by Deeanne Gist
“Yes.” His voice was deep. Hushed.
She didn’t dare look up and instead surveyed the room. They’d look smart on the mantel but not very practical. The fireplace was large enough for Mack to walk into standing up and to lie down in any direction without touching the sides. Mr. Vanderbilt would have to climb a stool just to raise or lower the wick.
That left the twin, two-tiered reading tables sitting on opposite ends of the oriental rug and bracketed by matching armchairs. Handing the lantern back to Mack, she removed a couple of books from one of the tables and laid them on the lower tier.
“We’ll put one here and the other over there.”
When all was arranged, he carefully lifted the shade.
“What are you doing?”
“Filling them with oil.”
“You were supposed to have done that already. What if you spill it? All cleaning, trimming, and filling is done in the lamp room belowstairs.”
“I won’t spill it.” Setting down the shade, he lifted the chimney.
She ran to retrieve her dropped cleaning cloth. “Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t soil the shades with oily fingers and don’t spill a drop.”
He filled the base, his large hands steady and true. The trickle of oil sounded loud in the quiet room. She blinked against the kerosene’s pungent odor, then replaced the chimney and shade.
When he’d topped off the other, he straightened. “I’ll take the lamps in the other rooms downstairs. You want to hold the shades for me while I fill them?”
Shaking her head, she replaced the second chimney and shade. “I can’t. It’d put me too far behind.”
He sighed. “What about tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow, either. I’m using every spare minute to make perfumed sachets for the drawers my mistress will be using when she arrives.”
“When should we do the lamps, then?”
“I’ll have Alice help you on Friday.”
Neither moved. The air between them hummed with feelings he didn’t bother to hide and which she took pains to suppress.
“Thank you for the shirt,” he said.
She braved a look. “Does it fit?”
“Perfectly.” He stepped back, holding his hands slightly away from his body, and turned in a slow circle. His boot-leg bag hung low on his hips like a gunslinger’s belt.
She followed the inverted triangle of his torso, which led to shoulders as wide as the icebox in Chef’s pantry and arms that might have been long in inches but were in perfect proportion to the rest of his body. She remembered cutting the fabric for his shirt and double-checking her measurements to be sure they were accurate. Beholding him now, she realized they’d been dead-on.
When he came full circle, she slowly raised her gaze. It wasn’t desire she saw in his, but some indefinable emotion she couldn’t quite place.
He ran a hand down the front placket. “I’ve never had a shirt so fine in my entire life. Nor one that fit me so well. I’ll take good care of it.”
She tried to swallow and couldn’t. Tried to tell him she’d already started on a second and couldn’t. Tried to tell him she’d relished every stitch and couldn’t.
“Well, I’ll see you this afternoon for my lessons?”
She nodded.
“This afternoon, then.” He turned and walked out, leaving the scent of kerosene in his wake.
She slid her eyes closed, once again reminding herself of the many reasons she wanted to be a lady’s maid.
The discordant sound of harried staff members racing every which way and talking at once, each louder than the other, reminded Tillie of an orchestra tuning up before a concert. As conductor, Mrs. Winter stood just inside the servants’ entrance directing footmen and grooms, chambermaids and housemaids, visiting servants who’d traveled with their masters, and anyone else underfoot.
“Tillie,” she barked. “Your mistress is finally here. Have her trunks taken to the Paris Gown-Room and see to her clothing after you check on the lady herself. . . . What are you doing out there, Earl? I told you to return to the house while the guests were in residence. Change out of that coachman livery and back into footman livery. . . . Dixie, Mrs. Whitman’s lady is in the courtyard. Take care of her, will you? . . . Mack, those are Tillie’s . . .”
Hunched over, Mack trudged inside with a large trunk on his back, his arms straining against the straps.
“The elevator,” Tillie shouted to him over the noise.
Just outside the stairwell and elevator shaft, he dropped the trunk to the floor. “I’ve never seen it so crowded down here.”
