Maid to Match

by Deeanne Gist

  Arranging flowers was one of her favorite parts of being head parlormaid. Once the gardeners found Mrs. Vanderbilt was partial to tea roses, they began appearing with much more frequency.

  Tillie tucked the cluster into a larger arrangement, then stood back to eye it critically. The delicate blooms blended together like the first rays of dawn with tones of gold, warm pink, and rose. Grabbing scissors from the worktable, she trimmed a fern that was poking out a little too far.

  “Mr. Sterling said you needed help carrying the flowers upstairs.”

  She spun around. Mack filled the entire doorway. He’d loosened his collar, rolled up his sleeves, and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt. Try as they might, no one could convince him to wear his clothes the proper way.

  “You can’t go upstairs looking like that,” she said, hoping he couldn’t see the hubbub he’d created within her simply by appearing at her work door.

  He rolled down a sleeve. “I’m leaving, Tillie.”

  “I hadn’t heard Mrs. Vanderbilt was going out. Where are you going?”

  “No, I mean I’m quitting.”

  She slowly placed the scissors on the table. “Quitting? You mean, Biltmore? You’re quitting Biltmore?”

  “Yes.” Lifting his chin, he buttoned his shirt and adjusted his collar.

  “But why?”

  “I’m going to be useful man for the orphanage.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t . . . what about . . . where will . . .” She looked around the workroom at the wire, twine, and five arrangements she’d been working on for the past hour.

  “I’d like you to come with me,” he said.

  Her gaze flew back to his. “Go with you?”

  Stepping inside, he closed the door.

  “What are you doing? Open that back up. We can’t be in here alone.”

  He skirted the table. She scuffled backward. But there was nowhere to run.

  When she’d backed herself into the corner, he braced his hands on either side of her head. “Marry me.”

  The smell of man, starch, and determination envel–- oped her.

  “I’ve already told you, I – ”

  He kissed her. Not a hard, demanding kiss, but one as soft and delicate as one of her tea roses.

  “Marry me.”

  “I – ”

  He kissed her again, his knuckles grazing her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. He allowed a hairsbreadth of space between them, but only long enough to repeat his entreaty. “Marry me.”

  He again sought her lips with gentle, persuasive touches, which she found much more devastating than when he released his full passion upon her.

  Groping for her hand, he found it and brought it to his cheek. “Marry me.”

  He angled his head, continuing to coax a response from her.

  Breathless and confused, she rested her other hand on his shoulder, then crinkled his shirt with her fist. “You can’t leave. Please don’t leave.”

  He spoke against her lips. “Come with me.”

  “But I – ”

  He kissed her more urgently, his body tight against hers, then pulled his head back. “Don’t say no. You can’t say no. Because I’m really leaving. Today. And I want to leave knowing you’ll be mine, just as soon as we can arrange it.”

  An ache, deep and sharp, gripped her beneath the rib cage. “Why, why?”

  “Because I love you.” He drew her to him, running his hands along her back and shoulders and arms, every allowable inch. “Do you love me? Do you?”

  She squeezed his shoulders. Yes. Yes.

  But she didn’t answer.

  He tipped up her chin with his thumbs. “Do you, Tillie? Do you love me even a little?”

  Tears rose swiftly, threatening to spill. “You know I do,” she whispered.

  “Then marry me.” He bracketed her face, kissing the moisture from one eye and then the other, before lifting her to him like a seedling bursting from the soil in search of the sun’s warming gaze.

  She molded herself against him, encircling his neck, kissing him back with all the love and passion she felt. Because she knew this would be the very last time they’d ever share this sweet, wonderful, breathtaking intimacy.

  She drove her fingers into his hair. Ah, that thick, wonderful hair. She pressed her body against his, trying to absorb him, trying to steal some of his very essence and keep it stored within her heart.

  He flipped them around, so he was in the corner and she was on the outside. He broke the kiss. “Does that mean yes? Are you saying – ?”

