Maid to Match

by Deeanne Gist

  She pulled back. “You aren’t suggesting he . . .”

  “If he is, no one’s talking. But he’s definitely beating them. Sometimes with straps. Sometimes with switches. Sometimes with his fists. But never when I’m around to catch him. And he refuses to let me sleep here.”

  “Is Irene doing anything to anger him?”

  “Hardly.” He scoffed. “The girl’s afraid of her own shadow. And it’s not just her, it’s most all the girls.”

  She crossed her arms, hugging them close. “Isn’t there something that can be done? Someone to go to?”

  “There’s only one thing I know of.”

  “What?”

  “Replace him.”

  “With who?”

  “With me.”

  Slowly straightening, her mouth fell open. “Can you? Will they let you?”

  “Yes. Under one condition.”

  “What?”

  “That I have a wife.”

  Her breath caught. “A wife?”

  “The director is required to be married. If I don’t have a wife, then I can’t replace him. And I’m the only man in town who wants the job. So unless I marry, there is nothing that can be done.”

  She lowered her gaze, looking at the tips of her scuffed shoes peeking from beneath her skirt. His boots stepped into her vision. The smell of wood and hard work assailed her.

  “If we were married,” he said softly, “we could oust him and clean this pigsty and stop the beatings and grow a garden and get some chickens and teach the children skills and give them a chance to make something of themselves before they leave.”

  Her heart hammered within her breast. She didn’t dare look up.

  “We could also go get my little brothers and bring them and Ora Lou here. Then my family would be back together. All except for Earl, that is.”

  She lifted her gaze then. “You’d give up the mountain to live in the city?”

  “I would.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  Slowly, the intensity in his eyes dimmed, replaced instead with resignation. “You’d better run, Tillie. Run back to Bilt-more. To the dangling carrot of pretty dresses, world travel, and a room with a fire.”

  Stumbling back a step, she frowned. “That’s not fair. It’s more than that and you know it.”

  He leaned a hip against the table. “Maybe. But do you honestly believe you can do more good at Biltmore than here at the orphanage with me?”

  “Don’t judge what I do, Mack. Every part of Christ’s body has its job. Don’t belittle mine simply because it’s not yours.”

  Sighing, he looked around, picked up a hinge off the floor, and started to polish it. “Thanks for the paints. I’ll have those toys for you to wrap by a week from Friday.”

  “Mack – ”

  “Good-bye, Tillie.”

  Stung, she spun around and hurried from the shed.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-seven

  Tillie stepped into the Oak Sitting Room surprised to see Mrs. Winter at the table alongside their mistress.

  “Come in, Tillie,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said. “Mrs. Winter and I were just talking about you.”

  She recognized the morning dress Mrs. Vanderbilt wore. It was a simple but elegant cut of wool, and Tillie had replaced some buttons along the back and reinforced its side seams.

  Mrs. Vanderbilt slipped her pen into a holder. “We’ve both been suitably pleased and impressed with your performance. Bénédicte will be leaving come the new year and so I will need to make a decision soon. The two of us thought it would be a good idea for you to take over my morning toilet for a while and see how you do.”

  A thrill rushed through her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “It would mean giving up your morning parlormaid duties on the first floor. Who would you recommend to step into your place as head parlormaid during those hours?”

  “Alice Breeding would do very nicely, I think, ma’am.”

  “Very well. I’ll take her into consideration.” She straightened a stack of papers in front of her. “How are the Christmas gifts coming along?”

  “Everything is purchased, wrapped, and labeled except for the wooden animals from Mack Danver. He expects to have those finished a week from Friday.”

  “Very good. You’ll need to pick them up when they are ready.”

  Tillie kept her expression carefully blank. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Vanderbilt and I will select a Christmas tree this week. I’d like you to oversee the decorating of it, along with all the holiday decorations throughout the house.”

