by D L Lane
“I know, I know.” He glanced away. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. It was wrong on so many different levels.”
“But you did, and it meant something to me. But I guess that’s my problem now, isn’t it?”
“Mississippi, it meant—”
Who knew how, but once again, Mr. King’s daddy came stepping out the door, catching Thayer and me too close, talking. The man’s sharp eyes were taking in the tension.
“Son,” he said, “it would seem that I find you speaking with Ms. Singleton quite often.”
Straightening, I swiped all expression off my face. “I was just leaving.”
“No, you weren’t.” Thayer latched onto my elbow. “We’re not done.”
His father cleared his throat. “Listen, my boy, you know good and well staff shouldn’t be loitering at the front door unless they are here to greet arrivals, so if you would like to have a dalliance, do so, but do it discretely—we have guests!”
Thayer dropped my arm. “Mississippi is not a dalliance, Father.”
“Just what is Mississippi to you?”
Hand on hip, I glanced at one man and then the other. “Excuse me, but I’m standin’ right here.”
Both of them shifted toward me.
“You needn’t worry, Mr. King,” I said to Thayer’s daddy, “I’m nothin’ to your son.”
***
Eyes sensitive and bloodshot, I did what I could to appear presentable, but a sleepless night with many shed tears into my pillow, turned any effort I’d made into a weak attempt, I was sure. Nonetheless, I had a job to do, even if I didn’t want to do it.
The first thing I noticed once I walked into the smaller room Ms. Bauman called the sunroom—Mr. King hadn’t come down for breakfast, but his parents and the Carrington’s had. The next thing to come to my attention was Catherine. She didn’t draw my notice ’cause she looked any better or worse than any other day, but she’d started in on her polite kind of horrible.
“Ms. Singleton,” she waved her elegant fingers at me, then lifted her plate upon my arrival at her side. “Would you call these eggs over hard?”
Eggs were eggs as far as I was concerned, but the woman required an answer with everyone looking on. “I’m not sure.”
“Well...” She smiled, eyelashes batting. “I would say they are over easy.”
Mrs. King leaned in and studied the plate. “I would agree. Over easy.”
“Take her plate, Ms. Singleton, and have Cook remake Catherine’s eggs,” Mr. King’s daddy ordered, snapping his fingers at me.
I don’t know what he and Thayer spoke about once I left them on the steps the night before, but at least the man wasn’t calling me, ‘Girly’ any longer.
***
Blowing out a breath, I walked into the kitchen and placed the plate Cook had prepared on the counter. Her shrewd brown-eyed gaze on me the moment I entered her domain. “What’s wrong?”
“The pampered princess isn’t happy with her eggs,” Ms. Bonny sang, coming around me.
Cook looked at the food and tsk-tsked. “There’s nothing wrong with those.”
“Ms. Carrington said they were over easy, not over hard,” I said, joining in the conversation.
“Ah...” She waved a hand. “She’s not happy unless she’s got something to complain about.”
“Yeah,” Ms. Bonny said, “and even then, she’ll make something up to complain about if she can’t find a real grievance.”
“Well,” I said, “if it makes you feel any better, I think her behavior this morning has more to do with me than with your cooking, Inga.”
Slapping a dishcloth over her wide shoulder, she shook her head. “Why?”
I shrugged. “Ms. Carrington’s way of putting me in my place for smartin’ off to her the other day.”
The plump woman grinned—the dimple in her left cheek showing. “You told her off?”
“Naw, but I did put a twist in her drawers.”
Cook and Ms. Bonny burst into laughter.
“Oh, to be a fly on the wall that day,” Ms. Bonny said, chuckling.
Inga nodded, a fresh batch of eggs crackling in the frying pan. “I don’t know what you told that prissy gal, but whatever it was, I hope you did all of us proud.”
***
After placing a new plate of overly hard eggs down in front of Catherine, I started to move back, but she knocked over her glass of juice and did it in such a way it looked as though I’d been responsible for creating the spreading puddle of orange.
