by Isabel Morin
“By all means. Go take some air.”
Thus freed, Luke headed out into the hallway, limping only slightly.
***
As soon as Rose finished cleaning the cookstove she was put to work washing the myriad pots, pans and dishes that resulted from the several courses the Fletchers and their houseguests had consumed at the midday meal. The work was arduous and the kitchen sweltering, but it was not altogether unpleasant amid the chatter of Lydia and two other maids.
The girls were full of both gossip and useful information. Rose now knew that Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher resided in the house, and that Luke Fletcher had arrived only weeks ago to help see the railroad completed. None of them seemed to know exactly where he’d been before coming home. Apparently he’d been rather peripatetic, traveling in the wilds of the Territories for some years.
“He hasn’t been back to Boston for ages, so no one save Mrs. Craig had ever seen him before,” Lydia said, whispering loudly. “Imagine our surprise when the likes of him showed up. Mercy!”
“You’ll pay him no mind and hope he does the same, if you know what’s good for you,” replied Abigail, a sullen, mousy girl who spent much of her time acting lady’s maid to Mrs. Fletcher. It hadn’t taken Rose long to discern that attending to the difficult mistress would turn even the sunniest disposition gloomy.
“You haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Fletcher’s son, Mr. Byrne, but you will,” added Dottie with a dark look. The youngest of them all at perhaps seventeen, she was a stocky brunette with a biting sense of humor and no-nonsense demeanor. “Mr. Byrne works for Mr. Fletcher too, but he has lodgings in Boston, thank goodness for everyone.”
“If only Luke Fletcher came by as often as Mr. Byrne does,” Lydia said longingly.
“Don’t let Mrs. Craig catch you gossiping about the family,” Abigail warned Rose. “She’s been with Mr. Fletcher since before his first wife’s death and won’t tolerate that kind of talk.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway beyond and they all fell silent, fearing they’d be overheard by the housekeeper. But instead of Mrs. Craig, Luke Fletcher entered through the swinging door.
Immediately his gaze fell on Rose.
In the few hours since she last saw him he seemed to have grown even more handsome. Despite her intention not to feel anything but mistrust for the Fletchers, her face flushed with mortification to be caught hanging over the sink, her face damp with sweat and her hair in disarray. He looked at her and then about the kitchen, clearly displeased.
Mrs. Craig entered the kitchen just behind him.
“Master Luke,” she said, stopping in surprise. “What can I do for you?”
His reply was too low for Rose to hear, and the two of them retreated into the servants’ hall where only the indistinct murmur of their conversation could be heard.
“What do you suppose has happened?” Lydia asked, eyes wide. “Did one of you break something?”
Abigail and Dottie insisted they hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, they were all on edge, wondering if they’d inadvertently committed some terrible error.
Lydia broke the tension with a dramatic sigh. “Even angry he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ll be singing another tune if it’s something you’ve done,” Dottie countered dryly.
Lydia made a face at her, only to jump in surprise as Mrs. Craig returned, briskly giving instructions for the evening meal. She said nothing to indicate what her conversation with Mr. Fletcher had been about.
As soon as Rose finished cleaning up from dinner she and the cook, Mrs. Beech, began preparations for supper. As the family would have guests joining them, this entailed plucking ten hens, scrubbing and cutting piles of vegetables, and mixing egg whites until they stood up in stiff white peaks and her arm went numb. She had done all of this before for her own family, but never had she cooked on the exhausting scale required here.
As she worked Rose had time to consider things in more detail, and it hit her that although she had made it into the house, as scullery maid she would likely never see beyond the servants’ wing. She would have no excuse to explore the rest of the house or move among the family.
It would be even riskier than she had anticipated proving the family’s role in her father’s murder. She would have to go into rooms in which she had absolutely no business being. And there was no telling when she would even have the opportunity to do that.
Was her effort to get here all for nothing, doomed before it even began? This thought left her so distraught she cut herself while slicing carrots and had to stop to staunch the flow of blood. Despair pulsed through her in time with the throbbing in her hand and it took all her willpower to hold back tears of frustration.
Early in the evening the staff sat down for their own supper. It was Rose’s job to serve the staff, a task she wouldn’t have minded but for the fact that she was dead on her feet.
This was her first chance to meet the two men on staff, a gardener and a groom. Both took their meals with the rest of the servants but, she learned, lived in a small cottage in back of the house. The gardener, a cantankerous older man named George, showed no interest in her whatsoever, but the groom, a young man of about eighteen named Charlie, was more attentive than was strictly proper.
“It’s a real pleasure having a new face around here,” he said, smiling familiarly at her. “Especially a pretty one like yours.” This last was accompanied by a wink.
If she hadn’t been so tired, his cocky attitude might have amused her. As it was, she only smiled wanly and asked if he wanted more gravy.
