The Maid of Chateau Winslow

by Pippa J Frost

  What if the Winslows didn’t hire me? And in the off chance they did, how would I persuade them to take me and all these animals? “You’re weak. Just like her.” Orell’s ridicule repeated in my head. But what truly makes one weak?

  I had nothing to lose by leaving our homestead and I was too scared to remain. I climbed into the wagon and drove out of the barn, not stopping to bar the doors. When Orell woke he’d know I was gone and come looking, and by then I hoped to have vanished just as they had. I clung to the hope that he’d think the fate of our parents had also become mine.

  The lantern hooked on the lamppost swung wildly as the wheels hit frozen ruts in the road. My breath appeared as wispy clouds that dissipated into the black night as I adjusted to the bewitching music of the forest. An owl perched on the crooked limb of a mountain oak tree, its head bobbing rhythmically side to side, mesmerizing me until the mare snorted and elevated her head as if startled, snapping my awareness back to the road.

  I squinted ahead to the ridgeline. My blood ran cold. Multiple sets of yellow eyes observed us from the bank, stirring with impatience. I heard the wolf pack’s low whines, and I fought the urge to slap the reins and speed toward Chateau Winslow. That would only send the pack charging toward us. Keeping my eyes trained on the ridge, I mumbled a prayer to whatever ethereal was listening.

  Minutes that seemed like hours passed. Then the tension knotting my insides grew into sheer fright as, with a burst of excited yipping, the pack charged. They glided effortlessly over the snow, as if their paws never touched the ground. I whipped the reins and shouted a command at the mare, and she broke into a full gallop, all too aware of the danger closing in on us. The goat lost its balance and was propelled forward; I jammed my heel into the footboard and caught the rope to keep the animal from tumbling over the side.

  The fork in the road was a hundred yards ahead. I checked over my shoulder. They were gaining on us. The cow was in an all-out panic, the whites of her eyes showing as she bawled in protest.

  The wagon almost toppled over as I guided the mare down the lane leading to the old Winslow estate. I shrieked in terror but regained control, tears blinding my vision. I imagined the hot breath of the beasts on the nape of my neck; at any moment, I’d feel the bite of their fangs.

  I didn’t see the rock jutting out of the ground until it was too late. The wheel struck it, and I was launched over the side as the wagon flipped over. I hit the ground hard, every bone in my body jolting with excruciating pain. The panicked horse charged down the lane, dragging the cart and cow behind her. Brightness engulfed the thicket next to me as the lantern ignited it.

  I clambered to my feet and looked back toward the wolves. They had stopped several feet away, their eyes locked on me. One edged forward but immediately leaped back, whining. Why weren’t they advancing? I was right here, vulnerable, and on foot.

  I wasn’t staying around to find out. I turned and limped on, my body screaming in protest. I stumbled over an obstacle in my path but stayed upright. Looking down I saw the goat lying in an awkward position, its neck broken. I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. I couldn’t stop. My only chance was to continue, and hope the goat’s body would distract the wolves. I hastened my steps.

  I heard the hens—those that had survived—clucking frantically. I couldn’t see the cage, and I wouldn’t risk stopping to search. I glanced over my shoulder, listening for any sound from the wolves. Nothing.

  When a bend in the lane concealed me, I again picked up my pace. I came across the cow, her rope tangled in the branches of a thicket when, I assumed, she’d tried to leave the road and escape into the forest. Not sensing the wolves, I went to her and fumbled to free the rope in the dim light from the moon. The task seemed impossible, but then the rope came free and I gave her a slap on the backside; she took off down the lane.

  When the mansion finally came into view, a tremor coursed through me. The estate sat eerie and somber against the backdrop of the night. The main doors had been repaired and now stood upright and closed. Lanterns on each side of the doors flickered and cast elongated shadows over the overgrown front gardens. I fought the urge to flee—flee to where? Back toward the salivating wolf pack? Or to the cottage where Orell decided my fate and sold me to a swine of a man? Summoning my courage, I trudged through the maze of short shrubs to the grand marble stairs rising to the double doors.