  Tillie sucked in a quick breath. Mr. Vanderbilt always set a towering Fraser fir in the Banquet Hall. She’d long admired the exquisite ornaments and trim but had never handled them before. “It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”

  “Excellent. Just let Mrs. Winter know what members of the staff you would like to help you, and all will be arranged.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome.” She gave a nod of dismissal.

  Tillie hesitated.

  Mrs. Vanderbilt lifted her brows. “Was there something on your mind?”

  “Actually, ma’am, there was.”

  “What is it?”

  “When I delivered those paints to Mack Danver last week, it came to my attention that the orphan girls are not being taught any skills which will help them acquire jobs once they reach adulthood.” She moistened her lips. “It made me think a wonderful opportunity was being passed up. I mean, what if those girls – and even the boys – were to receive classes in domestic science? As often as I go to town, it would be quite simple to stop by and take an hour to teach them some domestic skills.”

  Mrs. Winter straightened, her cheeks turning florid.

  Clasping her hands on top of the table, Mrs. Vanderbilt leaned forward. “That’s a very noble suggestion, Tillie. But Asheville is a bit far, especially when there are so many families right here on our mountains who are in need. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, though.”

  Tillie dropped her gaze. She knew her request had been brazen, but as philanthropic as Mrs. Vanderbilt was, Tillie really thought she would take the situation into consideration. To be refused outright shook her more than she wanted to admit.

  Bobbing a curtsy, she thanked her mistress and quietly left the room.

  Tillie crossed the empty yard of the orphanage. The ropes on the merry-go-round hung forlornly in the cold breeze, as desolate as the trees without their leaves. She scanned the building, wondering where Mack was. Smoke swirled out of its two chimneys, adding more gray to the already cloudy day.

  Picking her way to the shed, she avoided muddy patches left behind by a fierce afternoon thunderstorm. She wiggled the door, but it was locked and bolted. He must be in the house.

  Her breath came out in a cloud of vapor as she made her way to the back stoop, wondering if this would be the last time she’d see him. Once she collected these toys, she’d have no more reason to seek him out. She would come see Homer, of course, but so long as the Sloops refused her help, her visits would be restricted to the parlor. There wouldn’t be much chance of seeing Mack there. Tightening the scarf about her head, she knocked.

  A bowed woman with a soiled apron and dirty mop cap answered. Her wrists were tiny, her fingers bent, and her gray hair frizzed.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Tillie Reese from Biltmore. I need to see the useful man, please.”

  “Well, come on ’fore you let all the cold air in.”

  Warmth from the kitchen immediately embraced Tillie. She scanned the area. Two giant pots of water sat atop the stove, and another kettle hung inside a huge, crackling fireplace. A young girl sat perched on a stool plucking feathers from a chicken. Another knelt on the floor scrubbing dishes in a tin tub. The woman shuffled to a table and began chopping carrots.

  Unfurling her scarf, Tillie hooked it and her coat on a peg by the door. Mack’s jacket hung on the peg next to it. “Do you
know where I can find Mr. Danver?”

  “In Irene’s room doing some repairs,” the cook said, waving her knife toward the upper floors.

  “Do you know which room is hers?”

  “The girls are on the top floor.”

  Tillie nodded. “What about the Sloops? Are they in?”

  “The missus is. She’s up yonder schooling the kids.” The knife pointed to the front of the building.

  “Thank you. I’ll just go see if I can find Mr. Danver, then.”

  “Suit yerself.”

  Now that she wasn’t dashing through the building on a clandestine mission, she had a better chance to see how badly the place needed scrubbing. Cobwebs crisscrossed every corner like fishnets. A few had fallen loose, only to be snagged by the plastered walls, leaving filmy webs dangling like tinsel.

  She walked toward the stairwell, her boots loud in the quiet of the hall. On the top floor, the girls’ rooms were similar to Homer’s, only with one cot instead of two. Each was covered with dingy, moth-eaten blankets. No personal belongings. Nothing to indicate anything about the occupants.