  She silenced him with her mouth, taking full advantage of her new position as she freely ran her hands along his face, his neck, his shoulders, his arms, his chest, his waist, wishing now he hadn’t buttoned himself all up.

  He let her have her way, then suddenly squeezed her in a vise grip she thought would surely break her in two.

  And that’s when her tears began to flow, salting their kisses.

  He lifted his face. “Why are you crying?”

  She looked into the brown eyes she’d come to care for so very, very much. She ran her fingers along his eyebrows and nose.

  She outlined his lips. Cataloging, memorizing, archiving.

  He circled her wrist, then kissed her palm. “Why are you crying?”

  Her throat wouldn’t work.

  A look of wariness entered his eyes. “Why are you crying, Tillie?”

  “I can’t marry you.”

  He increased the pressure on her waist. “You can. How can you even think of walking away from this?”

  “I’m not the one walking away. You are.”

  He stared at her, shock and hurt slowly turning into anger. “What do you expect me to do? Continue to steal kisses? For what? The next twenty years? Is that what you expect?”

  She shook her head, sobbing now. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  He took her by both arms, his eyes impaling hers. “Listen to me. I’m leaving. I’m going to do what I can to ease the lives of those orphans. I want you to come with me. But whether you do or you don’t, I’m going.” He held her at arms’ length.

  She couldn’t see him clearly, so blurred was her vision. She swiped her eyes, then wished she hadn’t. His expression was fierce.

  Gathering her emotions and courage, she stepped free of him. “Good-bye, Mack. I’m sorry.”

  He stiffened. A deep, horrible hurt flashed briefly in his eyes, before it was replaced with barely banked fury.

  Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a pouch of coins and plunked it onto the table. “Here’s the money Winter docked from your pay for the crystal I broke.”

  “No, Mack. I don’t – ”

  He wrenched open the door. “Carry your own flowers.”

  And then, he was gone.

  Nothing was the same without him. Not the mornings without his quiet presence on the terrace, his thoughtfulness in moving the furniture without being asked, his economy of movement as he swept the vestibule with quick, sure strokes.

  Not the afternoons when she used to discover him repairing or tinkering with some stuck window or a machine that didn’t run. Or his uncanny ability to know which fires needed tending before the November air made the rooms uncomfortable.

  Not even the sorting and wrapping of Christmas toys lifted her spirits, for every one reminded her of the day they’d spent buying them. She wondered now where she would get the wooden toys he’d not yet made. He’d completed the pull toys and the ninepins, but not the collection of wooden animals her little brothers were to receive.

  Last evening she’d caught sight of Earl from behind, and for the flicker of a second, before she realized it wasn’t Mack, her heart took wing. Then he turned, and her misery was even worse than it had been before.

  She sat now in the seamstress’s room inserting fresh ribbons into a corset cover of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s. Beside her was a carefully folded stack of lingerie that had loose buttons or ripped edges of lace. She no longer felt the
awe she once did at handling such fine underwear trimmed with French needlework and exquisite embellishments, marveling that such beauty would be all covered up where no one would even see.

  Instead it became more like work. Less and less like a privilege. The never-ending pile of repairs multiplied with each new day. The constant brushing and making over of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s garments required more hours than would ever be available.

  Worst of all, the monotony of the tasks failed to challenge or occupy her mind. Which left far too many hours for her to mull over the what-ifs, the what-had-beens, and the what-could-bes.

  She wondered what Mack was doing and which project he’d taken on first at the orphanage. If he butted heads with the Sloops. If he interacted with the children. If he’d collected his little brothers. If Irene was all right. If Mack’s presence tempered the beatings. If Homer was adjusting. If Mack thought of her as much as she thought of him.

  Pulling the ribbon through the last insert, she cut the end, tied it into a delicate bow, folded the corset cover, and then began repairing frilly trim that edged a pair of drawers.

