it. Were you planning on stabbing my mother's portrait with it?"
Stephanie blushed, wondering how long she'd been staring off for. "I'm sorry, ma'am." She loosened her grip on the handle and set the duster on the credenza's smooth surface. Her hand ached.
"She was a great woman, you know? My mother. She died just after I turned sixteen. It wasn't always her picture sitting there." She walked around Stephanie, her eyes on the wall. "My father had hung a portrait of the three of us. I couldn't bear to look at it anymore. As soon as the house was mine, I put it away in the attic." Her gaze softened. "And I found this picture. I don't know why it was ever commissioned, if I'm honest. It's not as though my father ever would have hung a portrait of someone other than—" Mrs. Callowell gave her head a slight shake. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten myself. No matter. Are you almost finished here?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very well. Once you are, I'd like you to go to town with Mrs. Downy for me. There are a few things that we need to stock up on, and she can't do it alone."
Stephanie inhaled quickly. "Yes, ma'am." She supposed she should feel happy to be taking a trip into town.
"Very well," she said.
Stephanie lowered herself into a deep curtsy.
"You don't need to curtsy every time I enter or leave a room. It's really, very unnecessary."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And that's another thing," Mrs. Callowell continued. "You may say something other than Yes, ma'am or No, ma'am. Actually, I would prefer it."
"Yes, ma'am. Very well, ma'am." She locked her knees against an instinctive curtsy.
"Good. Speak to Mrs. Downy once you're finished here." She turned and left the room before Stephanie was put in the awkward position of not saying either yes or no. She was left alone with the soft, comforting sounds of the crackling coals in the fireplace and the ticking grandfather clock.
Stephanie sighed. Once she finished dusting, she'd be finished with the room. Stephanie turned back to the credenza but found it empty. The feather duster was gone. She bent over to see if it had fallen to the floor. It wasn't there either.
How could it have disappeared? She'd left it there, she was certain of it.
She spun around the room. It wasn't anywhere she could see. Maybe she'd left it on the settee, instead. After all, her mind was elsewhere when Mrs. Callowell interrupted her cleaning. She leaned over the settee, but the duster wasn't there. She rushed from one end of the room to the other, looking under chairs, in drawers, anywhere she could think, all the while telling herself she must have left it somewhere while daydreaming.
Stephanie stood in the middle of the room, fingers holding back the loose and wild hairs that had escaped her tight bun. She shook her head in awe rather than defeat. It just couldn't be. She'd had the feather duster, she knew that.
A sound drew her attention.
The crackling fire.
She spun around. A fire was catching, growing larger.
"Oh no." She ran for the fireplace and pulled the grate back. Inside the fireplace sat the duster, the handle sticking out. Reaching in, she slapped at the handle, trying to shoo it out. Black charcoals fell across the stone and onto the floor as she knocked the duster out of the fireplace. She grabbed for the hearth broom and stabbed the dwindling fire out.
"Oh no," she repeated, looking down at the remains of the burnt duster and the mess on the floor. After breakfast the other day, this would really convince Mrs. Callowell to fire her. How had this happened? Was she really going crazy? How could she possibly explain this? They'd never believe that she didn't throw it in herself.
"No, no," she said, sweeping up the coals from the floor.
She couldn't explain this away. She threw the remains back inside the fireplace and nestled the burnt feather duster into the coals. It would burn up and no one would know. There were other dusters. Besides, she was the only maid, so no one would notice one had gone missing.
Stephanie swept the fireplace again and again to get rid of any trace of soot. When it was spotless, she breathed a sigh of relief. She wiped her soot marked hands on her black uniform and smoothed her hair back. Bending over, she peeked inside the fireplace. The handle was burning and in a few minutes, would be nothing but coals. There was nothing to worry about.
Except there was a voice in the back of her mind reminding her that there was, in fact, something to worry about.
How did the feather duster move into the fireplace from the other side of the room?
Chapter 10
Stephanie
"DRIVER LEFT SOME SIX months ago," Maggie explained. "Since then, it's either me or Charles that goes into town."
The carriage jostled Stephanie as she rode next to Maggie. Trees and dark fields of decomposing vegetation crawled up and then past the carriage as they rode towards the town. The air was damp and fragrant, waiting for winter.
