Corset Diaries

by Katie MacAlister

  Monday

  September 20

  11:22 A.M.

  Comfy chair in the library

  All right, so Ellis didn’t actually kill me when she saw the dress. I attribute that fact to the outrage she felt over the group of demonstrators—she was so aghast that they would try to ruin one of the project’s events, the little matter of my paint-splattered dress slipped to minor importance. I hope that’s what it is. If I she suddenly pops up with an axe or a very sharp knife, I’ll know I was wrong.

  I won’t go into the details about what Ellis did say other than noting that I had no idea she knew those sorts of words. Roger had a talk with everyone this morning, off camera. He held it in lieu of morning prayers (which was a good thing, because I’m running out of Victorian inspirational sayings), when everyone was gathered in the hall.

  “Right, first thing I want to know is what the bloody hell you lot think you’re trying to do,” Roger said, pointing at the four truant servants as he paced along where they stood lined up against one of the dark paneled walls. “Do you have any idea how much money is invested in this project? More than any of you little gits will see in a lifetime, I can promise you that! You’re just damned lucky that stupid little stunt of yours didn’t do any serious damage. I don’t know which one of you came up with the bright idea of sabotaging the project, but I am going to know before anyone steps foot from this hall, and this I promise you—when I find out who is responsible for it, you’re going to pay. Oh yes, you’re going to pay!”

  “Um, Roger?” I stepped forward. “I talked to everyone last night, including Easter, Raven, Bret, and Teddy, and none of them know anything about the animal-rights group.”

  Roger spun around and glared the hair right off my head. Or he would have, if I hadn’t been clutching Max’s hand for strength.

  “What?” he snarled.

  “I talked to them last night—the four who were missing yesterday—and it wasn’t them. They weren’t involved.”

  “That’s right,” Teddy said, nodding and looking especially virtuous, which was ridiculous, considering what he was doing yesterday while we were dodging paint balls.

  “What the hell do you think gives you the right to talk to anyone?” Roger bellowed at me.

  “There’s no cause to yell at her, Roger,” Max said, sliding his hand around my waist. I gave him a quick little appreciative smile before turning my attention back to where Roger paced before us like a tiger who’d been drinking triple-shot espressos all day. “You’ve told Tessa more than once that she’s responsible for the servants. She was simply doing her job.”

  “If she was doing her job, they wouldn’t have had the time to lark off and try to ruin my bloody show,” Roger yelled, the little hair he had standing on end.

  “No one would try to ruin the show,” Barbara started to say, but Roger snarled at her and she (wisely) decided not to continue.

  “Max is right, Roger. I was just doing what you’ve told me all along—to keep everything together as far as the servants and house go.”

  “Fine,” he said, coming to a halt in front of me, his face red and furious. “Then you tell me, mistress of the bloody house, if those four weren’t out trying to ruin my show, what were they doing?”

  “Um . . .” I glanced over his shoulder. Teddy looked bored, Bret had a smug look on his face, Easter watched Alice nervously, and Raven glared at Roger.

  “Well?” he demanded, his breath puffing around me as he leaned in.

  “Er . . .”

  Everyone looked at me, waiting expectantly. Max, who knew what I’d found out, tightened his fingers around in mine, for support, I hoped.

  “Dammit, Tessa, I will not have this! If you won’t tell me—”

  “They were having an drunken orgy in the dairy,” I said quickly, then gave the four an apologetic grin. “That’s where I found them last night. They were sleeping it off, and before you ask, yes, I’m sure they were both drunk and . . . er . . . had been doing what they later admitted to doing. It was pretty obvious. I’m sorry, Roger, they aren’t your culprits.”

  “Then who the hell was it?” Roger bellowed, turning around to look at the rest of the group gathered. “Which one of you was it? TELL ME!”

  “No one’s going to tell you if you stand there screaming at them,” Tabby said. Sam, standing next to her, nodded as he fiddled with something on his camera.