She nodded. “That always happens when a guest party arrives. The way we’re usually spread out, it’s easy to forget there are sixty-six of us.”
He pointed to the trunk. “She has five more.”
Tillie sucked in her breath. “Five? Are you sure they’re all Miss DePriest’s?”
He pointed to the elaborate DP monogram. “Are there any more DePriests in the house?”
“No. She’s the only one.”
“Then they’re hers. And they’re big, too.”
Tillie glanced at the clogged corridor. “You go ahead and collect them. I’m going to run up and check on her. Do you know where the Paris Gown-Room is?”
He shook his head.
“Fourth floor, south end, second door to the right. Look for the plaque that says Paris.”
He turned to go.
“Mack?”
He glanced back.
“How do I look?” She smoothed her stiffly starched apron, plucked at its frilly shoulder straps, then stood up straight to face him.
She’d only meant to receive a quick word of reassurance, but he gave the task his complete attention. Starting with her white cap, he surveyed her coif, her collar, her apron bib, her waist, her full black skirt, and then up again.
The noises receded. She held her breath.
Stepping forward, he scooped up a long streamer hanging from her cap and moved it to her back. “Perfect.”
He had ridiculously long lashes. How had she not noticed them before? A bead of moisture slid from his hairline down the side of his bronzed face, tucked up under his jaw, and then trickled beneath his collar.
“Tillie!” the butler shouted. “The call button from the South Tower Room was pushed. Get moving!”
This was it. Her chance to prove herself. But doubts began to assail her. This wasn’t her mother she’d be waiting on. This was a real, genuine lady who wouldn’t be offering quiet corrections or gentle suggestions. She would expect Tillie to know exactly what to do and when to do it.
What if a situation came up that Mama hadn’t prepared her for? What if she committed some grave breech of etiquette? She looked up at Mack, trepidation thrumming through her veins.
His eyes softened. “You’ll do fine. Now, go on. I’ll have these trunks up there quick as a wink.”
But some hidden force, some giant magnet hiding beneath the floor, held her rooted to the spot.
He took her by the shoulders, turned her so she faced the stairs, then gave her back end a pat. “Go.”
Jerking, she swished a hand behind her as if batting away a fly, then hurried to the third floor.
“Where have you been? I rang for you a good five minutes ago.”
Mary Pamela DePriest sat in the large oval room, her face drawn up in a pretty pout. She couldn’t have been much older than Tillie. Nineteen, perhaps. But no more than twenty. She was the cousin of one of the invited guests and had been included in the party as a courtesy.
Surrounded by pastel colors and dainty floral fabric on the draperies, she looked wilted and worn in her brown travel outfit.
Tillie bobbed a curtsy. “May I help you with your hat and driving cloak, miss?”
“Do hurry up.”
Tillie quickly withdrew an eight-inch, jewel-topped pin from the delectable hat the girl wore. Its melon-shaped crown had what looked like an inverted magnolia of brown velvet held together
with a long gilt buckle. Tillie clasped its rim and lifted, but it resisted.
“Ouch! Careful, you clumsy child!”
Child? Tillie kept her face void of expression. “Sorry, miss.”
She searched out and found two more hatpins before finally freeing the hat. She placed it on a wire holder, then assisted the girl to her feet and quickly unbuttoned the brown serge jacket she wore. Slipping it off her shoulders, Tillie laid it carefully across a striped cotton armchair.
Miss DePriest extended her arm and fanned her hand as if she couldn’t wait another minute to have her glove removed.
Tillie balked. Ladies took their own gloves off, or so Mama had said. So she wasn’t exactly sure how to remove gloves from someone else’s hand. She couldn’t very well grab the girl’s wrist and yank. Mack removing his with his teeth flashed through her mind.
Miss DePriest stomped her foot. “Well? Get on with it. The trip was a complete bore and I’m anxious to have a rest.”
“Yes, miss.” Grasping the hem of the glove, she quickly peeled it inside out. Then moved to the next.