  On the landing, I lifted the brass lion door knocker and struck twice before stepping back and pulling my cape closer to keep out the chill. My heart thumped faster as I started to second guess my decision. What if whatever waited behind the doors was far worse than what I’d left behind? The howls of the wolves interrupted my thoughts, and I rushed at the door and struck again and again. Pounding with my fist, I looked past the shelter of my hood and down the lane. “Please, help me. Let me in!”

  “I’m coming!” a woman called. The door swung open.

  I bolted inside, pushed the human form out of the way, and slammed the door shut. I pressed my body against it and slid to the floor, where I drew my knees to my chest.

  “What in heaven’s name are you running from, lass?”

  “Wolves,” I whispered, my voice barely discernible. I looked up into the face of the woman towering above me. She stared back at me through wire-framed spectacles that rested on the tip of her nose. Red curls peppered with silver poked out from under her nightcap. Was she real, or a ghost playing dress-up in Lady Winslow’s nightclothes? People from the village had spread tales of the haunted chateau. Rumors that the spirit of the Winslows’ firstborn—dropped from the balcony by the deranged healer months after its birth—roamed the estate’s grounds and corridors. Lady Winslow had birthed twin daughters a few years later, but never fully recovered from the loss of their first child. She fell into a deep depression that slowly stole her mind. Desperate to save his wife, Lord Winslow had sent her home to her family in France. Soon after, he received word she’d taken her own life. Heartbroken, he took his infant daughters and returned to England.

  “What are you doing out at this time of night?” the woman asked. Her caterpillar-shaped eyebrows flattened.

  My words turned to icicles in my throat. “I-I…”

  She waved her long fingers. “You can speak later. Best get you warmed up.”

  “But I don’t know if—”

  “Don’t sit there blabbering, lass. Up with you.” She bent and hauled me up with remarkable strength.

  I looked past her to the dimly lit corridor, and a shiver rushed through me. “I’m mistaken.” I turned to the door.

  “Oh no ya don’t.” Her fingers dug into my flesh. “You aren’t going anywhere.” She spun me around and I stood pressed against the door, her very solid grip holding me captive. She tried to smile, but her face didn’t seem like she smiled often. Still, the softness in her eyes gave me pause. “Don’t be frightened, lass. I will not harm ya. Perhaps a cup of tea will thaw the ice in your bones.” She released me.

  I swallowed hard and nodded, thinking of a dungeon or labyrinth beneath the stone floor where she’d confine me for the rest of my days.

  “Follow me,” she said abruptly, then turned and strode down the corridor, none too graceful on her feet.

  I crept by the shadowed walnut staircase in the empty foyer and down the darkened corridor. The light from web-encased wall sconces reflected on dusty portraits of what I assumed were the Winslow’s relatives. They hung over peeling and discolored wallpaper.

  The woman stopped at a doorway at the back of the home and turned back to me. “Hurry now; I haven’t got all night.”

  I hurried to catch up, but she had already disappeared inside. At the threshold I peered into the room, which appeared to be the kitchen. The warmth of a fire burning in the brick fireplace drew me into the room. I removed my mittens and held my hands out to warm them. A candelabra burned low in the center of a long wooden table scrubbed clean after the evening meal. The scent of boiled cabbage, spices, and ste
wed beef lingered.

  She removed an iron kettle from the fireplace and set it down on the table before walking to a shelf to retrieve a teacup. From jars she gathered an assortment of herbs and placed them inside cheesecloth, which she tied into a pouch with twine. “Come, take a seat.” She gestured at the bench on the side of the table closest to the fire.

  I sat down. “I’ve come to inquire about the job posting,” I said as she put the steeping tea on the table in front of me.

  “You might have wanted to wait for morning. It isn’t safe for a lass to be out alone at night, what with the beasts out there.”

  Beasts and humans alike, I thought bitterly, cringing at the memory of Orell’s friends. “I really need this job. I’d hoped to be the first in line to inquire.” I swaddled the cup with cold hands.