  “No one is leaving this room, do you hear me? No one is leaving this room until one of you confesses. That means no meals, no toilets, no sitting down, nothing. I am in deadly earnest! I will have no mercy—none whatsoever! You’re all going to stand here until . . . What did I just say?” I thought Roger was going to burst a blood vessel he was so furious.

  Mrs. Peters leveled a cold, disinterested glance his way, unfazed by being screamed at by a man who was looking very much as if he was a few onions short of a tuna salad. “You cannot possibly think to include me in your accusations. I have devoted myself wholly to the success of this project. And now I have work to be done. The spirits are uneasy, and I must reassure them that no suspicion will be cast upon them.”

  “You’re crackers, do you know that?” Roger asked her.

  “Spirits are often the first ones to be blamed for practical jokes such as this. They are very sensitive to atmosphere. I must reassure them that they are welcome here.”

  “Practical jokes?” Little bits of spittle went flying as Roger barked out the two words. “You’re not just crackers, you’re stark, staring mad!”

  Mrs. Peters straightened up to her full height and would have responded, but Raven beat her to it.

  “We can’t stay neither, we have a shitload of pots to clean,” Raven said.

  Shelby poked her in the ribs. “Rave! It’s not polite to say that.”

  “Sorry,” Raven said, with a grin that decried her apology. “We have a shitload of dishes to clean.”

  Melody snickered. Max gave her a squinty-eyed look. She giggled even harder when I grinned at her behind his back.

  “Our appointed duties—many as they are—await us as well, lads, although how I’m supposed to do anything with my sciatica burning, and my brain tumor making me see spots whenever I bend down, and the vertebrae in my neck fusing . . .” Palmer said, adjusting the neck brace he was sporting this morning, evidently the accoutrement of his injury du jour.

  Everyone drifted toward the green baize door.

  “You can’t leave, none of you can leave. I just said that you have to stay here— Bloody hell, they’re leaving. Kip! Stop them.”

  Kip looked at the servants as they filed out of the hall. “What would you suggest I do, throw myself in front of them?”

  “Christ, doesn’t anyone here care about the project but me? Doesn’t anyone realize how serious this is?”

  Max sighed, gave my fingers one last squeeze, then let go of my hand to put his arm around Roger’s shoulders. “Come into my office, Roger. We can talk about it in there.”

  “Yeah, you know, maybe if you did the country-house murder thing, you could figure out who the guilty person is,” I said, my tongue firmly in my cheek.

  “The what?” Roger asked, pausing to look back at me as Max led him out of the hall.

  “You know, the country-house murder thing. What they do in all those Agatha Christie books. Interview the staff one at a time, draw up a timeline, list everyone’s motivation, check their alibis, and bingo! You have yourself a culprit.”

  Sam groaned behind me, but Roger brightened up immediately. “That is the first sensible thing you’ve said this morning, Tessa. Interrogation! That’s the ticket! Come along, Max. You can help me. I’ve always fancied being a detective. I wonder where I could find some really hot lights?”

  Max shot me a look that told me I was going to hear about this later, turning to follow Roger as he went down the side hallway. I blew a kiss to his back and smiled at everyone who remained standing around like statues in the hall. “Hungry, Melody
? You and Mademoiselle can eat with us this morning if you’d like.”

  “Interrogation?” Mademoiselle snorted and raised her chin, glaring down her nose at me. “I am not a common servant, I am the governess most supreme. I dine in the Pug’s Parlor! I attend teas and dinners! I do not carry water to fields!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, patting her on the shoulder as we followed a silent Barbara and Henry into the breakfast room. “I doubt if Roger’s interrogation will last too long. You’ll be back in the nursery in next to no time.”

  I met Sam’s eye as he fired up the camera, and smiled innocently. “Although you never know what may happen if Roger finds a rubber hose.”