  She rubbed her arms against the chill in the air. Where in the world was Mack? Turning around, she headed back up the hall, then spotted a closed door with a light coming from beneath. Muffled voices came from within.

  She gave a light tap.

  The voices stopped.

  “Come in.”

  She swallowed. It was Mack. Slowly turning the knob, she pushed the door open.

  Irene sat slumped on the edge of her cot, her eyes red and swollen. She cradled her arm – splinted and wrapped with newspapers – against her stomach. A large hole in the ceiling exposed wooden beams and joists. Below it, chunks of debris lay in a puddle of water.

  Mack knelt at Irene’s feet, his face grave. He rose when he saw Tillie. “I guess you’re here to collect the wooden pieces?”

  Something was terribly wrong.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Irene broke her arm. Mrs. Sloop sent me up here to wrap it.”

  Her gaze flew to the girl. “How?”

  His lips tightened. “She says the ceiling caved in during the storm and struck her arm.”

  “But I thought you’d repaired the roof.”

  “I must have missed a spot.”

  She looked again at the girl’s splint. “Has the doctor seen her?”

  “Sloop says no doctor is needed.”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “The arm will heal, if that’s what you mean.” The tension emanating from him was palpable.

  “What else, then?” she asked. “What else is wrong?”

  He jammed his hands into his pockets. “Seems Irene has a birthday coming up in January. After that, Sloop says she’ll be too old to stay. That she’ll have to leave.”

  And go where? Tillie thought. From what Mack had told her, the girl had no skills, was in a constant state of fear, and had hardly any meat on her bones.

  He took a deep breath. “Seems that when this occurs, Sloop puts a bug in Daphne Devine’s ear.”

  “Who?”

  “Daphne Devine. The owner of a brothel out on Saloon Row.”

  Tillie sucked in her breath. “No.”

  “Daphne has already been by to offer Irene a place in her establishment.”

  Shivers scuttled up Tillie’s spine. Smoothing her skirts beneath her, she sat on the filthy cot next to Irene. “I’m Tillie Reese. A friend of Mr. Danver’s and head parlormaid at Biltmore.”

  Irene’s eyes widened. “You are?”

  As Tillie had hoped, working for the Vanderbilts gave her special status in the girl’s eyes.

  “I certainly am. And you must not do this . . . thing.”

  Irene sniffled, then whispered. “She says I can have chocolate cake any time I want.”

  Tillie squeezed her hands together. “I can teach you how to make chocolate cake. There is no need to go to that . . . that place for cake.”

  Irene said nothing.

  Completely out of her element, Tillie prayed for guidance, then raised her gaze to Mack. “Would you excuse us, please?”

  Swallowing, he knelt back down. “Irene, you can speak freely with Miss Reese. She’s my special friend and she’ll keep what you tell her to herself. Now I’m going to fix that roof.” He looked at Tillie. “I’ll have those wooden pieces for you whenever you’re done here.”

  He slipped out the door, clicking it shut behind him.

  Tillie sat in silence, continuing to pray and gather her thoughts. Finally, she turned toward Irene until their knees bumped. “Do you know what you would have to do if you went to Mrs. Devine’s establishment?”

  Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. She nodded.

  “Then you see why you cannot go there.”

  Irene’s chin quivered.

  “You mustn’t go,” Tillie implored. “Promise me you won’t go.”

  They sat in silence for so long, she was afraid the girl wouldn’t answer.

  Finally she whispered, “Then where would I go?”

  “Anywhere. Anywhere but there.”

  “There is nowhere else.”

  Tillie smoothed a piece of hair behind the girl’s ear. “You could do scullery work like Ora Lou.”

  “Miz Devine says anywheres I go, the man what gives me the job’ll use me. At least at her place I’ll get paid fer it and not have to do no scullery.”

  It was a veritable speech, indicating the girl’s level of distress. Tillie’s heart squeezed. She still couldn’t believe Sloop had given that Devine woman access to Irene.