  “Desperate, are ya?” Her calloused fingers lifted my chin. “Let me take a gander at ya.” Her brow puckered. “Got yourself some cuts and bruises. It looks like your journey hasn’t been an easy one.”

  “My wagon hit something on the carriage trail, and it threw me,” I hurried to say.

  “Ahh, yes, there’s a boulder Lord Winslow has scheduled to be removed.” She released my chin. “It appears you have broken nothing.”

  “A little skinned up is all.”

  “Ya look knackered and half-starved to boot,” she said. “You could stand a nibble or two. I will fix you something to eat. You can stay the night and speak to his lordship in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Frau…”

  “Mrs. Potts is the name.”

  “Can you tell me more about the posting? What task is his lordship looking to have done?”

  “You must take it up with him in the morning. I’ll give you lodging for the night. First, you eat. But know that if you’re not awarded the job, you must find shelter elsewhere.” She waited for me to acknowledge her.

  “Yes.” I wriggled under her stare.

  She prepared me a plate of cold stewed beef and cabbage, proving I hadn’t lost all my senses. I used my fingers and scarfed down a hunk of meat while grabbing for another.

  “You’d best slow down, lass. Ain’t no critters going to take your food.” She lowered herself down on a chair.

  I continued at a pace more pleasing to her while satisfying the distress swirling in my stomach.

  When I finished Mrs. Potts lifted the candelabra and exited the kitchen, turning immediately to a narrow set of stairs designed for the house staff. We climbed in silence to the second floor and walked down several corridors until we reached the far wing of the house. She paused outside a closed door. “We were unprepared for guests, so this will have to do.” She opened the door and strode in to set the candelabra down on a stand by the bed.

  The cold and dusty chamber contained a bed without a mattress, a night table, a wardrobe, and nothing more.

  “This should suit for the night. I’ll bring you extra blankets. I’m afraid we can’t start a fire in this room, as the chimney needs repair.” She strode to the wardrobe and removed a piece of clothing. “Here, you can wear this night shift.”

  “Who does the gown belong to?” I asked. It was clear no one had slept in the chamber in years. In the dim light from the candelabra, I noticed two sets of footprints in the dust: Mrs. Potts’s and mine.

  “Lady Winslow,” she said. “She won’t be needing them, so you’re welcome to it.”

  Lord Winslow’s dead wife? I reached for the garment to mask my knowledge of the rumors.

  She picked up the candelabra and walked from the room.

  I stood in the middle of the moon-drenched chamber, contemplating if I should slip out the back door and be gone before the household awoke. Imaginary fingers tickled my back, and I dropped the dead woman’s night shift and glanced about the room for any sign of movement. Finding nothing, I climbed onto the bed and huddled in the far corner of the bed frame. Sleep had to have found me soon after, because when Mrs. Potts returned with blankets I never woke and remained in that position until morning.

  The next morning I’d barely opened my eyes before a knock sounded on the door, and before I could respond the door swung open. A lively girl of maybe five and twenty entered the room with a pail of steaming water, and a white cloth draped over her arm.

  “Mrs. Potts sent me up to assist you,” she said. “My name is Yara.” Without waiting for a response, she waved her hand for me to follow. I climbed off the bed and hurried after her down the hallway to another room. Two grooms entered after us, carrying a copper basin I’d only seen in shop windows. I believed the rich referred to them as bathing tubs.

  “Put it there, by the fire.” Yara nodded toward the fireplace. When the grooms were gone, she poured the bucket into the tub. She was a fleshy girl with straw-colored hair and a friendly face. “Are you from the village?”

  “No.”

  “The forest?”

  “I’m not from these parts.” I glanced from her to the boat-shaped hunk of metal. “What do you intend to do with that?”

  Her brow puckered. “You’ve never seen a bathing tub before?”

  “I’ve never used one.” My voice sounded scratchy with the dryness gripping my throat.

