Corset Diaries

by Katie MacAlister

  I glanced over at Tabby. She turned off the camera.

  I gave her a quick smile, then turned back to Raven. “Look, I know you don’t think you’re appreciated at all, and I realize that you have the yuckiest of all the jobs— Michael’s chamber pot duty aside—but you’ve got to hang in here. There’s only six more days to go—just six! Then it’ll all be over.”

  “So what?” Raven asked, unrolling her sleeves. “That’s just six more days of washing up to do. I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t just leave now. We’ve done more than our share of the work.”

  “Where’s your pride?” Ellis asked, coming down the stairs into the servants’ hall. “You agreed to stay for the duration of the project, just as the rest of us have done. We’ve all worked hard, all sacrificed much in order to make this work. It’s not just you, you selfish girl.”

  “Besides,” Alice said, “if you quit now, you’ll prove to everyone that you weren’t up to the job, that it was too hard for you. Is that what you really want?”

  “What I want is to take my five thousand pounds and never see another dirty pot again.”

  “If you leave now you won’t get paid,” Teddy said, looking up from where he was polishing a salver. “That’s in the contract. You have to stay to the last day in order to be paid, otherwise all you get is five hundred pounds.”

  Several of the others nodded their heads.

  “Raven, maybe we should stay,” Shelby said, tugging on Raven’s sleeve. “I need that money. It’s only six more days—”

  “Shut up,” Raven hissed, her hands on her hips as she narrowed her eyes on me. “You’re the one in charge of the servants. You tell Roger that Shelby and me want more money. If he wants us to keep on here for another six days, he can bloody well pay us what he’s paying you.”

  “Look,” I said, spreading my hands. “I don’t have anything to do with the money part of the project—”

  “It’s not right that you should get twice what we get when all you do is swan around upstairs and stuff your face and act all toffee-nosed to us. We’re the ones really working around here, we deserve the money. So you just tell Roger that unless he wants to be up to his oxters in dirty dishes, he’d better double our salary.”

  “Raven, I don’t think—” Shelby bleated, but stopped with a harsh look from her scullery mate.

  I took a deep breath. I needed to keep the girls going, keep everyone held together for just a few more days. “No, Raven, I’m not going to tell Roger that. You agreed to a price. You’re either going to have to tough it out for another six days or you can leave now. Those are your only two choices. Pick one.”

  “Oh, like that’s going to be hard,” she sneered.

  “Tessa, we need them,” Alice said apologetically. “I’m sorry to say it, but it’s the truth. No one else here wants to add washing up to their list of duties, and Roger couldn’t hire someone in time . . .”

  “We’ll find a way,” I told her with false bravado. “If they don’t want to hang on for all the glory and fame and all that stuff that’s sure to follow the end of the project, well, then, there’s nothing I can do to keep them.”

  “Fame? Glory? All of what stuff?” Raven asked, her lip still curled up in a sneer.

  “Are you kidding?” I gave an insouciant little laugh and half a shrug. “Everyone is going to be gaga over this show, which means they’re going to be massively interested in the people who participated in it. Roger is already talking about a book to be published after the last episode airs—can you imagine the press wouldn’t want to talk to people who lived the lives we’ve lived the last month? They pay for those interviews, you know. Job offers, endorsements, magazine articles, maybe even offers of acting jobs, or something on TV.

  “Who knows? They did a show like this back home, and two of the people went on to have a movie career, one ended up hosting a TV show on historic houses, and a couple of the others wrote books about their experiences. Made lots of money, too, but that’s something you’re obviously not interested in.”

  “That’s right,” Teddy said quickly. “All my mates say that this job will be the break I need to get a proper acting job. We’ll be celebrities—and I for one intend to stay on and prove to everyone that I have what it takes.”

  Several of the others murmured their agreement.

  “I’m sure you’ll be justly rewarded,” I told Teddy. “All of you will, of that I have no doubt. Well, then, I’ll go tell Roger that you two are the only ones who are quitting. I’m sure he’ll be pissed, but there’s nothing we can do about that.”

