Maid to Match

by Deeanne Gist

  “I’ll watch out for her.” Allan pushed back his chair. “You ready to sit on the porch, Pa?”

  Pa finished off his milk, then stood. Looking down the row of children, he zeroed in on Tillie. “Some ginger cookies would help you on those carriage rides.”

  “Ginger cookies?” she asked.

  “Ayup. And you go on to those twistifications. If King David can dance like a fool, I’m figuring a few whirls around the floor’ll be all right for you.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, Pa.”

  “I still think you need to be careful,” Mama warned.

  “I will.” Tillie rose to help with the cleanup. As soon as the table was cleared, Mama shooed the little ones out, leaving her alone with Tillie.

  “I’m so excited for you, dear. And so proud.” Mama dipped the plate she’d scrubbed into the rinse bowl, then handed it to Tillie.

  “I want this position so bad, Mama.”

  “And I think you have every chance of getting it.”

  “I don’t know.” Tillie ran a drying cloth across the plate. “Lucy has a leg up after what happened to me in the carriage.”

  “Perhaps. But think of all the hours, days, years, even, that we’ve put into preparing you for this very thing.”

  Tillie contemplated the number of books she’d read, the perfection her mother had demanded from her needle, the laborious hours she’d spent dressing and redressing Mama’s hair, along with the lessons she’d received on concocting herbal remedies and cosmetics.

  “Lucy may have a leg up,” Mama continued, “but when Mrs. Vanderbilt asks for Corfe’s edition of Handel, I wouldn’t put it past her to go searching for a coarse dish with a handle.”

  Tillie snorted.

  Removing her hands from the water, Mama dried them on her apron, then clasped Tillie’s within both of hers. “It is a rare, rare opportunity you’ve been given and likely the only one you’ll ever have. Don’t you see? This is it, Tillie. This is your dream. Your chance. You mustn’t squander it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You must be cheerful even when they expect long hours. Discreet when you overhear gossip. Tolerant when Mr. Vanderbilt invades his bride’s domain. And virtuous when upper menservants come sniffing about you.”

  “I will.”

  “You must not blush or lose your composure when you perform intimate services for Mrs. Vanderbilt that women of lesser stations would be too modest to have done for them.”

  Even as she spoke, her mother blushed and they both thought of the lessons Tillie had been taught by doing for her mother what she would one day do for Mrs. Vanderbilt if she were to win the position of lady’s maid. Services which became so frequent as to no longer embarrass Tillie, though clearly they still discomfited her mother.

  Mama’s eyes teared. “When I think of all our hard work and how badly I’ve wanted this. Now, here you are, on the precipice of living out the dream we’ve been clinging to. Think of the life you’ll have. So much better than mine or your father’s.”

  Tillie squeezed her hands. “I know. And I can’t thank you enough, Mama. Now, don’t you worry. I won’t let you down.”

  Swallowing, Mama withdrew her hands, swiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, then returned to the dishes.

  Tillie stacked the plates inside the cabinet, her resolve solidifying. No matter what it took, she must secure the coveted position. Failure was not an option.

  CHAPTER

  Five

  The sun swelled over the horizon, streaking the dawn skies with orange, pink, and purple. Mack hiked up Biltmore’s approach road with nothing but a pocketknife and a three-inch money belt strapped beneath his shirt.

  It wasn’t full enough, though. Not nearly enough. He’d asked the steward of Battery Park Hotel for an increase in pay, but the man had scoffed.

  “Then I quit,” Mack had said. “I’ll work at Biltmore.”

  “Biltmore? They’ll throw you out the minute they see you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The steward had curled his lip. “You leave now and you’ll never work at my hotel again or anywhere else in this town.”

  Mack had no doubt the man would make good on his threat. Which meant he had to make this work. At least until he could earn enough to get Ora Lou out from under Sloop’s roof.

  Pine, rhododendron, and hemlock opened up onto a pond dusted with fallen pink blossoms. He’d heard Vanderbilt had hired some fancy-pants fellow from New York to rearrange the landscape surrounding this three-mile carriage road. The thought was ludicrous. How could some Yankee improve upon what God had already put in place? But despite himself, Mack was impressed. Around every bend the countryside offered a view which was nothing short of stunning.