Not taking the time to right them, she laid them beside the jacket and started in on the double-breasted vest. A light floral scent wafted around her.
“Must you take so long?”
Instead of answering, Tillie kept her fingers busy removing collar, cuffs, skirt, shirtwaist, petticoat, and corset.
“Would you like to sit down while I brush out your hair, miss?”
Miss DePriest presented her back to Tillie and hoisted up her chemise. “Scratch.”
Deep red grooves from the corset’s boning marred the girl’s otherwise flawless skin.
She stomped her foot again, a hairpin falling from her coiffure. “Scratch!”
Tillie ran her fingernails over the angry marks.
“Harder!”
Tillie increased the pressure, wincing as her light scratch marks superimposed themselves over the grooves.
Miss DePriest twisted from side to side and up and down, sighing and groaning like a bear against a tree trunk. Finally she dropped her chemise, fell onto the striped cotton couch, and extended one leg.
Tillie kneeled before her and removed shoes and stockings. The smell of sweaty feet that had been encased for a long period of time slapped her in the face. She struggled to keep her expression neutral, then braved a slow, cautious breath from her mouth. After setting the last stocking and garter aside, she turned to find Miss DePriest swirling her foot.
“Rub!”
Tillie hesitated only a moment before massaging first one foot and then the other. The smell from the girl’s feet filled the room. Mama’s had never held an odor, nor had she expected them to be rubbed. Tillie would have to throw open the windows during dinner to air everything out.
Miss DePriest sighed, her eyes drifting shut.
Finally, Tillie rose. “Would you like me to brush your hair now?”
“Uh-huh.” But she didn’t budge.
Tillie moved behind her, quietly slipped a handkerchief from her own pocket, wiped her hands, then removed the pins from Miss DePriest’s hair. Taking up a brush, she smoothed the hair over the back of the couch. It was long, silky, and the color of lemon chiffon pie.
Tillie smiled. It was going to be a pleasure to dress it. Tucking away the brush, she turned down the soft cotton bedding and fluffed two feather pillows against a caned headboard.
“Miss DePriest?” she whispered.
A soft snore.
She hesitated, then finally decided to wake the girl. “Come now, miss. Your bed is all cozy and waiting.”
Miss DePriest fluttered her eyes, their color like the blue forget-me-nots in the breakfast room flower arrangement downstairs. Tillie helped her up, guided her to the bed, and tucked her in.
Burrowing into her pillows, she mumbled something.
“Beg your pardon, miss?” Tillie leaned close.
“To dinner I’ll be wearing my brown Félix with the small check in the front and back.”
“Yes, miss.” Tiptoeing to the chair, she collected the discarded clothing and slipped into the hall.
As soon as she reached the servants’ passage, she cradled the garments and all but flew to the upstairs gown-room. She needed to unpack, find the Félix gown, undergarments, shoes, stockings, gloves and hat, then freshen them and lay them out in Miss DePriest’s dressing room. All within the next forty minutes.
CHAPTER
Twelve
Tillie burst into the Paris Gown-Room and stopped short. Lucy Lewers hooked an elaborate silk evening skirt onto a lower rod. The room of highly polished hardwood floors, ceilings, and walls were lined with nothing but tier upon tier of varnished poles – offering no place for dust to harbor.
A third of the tiers were filled with gowns. The rest were barren except for a smattering of padded skirt-supporters decorated with colorful ribbons.
“What are you doing in here?” Tillie asked.
Lucy brushed a speck of dirt from the skirt she’d hung. “I ran out of space in my gown-room, so I had to put the overflow in here.”
Tillie stiffened. “You can’t do that. Miss DePriest has six trunks. Six. I need every inch of space in here. You’ll have to move them.”
Lucy arched a brow. “You mean you haven’t even started unpacking? Why, I’m already finished. I’d assumed this room was extra, since nothing was hanging up.”
Tillie looked at the three trunks anchored in the middle of the room. “Well, it’s not. As you can see, it’s filled with trunks and there’s more in the hall. Now, move your clothing. And where are all my skirt-supporters? I put rods of them in here early this morning.”