  Shelby bleated again and poked at her friend. I made a show of standing up and brushing out my skirts, peeking from the corner of my eye to see whether or not Raven would take the bait. Her face was a portrait of indecision, anger mingling with greed and uncertainty.

  “All right, we’ll stay. But you had better be right about all the things you’re promising, because if you’re not, you can be certain I’ll make you—”

  “You’ll what?” Max asked, stepping into the room with Roger. Raven’s black eyes almost spat at him as she clamped her lips together.

  “What’s this?” Roger asked, frowning at Raven. “What’s going on? Why are you all here doing nothing? Tabby, why aren’t you filming?”

  “We were just having a little crew meeting,” I said, worried by the light in Max’s eyes. “It’s over with now. Everything’s peachy keen, right, guys?”

  Everyone but Raven nodded.

  “I want to know what Raven thinks she’s going to make Tessa do,” Max said, his voice low and even and incredibly menacing. His hands were fisted, his eyes narrowed on Raven as he walked forward. Slowly.

  Even antagonistic Raven decided it wasn’t a good idea to finish her threat. She snarled under her breath and turned her back on us to stalk over to the sink, where a mound of crockery and pots was heaped to the side.

  There’s something to be said for the protective instincts in a man, even when they’re a smidge overprotective. I patted Max’s fist and pried his fingers apart. “Deruffle your feathers, Max. You’ve made your point.”

  He slid a glare my way. I kissed his chin.

  “If you’re all quite through with your plots to destroy this project before it even sees airtime, would you mind terribly continuing on with your appointed tasks so my crew can film you? Ta ever so,” Roger said in a veddy, veddy upper-class voice.

  “Snideness ill becomes you, Roger,” I said as Max hustled me upstairs. “Hey, speaking of that, what did Kip find out in town? Anything on the paint ball assassins?”

  “Nothing, not one single thing. No saw the Rover on the road, no one knows anything about the group, there’ve been no attacks anywhere else in the immediate area. It’s apparent they came down here specifically to ruin the shooting party. Now, tell me that’s not an inside job.”

  “It’s not an inside job,” Max and I said at the same time.

  “Maybe it’s a rival TV producer trying to ruin you professionally,” I suggested, then added when both men looked askance at me, “Hey, it was just a suggestion.”

  “Not a very good one,” Roger growled as we entered the hall. He stopped in front of the two cranes and stared sightlessly into the cold fireplace.

  “Makes more sense to me than blaming one of the people who’ve slaved away for the last four weeks, unless you think Max or I or Melody is behind it.”

  “No,” Roger said, tugging on his lip and looking thoughtful. “Not you, but possibly—” He shot a quick look at Max, then shrugged.

  He meant Barbara and Henry, of course. I had to admit, that thought had crossed my mind once or twice, as well.

  “No,” Max said, shaking his head at both of us, obviously following Roger’s train of thought. “She wouldn’t do it. She’s enjoying herself too much. She can’t wait until the show’s on the air and she can lord it over all her friends.”

  “Henry?” I asked.

  “Doubtful. He’s very m
uch under Barbara’s thumb. She’d have his balls on a platter if he did anything to ruin her coming glory.”

  “There was Dorie,” I pointed out.

  He smiled. “And you saw how that turned out. Henry might have the desire to ruin the show just to prick Barbara’s pride, but he doesn’t have what it takes to carry out such a plan.”

  “You have a point. Hmm. Well, I guess we’re back to the rival producer theory.”

  “I’m going to find out who’s behind it,” Roger vowed, his voice tight and strained as he stared into the fire. “Just you wait and see. I’m going to find out, and then there will be hell to pay.”

  Thursday

  September 30

  3:20 A.M.

  Fainting couch, one last time before returning to Max’s arms

  Mrs. Peters has gone off the deep end. She’s so quiet, it’s hard to see that, but the second she starts talking, it’s pretty clear that she’s more than one candle short of a candelabrum.