Ms. Carrington was a sneaky one; I’d give her that.
“Look what you did!” She jumped up from her chair, juice drip, drip, dripping off the end of the table.
Mrs. King gasped, face modeled in red.
All the fuss flustered me a second. “But, I didn’t—”
“Ms. Singleton!” Mr. King’s daddy snapped. “Get something to clean that mess!”
Anger racing up my body, I nodded.
“I think a sincere apology is in order as well,” Mrs. King said as Ms. Bonny came hurrying in, a stack of cloths in her hand.
“We’ll get this cleared in no time,” she said, placing a towel on part of the puddle.
“No!” Mr. King’s hand hit the tabletop, causing me to jump. “Ms. Singleton made the mess; she’ll be the one taking care of it!”
There was nothin’ Ms. Bonny could do but bow her head and back away.
Heat crawling from my neck to my cheeks, I started sopping up the spilled juice, making sure to clean it all, then squatting to mop up the floor.
Once I was done, I stood, ready to go and toss the soaking towels in the kitchen sink, but Mrs. King’s voice stopped me with, “You are not finished, Ms. Singleton.”
Turning, I couldn’t help it, I frowned. “Ma’am?”
She pointed to Catherine, who was gracefully re-taking her seat. “Apologize.”
“Yes,” Mr. Carrington said, and I realized he’d been quiet ’til then. “My daughter is waiting.”
“We are all waiting,” Mr. King’s daddy said gruffly, rubbing a graying sideburn.
My gaze bounced from face to stern face, all but for Catherine’s, who was smiling up at me like she’d won first prize for the best pig at the county fair.
I’d-a rather eat a worm than to tell that woman I was sorry, but I manage to push the words past the thickness of my tongue.
“Speak up,” Mr. King’s daddy said. “We can’t hear you.”
Closing my eyes for a moment, I thought of something pleasant. The rose garden, the bobbing boat on the lake, the scent of Thayer’s skin...
Eyelids lifting, I grinned. “I’m sorry for the mess, Ms. Carrington.”
Her green eyes could have burned me where I stood, but that fake smile hung across her sculpted face. “You’re forgiven.”
“Well,” Mr. Carrington patted his daughter’s shoulder. “If Catherine’s happy now, then so am I.”
“You are excused for the rest of the morning, Ms. Singleton,” Mrs. King said, looking down her nose at me from where she was seated. “Ms. Bonny?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Have Cook prepare another plate.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
I don’t think I’d ever been happier to leave a place in my life.
Chapter Sixteen
The wrong kind of biscuits
I might have been excused from breakfast service, but Ms. Bauman gave me something else to do, so I was in the butler’s pantry—that’s what she called it—arranging freshly washed glasses on a shelf.
Grumbling to myself about snatching all that golden-blonde hair from Catherine Carrington’s head, I heard his voice coming from the other room. “I’m sorry for being detained this morning, but I had several things requiring my attention.”
Inching over to the cracked door, I peeked through. While I wasn’t able to see much, I could see the side of Thayer’s dark suit-coat, but it didn’t matter. I could hear him.
“Don’t
you look dapper this morning,” his mama said.
“I don’t see why I would; I’m not wearing anything special.”
“Even so,” Catherine said, syrup dripping from her tongue, “I agree with Mother King, you are very handsome.”
Thayer must have taken a seat, ’cause I didn’t see a thing any longer, but I kept my place, listening, being as quiet as possible.
“Don’t you have anything to say to your fiancée, son,” his daddy ordered more than asked, displeasure in his tone.
“Oh, yes.” There was a jangle of utensils. “Thank you for the compliment.”
“You’re most certainly welcome, Thayer.”
“And,” he added as if an afterthought, “you look nice this morning as well, Catherine.”
I rolled my eyes. She might be pretty to look at on the outside, but on the inside, she was a dried-up old hag.
“Whatever are you doing, Mississippi?”
I jerked, turning to see Ms. Bauman, my elbow hitting one of the glasses still on the countertop, knocking it to the floor. It shattered into a million glittering bits across the tiles.