  Crossing a rustic bridge, he scanned the orange skies and his native mountains in the distance, trying to pinpoint the spot which cradled a cabin on Hazel Creek. That one-room dwelling had housed the first generation of Danvers to ever live in the Unakas. It had offered solitude with unhampered growth of forest on every side. It was the one place he was lord of himself and his surroundings. And the only place which gave his eagle heart the wing room it craved.

  A thrush landed on a persimmon branch, whistling a soft, fluty ah-ee-oo-lay. Mack stopped, watching it ascend high into the tree as it embellished its song with a variety of flourishes.

  This would be his last taste of freedom, of the outdoors, of everything he loved. The thought of being cooped up in some dark, dank basement for several months made his hands clammy. For the hundredth time, he considered turning back. And for the hundredth time, he forced himself to go on. Ora Lou’s welfare depended upon it.

  He may have told Mrs. Vanderbilt women were nothing more than domestic animals, but those were his grandfather’s words, not his father’s and definitely not his. He’d only said it to make the lady mad, because the Vanderbilts represented everything he hated about society. Where he came from there was no servility or headship by right of birth. Their leaders – when needed – arose from their clan by virtue of ability.

  Still, his pa had been an outsider – a “furriner.” The Southern Unakas highlanders had not taken kindly to the teacher who’d devoted his life to bringing a decent education to them. He’d traveled from home to home in that corner of the mountain, and though he was treated with hospitality, he was never really accepted . . . until he met Ma.

  What was supposed to have been a week’s stay turned into a wintering. As a guest, he’d had to stand by and watch as Grandpa used his fists on the children. But the minute he saw Grandpa raise a hand to Ma, he intervened, then whisked her away.

  Eventually Pa had reconciled with his father-in-law, but in no way had he adopted the highlander’s attitude toward women. He doted on Ma. Catered to her. Respected her. Even chopped the wood for her. And if that weren’t enough, he then saw to his children’s education. He was the laughingstock of that region. But it never seemed to bother him.

  A giant gatepost topped by a female centaur signaled the entrance to Biltmore House. Mack’s chest tightened. It might as well have been the entrance to Central Prison in Raleigh.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped past the post, rounded the corner, then came up short. A huge carpet of green lined with saplings spread before a fawn-colored castle of such enormity, such magnificence, such height he could do no more than gawk.

  Soaring spires. Octagonal towers. Medieval turrets. Sharp gables. Steep roofs. Stone pillars. Dormer windows. Multiple chimneys. Snarling gargoyles.

  The sprawling structure was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Yet somehow its grandeur fit in with the panorama of mountains flanking it. He stayed rooted to the spot trying to figure how a structure of such gigantic proportions could remain hidden until the last second. Had the Yankee planned that, too?

  Finally, he placed one foot in front of the other. Counting windows would be like counting the hairs on his head. Yet he knew someone was responsible for cleaning them. Would that fall to him now
? He hoped so. It would give him a chance to be out-of-doors.

  He’d heard Biltmore had two hundred fifty rooms but had never given much credence to the statement. Now he wondered if that estimate had been too modest. Vanderbilt had been a bachelor until a few months ago. What did he need two hundred fifty rooms for? What did anyone need that many rooms for?

  Dozens of chimneys graced the roofs. Chimneys which led to scores of fireplaces. It would take a lot of chopping to supply enough wood for that many fireplaces. He wondered how many hundreds of stairsteps it would take to climb from bottom to top. He pictured himself weighted down with firewood. Or a lady’s trunk. Or pieces of furniture.

  Stable, outbuildings, and carriage house surrounded an open court to the right of the castle. His gaze lingered on the carriage house. Earl had only been working in there for a few weeks. Vanderbilt’s head coachman had broken an arm. While he recovered, Earl had been pulled from the house to act as the interim driver. To hear his brother tell it, several undercoach-men had expected to hold the coveted position.