  “The spirits of Worston Old Place have warned me that if you hold the masquerade ball on Thursday, great disaster will befall us all,” she announced dramatically late Saturday night.

  “More ectoplasmic herring?” I asked, looking up from the copy of the 1879 London Times I was reading.

  “Something much worse,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Red snapper, do you mean?”

  She did a very good impression of Ellis’ pinched-nose and thinned-lip expression. “Unbelievers will be the first ones to feel the full dread of the spirits’ wrath. You have been warned. If you continue forward with plans for the ball, I will not be held responsible for the outcome.”

  “Boy, those spirits sure are Little Mary Sunshines, aren’t they? What do they do, stand around waiting for innocent people to doom and gloom to death?”

  “You mock them,” she gasped.

  I felt like a big bully picking on her. I was supposed to be making sure everyone got along, after all. “I’m sorry, my warped sense of humor got the better of me for a moment there. Thanks for warning me, but there’s nothing I can do about the date of the ball. It was arranged long before I signed on. Maybe you could talk to the spirits and tell them that.”

  “I have tried to explain, but they will not listen. They are not troubled by that which affects us on the mortal plane.”

  “Bummer. We’ll just have to try to get through it without any rains of herring or whatever else the spirits have up their ghostly sleeves.”

  “Speaking of them so flippantly will only antagonize them,” she said as she drifted toward the door, throwing one last warning look over her shoulder. “You’ll see. Soon. Very soon.”

  I shivered despite the heat of the late summer day, looking around the darkening library a bit nervously.

  “Ghosts. Bah humbug,” I said bravely, trying not to feel creeped out by Mrs. Peter’s prognostications. Just as I picked up the newspaper, an icy draft whizzed by the back of my neck. I jumped up and ran for the door. “I take it back, I take it back. Maaaaaaaaaax! The library is haunted!”

  The next day, Mrs. Peters had more of the same to say.

  “The spirits are extremely displeased with you,” she said as she stood before me to go over the menu for the day. “They know you have mocked them.”

  “Oh, really? And how do they know that? Did someone tell them, I wonder?” I asked with a meaningful look at her.

  She raised her chin. “They did not need to be told; their eyes can pierce the mortal veil and see what is in your heart.”

  “Really? So they know that there’s nothing more I’d like to see than a really brawny Scottish ghost, preferably one who’s naked and has a really big . . . claymore?”

  “Such levity will turn back to sting you,” she hissed, then, without even waiting for me to OK the menu she’d drawn up, she left. I worried about her for a bit, not just about the fact that she’s spending almost all her time in the housekeeper’s room, sitting in trances in an attempt to contact the spirits, but worried about her mental health. In the end, I decided there wasn’t anything I could do. She’d just have to hang on for a couple more days.

  Wednesday, she stopped me in the downstairs hall and held out her hand toward me. “You might scoff at what I tell you, but you cannot lightly brush away physical proof of the spirits’ warning.”

  I looked at what she held in the palm of her hand. “It’s a rock.”

  “Yes,” she said, the sun glinting behind her, turning her frizzy hair into a halo around her head. “It is an apport. It manifested in my room as I was in my morning meditation.”

  “Um,” I said, taking the rock when she handed it to me. It looked like a rock, nothing more.

  “The windows to the room were closed,” she added with great emphasis.

  “Were they? Well, that does make it odd, doesn’t it?”

  “Apports generally are a sign of increasing poltergeist activity, an indicator of the spirits’ unhappiness with those of us who tread the mortal coil. This one is a fine specimen, which demonstrates the power of the spirits is building. Such is clearly seen in the apport.”

  I squinted at the rock. “I’m afraid I don’t see that. To be honest, Mrs. Peters, it looks just like any one of the gazillion rocks that make up the drive. Maybe one of the guys is having you on a little bit?”