  Her eyes remained fixed on me, as though trying to read me. “It works the same as a river, except there’s a lot less water. The rich find it quite convenient, but the ones that have to do all the carrying and boiling of the water, we think differently.”

  I stood like a post as a cold sweat broke out on my back. “How does one keep from drowning?”

  Her dark eyes narrowed. “It won’t be filled. You add just enough water to get you cleaned up.”

  The grooms arrived and emptied their pails before leaving and returning three more times. After they left, Yara closed the door and swung back to me. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

  “I can manage on my own.” I crossed my arms over my chest, letting her know I wasn’t about to be bathed like a child or the ladies and lords she was accustomed to.

  She was having none of it. Her hands pulled at my dress, her freckle-dusted face determined. “Come now; you ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen before. If you’re to meet his lordship, you need to be presentable. And from what Mrs. Potts said, you’re desperately in need of a job.”

  Had I groveled that much? Yes, I suppose I had. Hesitantly, I unfastened the cape and let it fall to the floor. My arms dropped to my sides. She bent and pulled the hem of my threadbare gray dress up and over my head. I used my arms to hide my nakedness, but she never blinked; it was as if she had lost all sense of modesty. I guess bodies would become uninteresting to a chambermaid. Perhaps it was like a midwife or a physician, who’d sworn an oath to care for the sick no matter the circumstance.

  The thought didn’t stop the heat from warming my cheeks as she said, “Off with the boots and stockings.”

  Maybe you should have had me do that first, I grumbled inwardly. With as much modesty as I could muster, I kicked off my boots and wiggled out of my stockings. With my clothes and boots lying in a dirty heap on the floor, I looked at her. She stood staring at the birthmark staining my hip.

  “Does something trouble you?” I asked.

  She pulled from her trance and pointed at the tub. “In you go. Don’t stall.”

  I dipped my toes in the water and quickly jerked them back.

  “It’s a little hot at first, but it’ll cool down all too soon,” she said.

  I placed one foot in the tub and then the other. Slowly, I lowered myself down, gritting my teeth as the heat of the water touched the gashes from my fall the night before.

  Yara walked to the solitary piece of furniture in the room, a stand under the window, whose dusty green drapes had been pulled open to let in the morning sun. She lifted a silver tray of oils and soap and set it on the floor by the tub. Lifting one of the glass bottles, she poured a few drops into the water, and the scent of jasmine wafted through the room. Next she retrieved a bar of soap and held it
out to me. As I took the soap and began to scrub my body, my aching muscles relaxed, soothed by the warmth of the water.

  Yara scooped water from the tub into a pitcher. I eyed her suspiciously, but never had time to process what she intended to do with the water before she poured it over my head. I shrieked and dropped the soap. Coughing and sputtering, I grabbed at the sides of the tub, fighting to climb out. “No, no,” I gasped. Water splashed everywhere.

  I tumbled out, hitting the floor hard. Scrambling to my feet, I skated across the floor, slipping and sliding into the corner, where I crouched, my mind vaulting back to the day at the river.

  “What happened?” Concern etched Yara’s voice as she approached me.

  “Stay away from me!” I scurried closer to the wall. Uncontrollable sobs burst from my throat, racking my body.

  She held up her hands in defeat and inched backward. I rested my head against the wall.

  Orell tried to drown me—

  Shortly after my parents’ disappearance the water beckoned, promising refreshment on an unusually hot summer day. Blocked from my brother’s view, I let my dress fall to the ground and raced into the river. I sank into the cool depths and let the water take me, then surfaced to float on my back, peering up at the white patterns stretching across the bluest of skies. Closing my eyes, I allowed all my stress and worry to subside.

  Then hands grabbed me by the shoulders, and I opened my eyes to find Orell, fully dressed, holding onto me, his eyes strange and unseeing. He forced me under, his hands steady and unyielding.

  “No,” I gasped between gulps of air and water. I clawed at him. Why? My mind tried to make sense of what was going on. I gurgled water, and my lungs burned. I couldn’t breathe. His form above me eclipsed the sun and blue sky as the water pulled me down.