After the servants’ meal was over and cleaned up, she scurried to keep up with the tide of dishes Lydia and Dottie brought back from the family’s supper. For the next two hours she washed the never-ending stream of serving ware, a task that nearly undid her. How many courses could a person possibly eat? It felt as if she’d been washing dishes forever, and for an army no less.
All that separated her from the guests was the wall between the sink and dining room, and every time Dottie or Lydia came through the swinging door, a burst of conversation followed them. Rose burned with curiosity and sorely wished she were one of the serving maids. If she were able to listen to dinner conversation, she might learn something that would help her understand what happened to her father. Perhaps even now they were discussing the railroad.
Luke Fletcher’s deep voice could occasionally be heard through the doorway. How would it feel to have his full attention for the length of a meal, those dark eyes focused on her once again?
Guilt at this errant thought immediately swamped her. What kind of a daughter entertained such ideas about a man she suspected of killing her father? And what would Will think of her? Her very first day and here she was thinking about another man.
If it had been up to Will, they would already be married, but ever since her father’s death their courtship had stalled. At first she’d been too grief-stricken to want anything but a shoulder to lean on. Before long she was too intent on finding her father’s murderer to think about anything beyond that, even her own future.
But she hadn’t told Will her real reason for coming to Boston. He would never have understood. Instead she said she needed time away and would be going to her friend Vivian’s until she felt well enough to face the farm and all its memories.
“At least promise you’ll marry me when you return,” he’d implored.
It was the night before she was to depart, and he had just taken supper with her and Aunt Olivia. He looked as if he wanted to hold her, or maybe shake her, but instead he thrust his hands into his pockets. He’d never been anything but proper with her.
She didn’t have the heart to deny him her promise, but it felt wrong to make such a vow when her feelings were bent in an entirely different direction. Even so, the promise had been made. She had even let him kiss her.
Rose was jolted out of her recollection by the sound of chairs being pushed back and peopl
e rising from the table. The men were retiring to the library, the women to the drawing room. Rose was still cleaning when the guests departed an hour later and the family withdrew upstairs. Lydia and Dottie went to bed soon after.
The house began to settle around her, unfamiliar and disconcerting. She had just started her final mop of the kitchen floor, her last task for the night, when Mrs. Craig appeared, scaring Rose nearly out of her wits. The older woman gave Rose a tired smile.
“There’s been a change of plans, Rose,” she said. “Beginning tomorrow you will no longer be scullery maid. Instead you’ll work in the main rooms and upstairs. Lydia will show you what to do.”
“But why?” Rose asked, utterly bewildered.
Mrs. Craig looked reluctant to answer, but finally she replied.
“Master Luke asked that I reassign you. He doesn’t feel we’re putting you to good use back here.”
“But why should he interfere with the servants?” Rose asked, incredulous.
“I thought perhaps you could tell me,” replied Mrs. Craig, giving Rose a pointed look.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I only met him this afternoon,” Rose said. Then a new worry occurred to her. “Who will take my place?”
Mrs. Craig frowned. “Dottie will once again be scullery maid,” she answered, clearly unhappy at the prospect. And no wonder. Dottie had been in her new and better position only one day and would now, through no fault of her own, go back to her former duties.
“But that’s terrible!” Rose exclaimed, the consequences of Luke Fletcher’s demand sinking in. “Dottie will hate me. Everyone will hate me. Why must we do as he says?” she asked.
The housekeeper sighed, her expression softening. “Mr. Fletcher is a good man, if sometimes rough in his ways. And I have no desire to go to Mrs. Fletcher, as I assure you it would help none of us. Men will do foolish things for a pretty girl, and you’re far prettier than most. But whether you brought this on or not, I advise you to be careful.”
Rose was about to defend herself but thought better of it. The housekeeper had been kinder than she needed to be given the circumstances, and she was not blaming Rose for anything, simply warning her. A warning she would certainly heed.
“Yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Never mind that. Finish up and get some rest. The morning will come soon enough.”
Rose stood in the middle of the kitchen after Mrs. Craig left, trying to make sense of why Luke Fletcher would care what she did. Whatever the reason, being accorded favors by the master’s son would not sit well with the others.
She fumed as she swabbed the floor, heaving the heavy mop around the kitchen as she contemplated the trouble she was likely to encounter. But soon her indignation wore off and her movements slowed as she began to see that this was not such a bad turn of events after all. In fact, it was very much for the better, as Mr. Fletcher’s interference meant she would be able to move throughout the house, a dramatic improvement in her situation.
As badly as she felt that her advancement came at Dottie’s expense, her father was more important than anything else. She stood a better chance of finding his killer now, and that was all that mattered.
It was after midnight when she dumped the blackened water out the back door and put the mop away. Climbing the steps to the servants’ quarters took the very last of her strength, and when she reached her room she had barely enough energy to undress. With great effort she shed her shoes and dress and stepped out of her petticoats. Taking care not to disturb Lydia, whose sleeping form was revealed by the pale moonlight, she set her shoes under the chair and her clothes atop it. A great sigh of relief escaped her as she unfastened her corset and took her first deep breath since early that morning.