“Did you?” She touched three fingertips to her lips. “And here I thought they were for anyone who needed them.”
Tillie widened her eyes. “You used my skirt-supporters? I went up and down four flights of stairs five different times stocking my poles.”
“Well, heavens. Why didn’t you use the elevator?” She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now, I suppose. Good luck with unpacking all this before dinner.”
“Lucy, you have to move your lady’s clothing and you need to replace the skirt-supporters you took. I need them. Right away.”
She waggled her fingers. “You better get busy and find some, then.”
In disbelief, Tillie stared at the now empty doorway before shaking herself. Balancing the clothing she carried, she tossed the items for laundry in the corner, draped the shirtwaist, petticoat, and corset over her arm, then hung the skirt on one of the few remaining supporters.
She’d deal with Lucy later. For now, she needed to find the Félix gown and its accessories. Opening a connecting door, she entered another wooden room with a modest fireplace flanked by closets, wardrobes, chests of drawers, and an abundance of airy space. Opening the glass-fronted chiffonier, she gasped. The shelves were empty.
Throughout the past two weeks she’d stuffed rose petals, lavender buds, and geraniums from the Biltmore gardens into sachet sacks, then lined the chiffonier shelves and drawers. Yet none of the sachets were inside. She opened the top drawer, then the next. And the next. And the next. Nothing.
Lucy.
She arranged the shirtwaist, corset, and petticoat in the drawers, then hurried into the other room. There was nothing she could do for now. She needed to find the Félix gown.
Mack returned to the fourth floor to retrieve the empty trunks he’d carried up earlier and found Tillie headfirst inside one.
Heaps of white tissue paper blanketed the Paris Gown-Room floor like newly fallen snow. Trunks with raised lids were strewn about. Silky nightgowns, lace-trimmed geegaws, and beribboned articles spilled out of their bellies like jewels in a treasure box.
But it was Tillie’s delectable bottoms-up profile which captured his full attention. Muttering to herself, she leaned in farther, her skirts twitching at her precarious stance while offering him a glimpse of a well-turned ankle.
“Tillie?”
“Stop doing that!” she snapped.
“Doing what?”
“Sneaking up on me.”
“Sneaking? I clomped down this entire hall, but you were muttering so loud, you didn’t hear me coming.” He looked about the room. “Is something wrong?”
“My mistress wants to wear a brown Félix with a small check in the front and back, but I have no idea what trunk it’s in. Lucy used up a third of my space in here, most of the lower rods and all of my skirt-supporters. My sachets have vanished. And once I find this blasted dress, I still have to beat it, dust her hat, brush her shoes, arrange her dressing room, lay out her toilet table, and bring her hot water. How in the world am I going to accomplish all that in the next twenty minutes?”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her she would also need to repair her appearance. Tendrils of hair escaped their pins and her hat sat askew. In the month he’d been here, he’d never seen her so mussed, and he had no defense against the panic in her voice.
“What can I do?” he asked.
Her lips parted. “Do you mean it? They aren’t screaming for you belowstairs?”
He shrugged. “They can do without me for twenty minutes.”
Her gaze darted about the room. “I’ll find her hat, gloves, and shoes; you start on the trunks in the hall. We’re looking for a brown-checked shirtwaist and skirt.”
Retreating to the hall, he unlatched the nearest trunk and raised its lid. Pale blue tapes crisscrossed white tissue, holding and protecting the cargo within. He flipped open his pocketknife and cut the tapes, then tossed the shielding tissue aside.
Something green. He lifted it, then reared back. The stuffed shirtwaist looked as if a headless horsewoman had lost her bottom half along with her head. Sleeves, waist, and bust had been filled with tissue, leaving every bow and geegaw intact.
Laying her on the floor, he tried not to look at her as he flung another layer of tissue to the side. More green. Yards and yards of it. He speedily lifted it.