  One by one, she reviewed the warnings her mother had given her about Hazel Creek men. Reminded herself of all the good she could do for her family and the less fortunate. All the things she could accomplish and see. Recalled how long she’d prepared for this opportunity. And tried to convince herself she’d made the right decision.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-five

  The first thing Mack did was clean up the yard. He left the larger pieces of rusted farm equipment, hauled off the smaller stuff, and built a fire to burn everything else. But no matter how hard he worked, how busy he stayed, he could not erase thoughts of Tillie.

  Like a miser recounting his money, he meticulously reviewed every conversation they’d had on the terrace. Her expression of regret at not being able to finish school. Her desire to make her parents proud and to be the big toad. Her yawns when she’d stayed up late reading. Her rants over footmen being paid higher wages for less work. Her passion for those in need. Her refusal to give up her job.

  Humiliation welled up inside him. He’d been thrown over for a job. A job which looked glamorous from the outside, but was a life of toil from the inside. Why couldn’t she see that?

  But he knew it was more than the job. It was a dream, too. Something her mother had always wanted for her. And Tillie genuinely felt responsible for her family, the poor, the world at large. How was he supposed to fight that?

  He couldn’t. So he’d let her go. He’d given her over to the only One who could open her eyes and make her see. If He wanted the two of them together, He could make it happen. In the meanwhile, Mack had no choice but to move on.

  Since he’d only worked outside the building, he’d yet to have much contact with the orphans or even Sloop. But this evening, when supper was over, a handful of children trickled out, drawn by the blaze. By the time full dark had set in, they’d circled round like a hunting party seeking the comfort of a campfire.

  Settling himself on a giant log, he pulled out his knife and began to whittle.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Homer rested his little hands on Mack’s thigh and peered over his arm. The boy was normally quiet and withdrawn, but he had an insatiable curiosity. And the bond he and Mack had shared that first day had broken down some of the barriers Homer still kept between himself and the others.

  “I’m whittling.”

  “Whittlin’ what?”

  “A horse.”

  He pressed closer. “Who’s it fer?”

  “A lady asked me to make it.” Mack glanced up, assuring himself no one crept too close to the fire.

  Out by a monkey cigar tree a group of older boys snapped off the ends of its long beanlike pods and lit them, then pretended to smoke. Two girls around ten years of age sat on the ground to the right of Mack, their knees tucked beneath their dresses.

  The fire baked their young faces and turned their blond braids to the color of dried wheat. They took turns reciting each chapter from Matthew in preparation for an exam on the morrow. They were on the twentieth chapter.

  A pebble sailed out of the darkness, striking one of them on the shoulder.

  The girl didn’t flinch or turn around but merely rubbed the offending spot. “Stop it, Clyde . . . ‘Now as they went out of Jericho, a great multitude followed Him. . . .’ ”

  A few minutes later, another rock breezed past her ear.

  Mack scanned the shadows. The culprit made no effort to hide himself. Once he found a suitable missile, he brought it to his lips, then sent it flying. This one caught her in the middle of the back.

  With a great sigh, she twisted to look over her shoulder. “I don’t like you, Clyde. I’ll never like you. No matter how many of those rocks you kiss and throw at me. Now leave me alone . . . ‘So Jesus had compassion and touched their eyes. And immediately . . .’ ”

  Clyde’s shoulders wilted. Kicking the ground, he shuffled away. A well of empathy for the boy sprung up in Mack.

  He pulled his attention back to his carving. “Have you memorized the book of Matthew?” he asked Homer.

  “Not all of it. And I’ve gotten two whuppin’s so far.”

  “Because you didn’t know your verses?”

  “Yep.” Homer scratched his leg. “But that ain’t nothin’ compared to Irene. She gets the most outta ever’body. Mr. Sloop picks on her somethin’ fierce.”

  Mack scanned the circle. “Where is Irene?”

  “Doing her prayer book. Only the ones what didn’t get whupped today got to come outside.”