“Oh no,” I mumbled, squatting for the second time that morning to clean up a mess.
“Be careful; it’s sharp.” Ms. Bauman bent down next to me as I plucked up pieces of broken crystal.
“What in the world is happening here?”
Thayer’s voice startled me. “Ouch!”
I’d cut my finger on one of the shards. Blood welled on the tip of my pointer, so I clutched it in my hand, trying not to get any droplets on my uniform.
“Ms. Singleton!” Thayer joined in, squatting like the rest of us, taking my hand and inspecting the wound. “The good news is I don’t think you’ll require stitches.”
He took one of his fancy white handkerchiefs from his pocket, wrapped it around my finger, and squeezed, applying pressure.
So there we were, the three of us, Ms. Bauman, Mr. King, and myself, hunkered on our heels, when Catherine came flittin’ in. “Is everything all right in here?”
“Everything is fine,” Mr. King said. “Go on back to your breakfast.”
“Oh my.” She leaned over her fiancé’s back. “What happened, Ms. Singleton?”
I didn’t buy her concern for a moment.
“There’s been an accident,” Mr. King said, and I blessedly didn’t have to answer, “but it’s under control.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
My “No,” and Mr. King’s “No, there isn’t,” happened in unison.
“Well, if you're sure,” Catherine said.
I didn’t glance back up, but I figured she was fluttering those long lashes.
“I’m sure. Return to your breakfast, and I’ll rejoin you shortly.” Thayer’s voice was so cold everything around us went chilly.
***
Finger cleaned and wrapped, I got on with my day, serving afternoon tea in the parlor to Mr. King’s parents, and of course, Catherine—her daddy and Thayer nowhere to be found.
“Bring the biscuits, please, Ms. Bonny,” Mrs. King said, surprising me how polite she’d been.
“I’ll do it,” I offered, wanting to give her a moment since she’d been doing double duty most of the morning, covering for me.
“Thank you,” she replied, carefully pouring the older Mr. King his tea.
Happy to be of some use to my friend, I scurried into the kitchen, glanced around, but didn’t see Inga, so I went my merry way, snagging a few leftover biscuits from breakfast and arranged them neatly on a floral-patterned serving dish.
It made no sense to me why Mr. King’s mama wanted cold biscuits, but I wasn’t going to concern myself with it. That’s what she’d asked for.
Smiling as I re-entered the parlor, I carefully placed the dish down in front of Mrs. King, her nose scrunching up like she smelled a skunk—lip curling. “Whatever are these?”
I glanced at the food then back at her, no doubt confusion on my face. “Biscuits, ma’am.”
As if arthritis had set in, she inched her head around, looking at her husband. “Where did Thayer find this one?”
The older of the King’s lifted a brow and a shoulder. “I don’t know, Augustine, but one does wonder.”
Glancing back at me came her “Indeed” while waving Ms. Bonny over.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Take these away.” A twitch of her wrist flicked her hand over the plate. “And bring me my biscuits!”
Catherine’s giggle wafted over from her spot at the end of the settee.
“Ms. Singleton,” Mrs. King said in her snooty manner, “you are dismissed for the rest of the day.”
“Alright,” I mumbled, completely lost as to what the problem was.
“And until you know what it is you are doing, no more serving duties.”
“I’ll speak to Thayer about it, dear,” Mr. King assured his wife.
“I hope you do.”
Head spinning, I left the parlor, waiting for Ms. Bonny to step out, and when she did, I all but jumped on her. “I don’t get it. What did I do this time?”
Geraldine—That’s Ms. Bonny’s given name—held up the dish. “These are the wrong kind of biscuits.”
My eyes widened. “What other kinds of biscuits are there?”
“Follow me, Mississippi, and I’ll show you.”
It turned out, where Mrs. King came from, they called flat cookies biscuits. So, I guessed it was true—a person really does learn something new every day.
***
I liked the job of cleaning more than serving, I’d decided while polishing the brass fixtures in the formal parlor the next morning. I was even humming a tune as I swirled my cloth over the wall sconce.