"Mrs. Callowell doesn't go?"
Maggie shook her head and jiggled the reins. "She doesn't like to leave the house too much."
"Why not?"
"It's familiar. And she needs to stay close to Master Callowell."
"Because he's sick, right?"
Maggie looked at her from the corner of her eye, as though assessing the question. "That's right. Wouldn't you?"
Stephanie looked away. "My father was sick. But I couldn't stay with him."
"Why's that?" Maggie's posture didn't change but Stephanie could tell by her voice that she was listening carefully.
"Couldn't afford it." Stephanie had never really spoken about it. There was never anyone to listen. "Doctors and medicine, it was all too expensive, and it was just me and him. I had to work all the time just to keep up."
"You don't have family? Siblings, uncles? Nothing?"
Stephanie shook her head and took a deep breath. Rolling the hem of her coat between her fingers, she continued, "Both my parent's families disowned them when they married. I never met any of them. And I have no siblings." She ground her teeth together.
Maggie turned towards her. "And your mother?"
"Died when I was young."
Maggie nodded. "Mine died having me. I never met her. My dad said she was a queen of the streets. The sweetest women that ever existed. But well, he was also a bit soft in the end, so who really knows. No one else ever told me she was queen o' anything." She cleared her throat, a deep rasping cough gurgled from the depths of her lungs. "The sad fact is life isn't easy for people like us." She nodded again, clicking her tongue. "We do what we have to and then what we can. I thank the good Lord every day for sending me to Ripewood Manor. I'd be on the streets if it weren't for Mrs. Callowell." She sat up straighter.
Stephanie understood her loyalty to Mrs. Callowell. She'd once felt the same for Mr. Burbank. She felt closer to Maggie, like a similar vein ran through both, connecting them. "My mother didn't die in birth, but I didn't really know her either. She was gone a lot when I was little, and then she was gone forever. Someone told me I had it easier, not having known her. I didn't know what to miss, but...I don't think that's true."
"No, I don't reckon it is."
"Maggie?" Stephanie started, trying to build her nerve. "Do you believe the dead are with us? That they follow us, watching us?"
Maggie sighed, giving a little slack to the reins. "Yes," she said, "I do. I never met my mother, but I feel her. When I had my son, I was so scared, I thought I was going to die. Women were running back and forth around me but not telling me nothing. I felt her then for the first time. I felt fingers running through my hair and holding me as I screamed and cried. She held me as I held my son for the first time." A soft smile creased her face. The finest trace of a tear welled in her eye but evaporate before it had the chance to fall. "S
he's been with me ever since."
Stephanie forced a smile; it was a sweet story. But it really didn't comfort her at all. That wasn't the sort of spirit she was worried about following her.
The ride into town wasn't as long as Stephanie remembered it, although her last trip was only a few short weeks ago. But then, she'd been wound tighter than one of Cissy Burbank's morning rat's nests. Stephanie had to spend hours picking them out as gently as possible so as to not get a slap from the six-year-old terror.
Stephanie shook the memory of the foul little girl from her mind as she watched the buildings and people go by. It was a small village, with little more than a railway station, church, and a tavern. The people in the streets watched them strangely as they rode past. Mothers pulled their children close and men put arms around their women. Maggie didn't nod or wave to anyone, she just looked forward, her jaw set firmly and never taking her eyes from the road ahead.
Maggie stopped the carriage in front of the town store and climbed down, the conveyance rocking with the release of her weight. Stephanie joined her as she fixed the horses to a fence.
The store was small and crowded with bags of flour and seed and boxes of various necessities. Maggie stopped in front of a counter, the clerk, a balding man with a ring of soft white hair and thick glasses standing behind.
With nothing more than a nod to the boy sitting to the side, the man took out a heavy book. Not a hello or how do you do? from either of them. The boy raced to the back of the store and disappeared behind a door. The clerk flipped directly to the place he wanted, took out a piece of paper and handed it to Maggie. She looked it over, nodded and handed it back.
Stephanie couldn't help but look around uncomfortably while they made their transaction. The people of the town were so distant, so cold. Why did they regard her and Maggie with such caution?
The boy passed them, carrying bags over his shoulder. In seconds, he was passing them again to retrieve more supplies.