  Pushing aside her fury, she concentrated on the task at hand. “That’s just not true. There are many, many respectable men you could work for.”

  “Doin’ what? I ain’t no good at nothing. And Mrs. Devine says she won’t let the fellers hit me none.”

  Tillie took Irene’s good hand and folded it into hers. “Listen to me. You are much too special to work for that woman. I can teach you the skills you need to get good, honest work. I will come every day off I have and show you how to stitch and iron and clean and style hair.”

  Irene’s shoulders slumped. “It ain’t no good. How can I do all that with a gimp arm?”

  Glancing at the girl’s arm, she noted it was the left that was broken. “Which hand do you hold your pencil with?”

  “My right.”

  “Then there’s plenty you can learn to do.” She squeezed Irene’s hand. “What do you say? I can come this very Sunday.”

  “Won’t do no good. There ain’t enough time.”

  “You just wait and see.” She rose. If she received a Christmas bonus this year, perhaps she could save some back for the girl rather than giving it all to her father. “This Sunday, then?”

  Irene shrugged.

  The door burst open. Tillie jumped. Irene scrambled back to the corner of the bed, protecting her arm behind updrawn knees.

  Mrs. Sloop’s gaze darted between them, her eyes narrowing. “What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

  Tillie lifted her chin. “I came to arrange a time when I could give Irene a sewing lesson.”

  “Sewing lesson?” She humphed. “Well, these aren’t visiting hours, and all guests are to wait in the parlor. Besides, Irene can’t do any sewing, not with that arm of hers.”

  “So I see. Has she been looked at by a doctor?”

  “The useful man wrapped it up good and tight. That’s all it needs.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree.”

  The woman took a step forward. “What has Irene been telling you?”

  The girl pressed herself even farther into the corner.

  “You better not be making up lies, girl,” Mrs. Sloop said, then turned to Tillie. “Did she say something about my husband?”

  “We were simply discussing when would be the best time to schedule a sewing lesson.”

  “Well, Irene won’t be receiving lessons anytime soon.”


  “On the contrary, I plan to be back Sunday.” Tillie gave her a penetrating look. “And make no mistake, I will expect to see her.”

  Pulling her skirts to the side, Tillie swept from the room.

  Tillie sat cross-legged on the floor of the pantry, sorting and counting soiled table linens from supper. Eleven napkins. Picking up her notebook, she carefully recorded the number, knowing the head laundress would do the same in her book. The job required quiet concentration, because when these items were cleaned and sent from the laundry to Mrs. Winter, the two books would be compared with each other to ensure all articles were accounted for.

  Dropping the napkins into the hamper, she started on the doilies.

  “Here you are,” Allan said, stepping over a pile of large tablecloths.

  “Shhh.” Five, six, seven. She recorded the number, dropped the doilies into the hamper, then looked up at her brother. “What are you doing down here?”

  “Looking for you. I thought this was your day off.”

  She scrunched up her nose. “I made the mistake of coming back too early. So don’t ask me to do anything else. As soon as I’m done here, I’m disappearing up to my room with a copy of Ivanhoe.”

  “You’ve read that thing a hundred times. Don’t you get tired of it? It’s not like it’s going to end differently this time around.”

  She smiled. “I know. I still enjoy it, though.”

  Settling across from her, he leaned against the wall. “So how are things going?”

  She cocked her head. “You mean with my new morning duties for Mrs. Vanderbilt?”

  “No, I meant how are things going without Mack?” He was still wearing his formal serving livery, the maroon jacket handsome across his broad shoulders.

  “Not so good,” she whispered, her shoulders wilting.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “I can’t afford second thoughts.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too many people would be impacted.”

  He stretched his legs out in front of him. “Like who?”

  “Well, you for one.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Think about the impact it would have on you if I left Biltmore. It would mean you’d feel more of the financial burden for Mama and Pa.”