“Ms. Singleton,” Ms. Bauman called, coming to me.
I stopped what I was doing to focus on her. “Yeah?”
She held out an envelope. “This is for you.”
I took it, my eyebrows pulling together. “What is it?”
“Your last month’s wages.”
It didn’t feel very heavy, so I slipped the thin envelope into the front pocket of my white apron. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “Don’t thank me; I just deliver everyone’s pay. If you want to show your gratitude, thank Mr. King.”
I nodded.
“Oh, and I’m to pass on a personal message,” she said.
I perked up. “What is it?”
“He apologizes to everyone for the delay in payment, saying he was busy with everything and fell behind.”
“Alright.” It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t know when payday was supposed to be anyhow.
“He’s put a small bonus in with your regular rate of pay as recompense for waiting, and said to tell you all; his tardiness will never happen again.”
“Recompense?” I asked.
“A reward.”
I didn’t think I needed a reward, but I said, “Okay, that’s nice of him.”
“Mr. King is nice, Mississippi, you know that.”
When he wants to be, I thought sourly. He’d sure ignored me earlier, but I kept it to myself.
***
Nibbling on my ham and cheese sandwich during my thirty-minute lunch break while sitting in the garden with no more rose blooms left to enjoy, I remembered the envelope Ms. Bauman had given me, so I tugged it free from the pocket I’d tucked it in.
My name appeared across the front of it, but it wasn’t Mr. King’s handwriting, it had to be Ms. Bauman’s.
Opening the flap and peeking inside, I scowled. There wasn’t money in there. What I was looking at reminded me of the only bus ticket I’d seen when Fawna-Leigh showed me the receipt for her trip to Tallahassee, Florida, a couple of years earlier.
Taking the thin slip of paper out, I stared at it, baffled. National Bank of Baton Rouge was marked across the top, and in Mr. King’s handwriting was his signature at the bottom.
Pay to the order of Mississippi Singleton it said, and the little box h
ad $250.00 written in there.
I gaped. That was a fortune to be sure, but what was I supposed to do with it?
Putting the paper back into my pocket, I took a second to clean up my mess, then rose and made my way inside. I still had a few minutes left, so I did the only thing that came to mind. I went to see the man himself.
***
A bit windblown from hurrying, I tried to tidy myself as I knocked on the office door, hearing the familiar, “Come in!” of Mr. King’s voice drift through the wood.
With a breath, I stepped inside, and there he sat behind his desk—the place I’d seen him many times since my arrival at the estate.
When sparkling sky-blue eyes met me, the corners of his mouth lifted. “What can I do for you today, Ms. Singleton?”
I took the seat in front of his desk and held out the paper. “What is this?”
“It’s your wages. Why? Are you unhappy with the amount?”
I shook my head. “That’s not it. You probably paid me too much.”
One dark brow arched high. “You were paid the standard wage for a new employee and a small bonus for my failure to get your wages out in time.”
“Ms. Bonny mentioned the bonus. Thank you, it was kind.”
“Of course, but I’m not sure what you are asking me.”
I wave the ticket in my hand. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
He stared at me, puzzlement dancing on his features, then something, an emotion raced across his face so fast it was too hard to read. “You’ve never seen a bank draft before, have you?”
“I can’t say that I have, no.”
Mr. King tilted his head, creating a shadow from his lashes to lie across his cheekbones. “You take it to the bank where you can deposit it into an account or cash it.”
“Cash it for real paper money?”
He grinned. “Yes. ‘Real paper money’.”
“I have no idea how to do that, Mr. King,” I admitted, the heat blazing so hot in my cheeks they had to be a deep shade of crimson.
“I’ll help you.” Mr. King stood, and so did I. “Go change your clothing.”
I glanced down my front, deciding I was clean and acceptable, then looked back at the man. “Why?”
His lips twitched. “We are going to town, and you need to put on something nice. So, change out of that drab black and white uniform.”