  I hope the interviews don’t last too long. Max and Melody and I plan to do an informal picnic today for lunch. On horseback! I’m thrilled at this breakthrough with Max. It only took two hours of solid wheedling last night before he finally caved. . . er. . . agreed to let us ride out to the stream at the other end of the estate. He was a little peeved because I wouldn’t let him use the Lick Me Lemon on me, but his promises of not touching me anywhere south of my belly button fell on deaf ears. He cheered up once I pointed out that he wasn’t crampy and bloated, and thus I could oil him up and clean him off. It was after I had him squirming that he agreed to do the picnic on horseback. Such is the power of a really good massage oil.

  Thursday

  September 23

  3:03 P.M.

  Verandah with the love of my life

  The servants’ ball—a bit of a misnomer since there weren’t hundreds of other servants from neighboring estates to join in the fun, only a handful of locals and some friends of the staff—went off without a hitch despite the great seething and unrest below stairs. Roger has been less than brilliant in his handling of the servants, treating them like . . . well, servants. Real servants, not people who hired to play the part for a month. Since it’s my job to keep everything running smoothly with them, I’m about ready to strangle him. If he conducts just one more interrogation . . . gah!

  The servants’ ball was really a trial run to see how the staff will handle the masquerade ball coming up next week. The huge, echoing ballroom was cleaned and dressed for the occasion, with tables set up along one end to hold party food and beverages and a hired four-piece band at the other end. I really liked the band; they were a local Celtic group who had a killer fiddle player. She had everyone’s toes tapping, and kept them tapping all through the evening.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” I said to Alice the morning of the ball. She was giving the morning room a quick dusting when I wandered in.

  “Oh, god, no, what now? I’ve already dealt with Honey’s attack of nerves, Mrs. Peters’ wailing that the spirits don’t want the ball to be held on the night of the full moon, and Mr. Palmer’s quality checking the ale. I don’t think I can handle much more!”

  “I hate to add to your burden, but I don’t know how to dance.”

  She stared at me stupidly.

  “The rule book says that Max and I are supposed to open the ball by dancing with Mrs. Peters and Mr. Palmer, respectively. I’ve got two left feet, Alice, and I’m sorry, but my nineteenth-century dance skills are a bit lacking. I can Frug if I absolutely have to, and can twist with the best of them, but that’s about it.”

  “Oh, lord,” she whispered, her eyes going dark with worry. She slumped into a chair, making me feel awful for dumping this on her. She was more or less managing the entire ball by herself since Mrs. Peters was spending almost all her time in consultation with the spirits, locking herself into the Pug’s Parlor for long hours while she communed with them. “The dancing, I hadn’t thought of that. No one will know how to dance properly, of that I’m sure. The girls are too young, and the lads—you know what they are.”

  I nodded. They didn’t seem to me to be the type of guys who were very hip on the two-step and polka, let alone waltzing.

  “Damn Roger! Why isn’t he thinking of these things? He’s supposed to be in charge of the project, he should have enough insight to know that no one here is going to have any experience with . . . with . . . whatever it is they danced back then.”

  “Waltzes, mazurkas, polkas, schottisches, quadrilles, country dances, and two-steps,” I said. “At least, that’s what my handy-dandy The Glory of Womanhood book mentions as appropriate dances to have at a function. And before you ask, no, it doesn’t tell you how to actually do them.”

  “We’re sunk,” she moaned, clutching her head in her hands.

  “You watch way too much American television. Don’t panic yet. I’ll talk to Roger. Maybe we can rustle up someone local who can teach everyone a step or two.”

  “Before this evening?” she wailed.

  “I know it’s tight, but hey, what’s life without a challenge?”

  “Enjoyable?” she shot back.

  I grinned at her glare. “I wouldn’t know. I’ll go hunt down Roger. If I know him, he’s probably trying to lift fingerprints from the paint ball gun.”

  The dance situation resolved itself easier than I had expected—Roger, promptly claiming that this was yet more proof that everyone was against him and his wonderful project—dragged Kip off to find a local dance instructor. By the time he returned with a middle-aged lady who was prepared to teach us the polka and two-step, we were all in the ballroom with Palmer the butler, tripping the light fantastic. Kind of. It turned out that Palmer knew how to do a couple of dances on the list.