  Earl had smiled. “None are as handsome as me, though.”

  And in the world of service, a man’s height, good looks, and shapely calves were premium. If he also happened to be competent, he was in even more demand . . . assuming fetching for a rich man was his life’s ambition.

  A massive clock tower overlooked the open court. Six o’clock already. Had Mack known the house was a six-mile hike from Asheville, he’d have risen earlier. Still, before he made his way around back, he couldn’t resist taking a closer look at the looming entryway.

  He climbed deep steps leading to an archway wide enough to accommodate a dozen men, behind which was the grand entrance to the house. Enormous iron gates barred his way. He lifted his gaze to the extensive scrollwork carved into the limestone. Two princely gargoyles flanked each side of the archway. Both wore musketeerlike jerkins with puffy sleeves while clutching shields with prominent Vs carved onto the crests.

  One of the heavy wooden doors behind the grill creaked open. Mack froze. He knew he should dart out of sight, but according to his Bible, all men were equal.

  A middle-aged man in a dark navy suit stepped onto the landing. His jowls slackened. “Earl! What are you doing out here? And dressed like that?”

  “I’m not Earl. I’m his brother Mack.”

  The blond man scurried forward, shooing Mack with his hands. He was tall and broad, but the broadness also extended to his waist. “Return to the carriage house at once.”

  He sighed. “I’m not Earl. I’m his twin brother, Mack. Mrs. Vanderbilt told me to come.”

  The man looked down his nose. “I think I’d know if you had an identical twin, Earl. I have told you before that the joke playing has grown old. Do not think working outside the house exempts you from following my directives.”

  Mack tightened his jaw. “Let me talk to the butler.”

  Puffing up, the man released the latch and pulled the gate open. “As you well know, I am the butler.”

  “You’re Mr. Sterling?” Mack extended his hand. “Earl’s told me about you. I’m Mack Danver. Mrs. Vanderbilt asked me to come.”

  Sterling slapped Mack’s hand away.

  Mack didn’t so much as hesitate. He hated men who used their power as an excuse to bully others. He grabbed the butler by the shirtfront and propelled him backward. “Listen, mister. When I say I’m Mack Danver, I mean I’m Mack Danver. When I extend a hand in greeting, I expect it to be taken. When it’s not, I take offense.”

  “Unhand me!”

  “Apologize first.”

  “I’ll do no such thing!”

  “Mr. Sterling? Is everything – ” A maid with the fairest skin he’d ever seen stood at the door, hand covering her mouth. “Earl! What’s the matter with you!”

  Black hair peeked out from beneath her small white cap. Her eyes widened. The eastern sun had reduced her pupils to dots, leaving eyes so blue they appeared almost lavender. She rushed out the door. “Let him go!”

  He let go.

  Stumbling back, the butler caught a heel on the steps. Mack grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

  Sterling recovered his footing and shoved Mack away. “Take your hands off me. You’re done here! I don’t care what – ”

  Mack took a swing, but the butler swerved, causing Mack to graze the man’s chin.

  The girl jumped in front of him, squaring off with Mack. “Stop it! Stop it right this minute.” She took a step forward.

  He took a step back.

  “I cannot believe you would be so careless as to drink on a work night and not turn up until morning.” She propped her hands on her waist. “You’ve done it this time, Earl Danver. And it’s going to break Mrs. Vanderbilt’s heart. She thinks the world of you. And what about Mr. Vanderbilt? Can you imagine how you’ve let him down? After all he’s done for you? This is how you repay him?”

  The butler touched his chin, then looked at his hand. He seemed perfectly willing to let a woman do his fighting for him. Mack curled his lip.

  The woman jabbed Mack’s chest with her finger. “I’m very angry with you. Very angry.”

  She was tall for a woman, but still only came to his shoulders. Did she actually believe he was frightened of her? He felt the tug of a smile on his lips. “I’m not Earl, miss. I’m his brother Mack. And I haven’t been drinking.”