  She straightened up and snatched the rock from my hand. “I have been a psychic researcher for more than twenty years. I can assure you I am well versed in the tricks of the unbelievers. This rock was created outside of the realm of our understanding, and is irrefutable proof of the catastrophic events that you will unleash if you continue on with your plan to hold the ball.”

  “What is it about Thursday that so upsets them?” I asked, worrying again about just how stable her mental state was. “It’s not Halloween or anything; it’s just the last day of the month.”

  “It is a day of great meaning in the spirit world. It is the time when summer slips into autumn and the fabric between the world of the living and dead is thinned and easily crossed through. Beware, Tessa Riordan, for the appearance of the apports at this time shows the ghosts have marked you as one of those who will know their true power.”

  She turned on her heel and marched through the door to the servants’ hall, leaving me to worry that she might have something planned to give her spirits a helping hand.

  “What are we going to do about her?” I asked Max that night as we snuggled down together in his huge bed.

  “Nothing,” he answered, running his hand down the curve of my hip. “There’s only one day left. She can’t do anything to stop the ball.”

  I didn’t believe that for a second. “We can’t just let her run around prophesying doom and gloom, not even for one day.” I sucked in my breath as his hand skimmed up my back, and flexed my fingers through the hair on his chest, teasing his darling little nipples.

  “Why not?”

  I stopped teasing to prop myself up on my elbow and glare down at him. “Because she’s the housekeeper! She’s supposed to keep house, not spend her days tipping tables and catching ectoplasmic herring. I don’t care what she does in her spare time, but Alice has had to take on the bulk of Mrs. Peters’ work, and that’s not fair. Alice has enough to do. This party is a massive undertaking from the servants’ point of view, and we’re going to need every helping hand we can get. Obviously, I have to figure out some way to snap Mrs. Peters out of her preoccupation with the Worston ghosts.”

  “Tessa,” Max said, pulling me down on top of him. I squirmed a little, the hair on his chest tickling my breasts. “I know Roger told you that you’re in charge of the servants and making sure the house runs smoothly, but, sweetheart, you’re taking this too much to heart. You’re not responsible for anyone else, especially someone who obviously has an obsession with things of the spectral nature.”

  “It’s my job—” I protested, squirming even more when his hands drew erotic little circles on my behind.

  “
No, it’s not. I know you’re doing everything you can to keep everyone working together, but you have to be able to let go of situations out of your control.”

  “Out of my control!” I reared back, irate that he thought I couldn’t deal with servants who threatened to walk out at any moment, one or two of whom quite possibly were bonkers, an upcoming masquerade ball for one hundred people, and oh yes, there was the little matter of the apocalypse as enacted by a couple of moth-eaten ghosts. Out of my control? Oh, how I scoffed! “I happen to be in perfect control of the situation, buster. PERFECT CONTROL! The only reason I asked your advice is because I love you, and that’s what people in love do: They share things. You might want to store that nugget of information away, not that I expect you to actually volunteer to tell me anything about yourself, you great big hairy poop, you.”

  “Tessa, I have the feeling you want to start a fight with me in order to relieve the stresses and frustrations you feel over the situation with the servants, but I’m not going to allow you to use perceived personal problems to do that.”

  “Perceived!” I yelled, and pushed myself off him. “What do you mean by that? Do you think you’re so damned perfect that you don’t have any faults? If so, I’m here to tell you that you are dead wrong, bucko. You’re positively oozing with faults, and the inability to share your private life with me is just one of them.”

  I got to my feet and grabbed my peignoir, huffily jerking it on.

  “Tessa?” Max said, lounging on the bed like a sleek panther, all rippling muscles and coiled strength.

  “What?” I asked, ignoring his heated eyes and warm, wonderful body as I stalked to the door to the bathroom.

  “I love you.”

  “Oh, you do not play fair,” I said, facing the door with my hand on the knob. Part of me wanted to bolt, to run into my bedroom and manufacture a great big hissy fit over Max, but the sane part of my mind pointed out that he was right. I wasn’t really mad at him; I was just taking out my frustration on the nearest warm body.