  Mack counted the children. Five by the tree. Six around the fire. One sulking in the shadows. About half of the boarders. He sighed. There must have been a lot of whippings today.

  The door opened and Sloop headed toward them, a coiled rope on his shoulder. Homer skittered off. The girls froze. The boys extinguished their fake cigars.

  Sloop had treated Mack with barely restrained tolerance. He’d warned Mack to steer clear or he’d go to whatever lengths were needed to see that Mack lost his job.

  Mack had no doubt the man meant it. And from what Vaughan told him, it wouldn’t take much. The council had taken a great deal of convincing, and Mack’s appointment had been passed by the narrowest of margins.

  “You cannot touch Sloop,” Vaughan had cautioned. “No matter what he does.”

  “But even the Scriptures are on my side,” Mack had argued. “I can cite verse after verse where we’re commanded to defend the fatherless and save them from the hand of the wicked.”

  “That may be so, but you have to remember neither the council nor the townspeople view Sloop as ‘wicked.’ Quite the contrary. And your fisticuffs are actually hindering your cause rather than helping.”

  Mack stared at him, aghast. “So I’m just supposed to stand there and do nothing?”

  “That’s not what I said, son. I said you can’t use your fists. Besides, for every Scripture you could recite on defending the fatherless, I could respond with a verse on pursuing peace.”

  “Peace,” Mack scoffed. “While he’s beating defenseless children?”

  “I’m just saying, when you attack Sloop it appears you are the problem, not him.”

  “So just what do you suggest I do?”

  Vaughan’s expression gentled. “Recognize that the problem is much deeper and bigger than you or even Sloop. And give God a little credit. He doesn’t need your fists to bring Sloop down. He needs your cooperation. So intercede with prayer and petition, trust in the Lord, and keep your eyes open and your hands behind your back.”

  Sloop plunked the rope at Mack’s feet, recapturing his attention.

  “This is all I could find, Danver. Now that you have it, see to it you clear the rest of the property by close of day tomorrow.”

  Closing his pocketknife, Mack set it and the wooden animal aside, then picked up an end of the rope. It was twisted manila hemp. Strong, sturdy, and plenty long. The ends were un
raveled, but that was easily fixed.

  Sloop looked over the children. “Just a few more minutes, then it will be time for roll to be called, prayers to be read, and preparations for bed to be made.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sloop,” they singsonged.

  He returned to the building.

  Mack fingered the rope, then separated its three unraveled strands and tied a crown knot.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Homer asked, returning to the position he’d taken up earlier.

  “I’m finishing off the end so it’ll quit unraveling.” Mack turned the cord so the boy could see. “You start off with a knot like this and snug it down, then you take a strand and go over and under.”

  He wove a couple through, then offered it to Homer. “You want to try?”

  Eyes widening, the boy glanced at the door Sloop had disappeared behind, then took the rope in his hands.

  Mack lifted a strand. “Okay now, take this end and tuck it under that coil.”

  Homer needed help loosing the twisted skeins, but was then able to tuck the strand under and pull it through on his own.

  “That’s the way. Do the same thing with the next strand. Over and under.”

  “Which one?”

  “Doesn’t matter which order.”

  Again, the boy didn’t have the strength to separate the coil.

  “Here, Homer. I’ll help ya.” The boy who’d thrown rocks wedged his finger in between two tight twists and made an opening.

  Mack glanced up. All the boys had gathered to watch.

  “Can I try it?” It was one of the pretend smokers.

  Homer handed him the rope.

  “How many times do we weave it through?”

  “Three times,” Mack answered. “Then we’ll need to split the ends in half and make one more pass.”

  The boys each took turns, some with tongues held tight between their teeth, others with frowns between their brows.

  When the back splicing was complete, they ran their fingers over the rope, marveling at the tidy ends.

  Such a simple thing. Something as second nature to Mack as walking. Yet none of these boys had ever been taught.