  “A quadrille is danced in a square, two couples per square. Confusing isn’t it? It gets worse. You’ll have to listen carefully, my voice isn’t strong enough to carry for long—I believe I’m suffering from a touch of walking pneumonia. Are we set? Leading couples, turn to your right; sides, you go to the left. Very well, here we go.” Palmer started clapping out a beat, calling out instructions in a low, mournful walking pneumonia sort of voice. “Four steps advance, four steps retreat, advance again, and turn opposite with two hands.”

  Our square, composed of Teddy and me, Alice and Alec, converged together into one solid lump.

  “No, no, no!” Palmer moaned and clutched his head. “Lead couples to the right! Sides to the left!”

  “Sorry, forgot that,” Teddy said with a grin. “Who’s the lead again?”

  “I told you it was confusing. You are the lead. Now you turn to the right, the others to the left. Look over there; they are doing it correctly.”

  Max and Easter and Bret and Honey were moving back and forth and twirling like clockwork, smiling smugly at us as they did.

  “Try it again.” Palmer sounded the beat, and we all advanced and retreated, advanced and turned with dignity, if not grace.

  “I suppose that is the best you can do. Now head couples take inside hands and cross between the side couples as they cross, and when you return, side couples take the lead spot inside while the head couples pass outside.”

  We all looked at Palmer like he was insane, which he was if he thought we understood his instructions.

  “Right, who’s up for a waltz instead?” Teddy asked. Everyone’s hands shot up.

  Palmer’s waltz instructions were only slightly less convoluted than his quadrille instructions, but by the time Roger, Kip, and the local dance teacher arrived with a portable tape player and an armload of tapes, we had at least the rudimentary elements of the waltz down. I had a nasty habit of stepping on my partner’s toes whenever it came to a turn, but I figured that was just going to be an occupational hazard, and Max’s feet would have to fend for themselves.

  The ball went off well, by all accounts. Max and I were the only family members attending, and then only to kick the thing off, whereupon we left everyone to have fun without the specter of the upper class dimming their enjoyment.

  “That was kind of fun! I’m looking forward to the ball when we can dance together. How are your feet?” I asked Max as we climbed the stairs, the strains of “The Dashing White Sergeant” following us.

  He looked a
little startled. “Fine, why do you ask?”

  “Palmer said he thought I had broken one of his toes,” I said thoughtfully, then unable to resist, did a little polka down the hall to his door, polkaing back to twirl around Max. “He said something about me possibly crushing his instep, too, but I’m pretty sure he was just exaggerating. You know how he is. And besides, high arches are overrated.”

  Max’s eyes widened as I danced around him. “You’re going to practice dancing every day between now and the masquerade ball, Tessa. Every single day.”

  I grinned at him and kissed the tip of his nose. “Come on, Mr. Astaire. I need your assistance getting out of the torture device while Ellis is downstairs having fun.”

  “I mean it, Ginger! Every single day!”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I wonder if the Victorians had arch supports?”

  Max shuddered in faux horror, then followed me into my room to play lady’s maid. I smiled to myself as I watched him in the mirror loosening the cords to my corset, life had turned out pretty well. The servants’ ball appeared to be a success, Roger had finally given up trying to find out which of the project members—if any; I was beginning to have my doubts about that now—had told the animal-rights group about the shooting party, and there was only a week left before I’d be out of the corset for good and into Max’s arms (also for good).

  Ah, yes. Life was looking very pretty indeed.

  Saturday

  September 25

  10:47 A.M.

  Morning room

  What a morning. The scullery girls have once again called it quits. I ran downstairs as soon as I was dressed to see how bad it was.

  “Just give me one good reason why I shouldn’t walk out of here today,” Raven asked, not even trying to hide the rubber gloves Teddy had smuggled in to her. “I’m sick and tired of washing up after everyone! No one appreciates the scullery maids, no one! Well, that’s it, I’ve had it. I’m not going to wash one more pot.”