  The disapproval she’d shown before was nothing compared to the horror that filled her eyes now. She pressed a hand against her stiffly starched apron. “Oh no. You’re the brother?”

  He nodded.

  “But, but . . . where’s your beard? What happened to your hair?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”

  She shook her head. “I was with Mrs. Vanderbilt when she saw you in town.”

  That couldn’t possibly be true. He would never have forgotten her had he seen her before. Still, he’d been a bit distracted at the time.

  “What’s this?” Sterling now held a handkerchief to his chin. “You say this man isn’t Earl?”

  “No, sir,” the girl said. “He’s Earl’s twin. Mrs. Vanderbilt saw him in Asheville and offered him a position in the house. Told him to come round if he was interested.”

  Sterling inhaled quickly through his teeth.

  “You came to the front door?” she asked Mack. “What possessed you to come to the front door?”

  “I was just looking. I didn’t knock or anything. He simply opened the door and . . .” He shrugged.

  Rolling her eyes, she turned to the butler. “He’s a mountain man and was engaged in fisticuffs when Mrs. Vanderbilt first saw him. I’m sure he’ll refrain from using his fists in the future once we explain how we do things.”

  Sterling looked Mack up and down. “I don’t know, Tillie.”

  “Please, sir. I’ll take him round back myself. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into any more trouble.”

  Mack tucked his shirt into his trousers. “I can fight my own fights . . . Tillie, is it? You needn’t do it for me.”

  She seared him with her gaze. “Do not say another word.”

  He bristled and opened his mouth to argue.

  She lifted her index finger. “Not. Another. Word.” With her finger still in the air, she turned back to the butler. “May I take him round back, sir?”

  Tugging the hem of his jacket, Sterling tightened his lips. “Go ahead, then. I’ll talk with Mrs. Winter and tell you what we decide to do with him.”

  Mack took a step forward.

  Tillie steepled one hand on his chest. With the other, she pointed toward the gate. “That way, Mr. Danver. The servants’ entrance is that way.”

  CHAPTER

  Six

  Allan Reese held a distinct family resemblance to his sister Tillie – black hair, white skin, and light eyes – but he also had a ready grin, which she’d been lacking.

  He slapped a hand onto Mack’s shoulder. “Seems you’re to be our new useful man. Which
is a nice way of saying you’re the universal packhorse of the house and should be ready to throw yourself into any and every gap.”

  They passed through a long corridor belowstairs, bumping shoulders with liveried footmen and freshly starched chambermaids. Parlormaids and housemaids. Kitchen maids and laundry maids. Hallboys and footboys. Tweenies and step-girls. He couldn’t imagine the streets of New York City being any noisier or busier than this corridor.

  “Your duties will comprise window and vestibule,” Allan continued. “Cleaning the terrace and balconies. The getting up of wood for all open fires over the entire house. Trunk lifting, ice breaking, boot and shoe polishing, running errands, and doing anything which might require a strong arm.”

  Surprisingly, the basement was built into the downward slope of a hill, allowing windows along the entire western wall. What he’d expected to be dark and confining turned out to be filled with sunshine and fresh air.

  “You’ll need to be an early riser, since much of your work is to be done before the mister and missus are astir.”

  They passed a canning pantry lined with shelves. Rows and rows of readymade food in tin containers. Mack tried to stop. Even the grocer didn’t have that many cans.

  Allan propelled him forward. “The main rooms are heated with a horizontal tubular return. But the bedrooms only have fireplaces.”

  Mack dodged a tweenie with a tray of cream, butter, and cheese. He looked to be about thirteen. Sweat matted the hair sticking out from beneath his cap. He must have run ’tween the floors several times already.

  “They’re heated by a horizontal what?” he asked.

  Allan shrugged. “Basically the sub-basement makes a bunch of steam, which rises up the walls through a series of radiators built into shafts. Those shafts have vents in the main living areas. The bedrooms, though, will need firewood. Firewood that you will supply.”

  Mack stopped. “You’re joking.”

  Allan kept walking. “You don’t have to chop it. Just haul it.”

  “I meant the heating system. You’re joking about the heating system.”