Without even changing her chemise for a nightgown or removing her stockings, she fell back onto the lumpy straw mattress. But like every night since her father’s death, she could not escape the vision that came to her as soon as she closed her eyes.
Her father lay on the ground, his face pale and clammy, his lips a faint blue. Blood soaked his shirt, turning it black.
Rose fell to her knees in the deep February snow, tears coursing down her cheeks.
“No, no. Oh, God, Papa,” she sobbed, the sound echoing in the silence of the wood.
“Rose,” he said, his voice weak. His eyes were open and direct, full of pain.
“It’s okay, Papa. I’ll take care of you,” she choked out, her hands working frantically at his coat and shirt to get to his wound. Taking off her apron she pressed it to his chest. “I’ll get Aunt Olivia. She’ll know what to do.”
“No, Rose,” he gasped out, his voice so faint she had to lean down to hear him.
“I must get help,” she sobbed, hardly able to see through her tears. “You've lost so much blood.”
“Stay,” he said, his hand reaching for her. He was so cold, his once strong grip too weak to hold on to her. Despair pressed down on her as she took his hand in both of hers, willing her life into him.
“Who did this to you?”
His face was relaxed now, as if he were already leaving her. “Fletcher…”
“What do you mean?” she asked, willing him to keep talking, to stay with her.
“My sweet girl,” he said, closing his eyes.
The next moment he went utterly quiet, not even a breath moving through him. Rose held his hand in hers, unable to let go, still pleading with God to save him.
Chapter Two
A cheerful humming wakened Rose after what felt like mere minutes of sleep. Opening her eyes she saw Lydia, already dressed, braiding her hair and pinning it back. Wishing for a few moments of peace, Rose said nothing, gazing out the window as the gray light of dawn lit the sparsely furnished room.
This had always been her favorite time of day. She and her father used to sit at the kitchen table in companionable silence, eating a slice of buttered bread with a cup of tea as the sun rose over the countryside and lit up the windows.
There was no stopping the coming of day. The feeling had once been a comfort to her. Now it just made her more aware of her burden.
Lydia turned as Rose sat up in bed, her round, freckled face brightening immediately.
“At last you're awake,” she exclaimed. “I tried to stay up for you but I just couldn't keep my eyes open. Well, I daresay you won't be working like that again. Oh, the girls are just in fits about it, I tell you. You're not here a day and already you've created a scandal.”
She went on, oblivious to the effect she was having on Rose. “So tell me,” she said, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “What did you do to make Mr. Fletcher so smitten with you?”
Rose’s heart sank at the damage Luke Fletcher’s foray into the kitchen had caused. Determined to correct Lydia's misconceptions, she spoke with more than usual force.
“Lydia, I don't know what everyone’s saying, but it's all a terrible misunderstanding. I admit it's strange that Mr. Fletcher would have wanted to intervene on my behalf, but there’s nothing at all between us. I spent only a few minutes in his presence when I arrived yesterday. Perhaps he was trying to do me a good turn, but it’s nothing more than that. We've barely spoken to one another.”
“But of course! You helped him into the house when he was injured, which is terribly romantic. Though it would have been more romantic had he helped you. Even so,” she continued darkly, “when he's done with you, you'll have no one to protect you anymore.”
“He won't be done with me, as he hasn’t begun anything with me,” Rose replied firmly, standing up to retrieve her corset and petticoats. “I mean nothing to him. Besides, I have my own beau at home. I’m not interested in anyone else.”
“It’s easy as pie to like two fellows at once, especially when one of them is far away,” Lydia responded, her dreamy countenance suggesting she was recalling just such a scenario.
“I’ve only just arrived and everyone thinks ill of me,” Rose said, thoroughly
dismayed. “And I don’t know how I’ll face Dottie.”
“Yes, Dottie’s furious, and she’s been known to hold a grudge.”
Rose groaned at this and sat down heavily on the bed, her face in her hands.
“Don’t worry,” Lydia consoled. “They won’t be too awful, as they all think you can get Mr. Fletcher to sack them. Anyway, I’ll help you. I can see you’re a good sort.”
Rose looked up, smiling wanly at her new ally.
“Thank you, Lydia. That’s very kind of you. I’m afraid you’ll also need to explain to me what I should be doing from now on, as I haven’t a clue.”
“Oh, that’s no trouble. You’ll get the hang of it in no time. And now that you’re a maid we can really get to know one another. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Just make sure you don’t get on Mrs. Fletcher’s bad side. She doesn’t forget anything.”
Remembering Mrs. Fletcher’s displeasure of the day before, Rose feared she had already managed to rub her the wrong way, but there was nothing to be done about it now except make sure the mistress of the house had no further reason to notice her. How difficult could that be?
“We’d best hurry down for breakfast,” Lydia told her. “Mrs. Beech, our cook, makes a horrible fuss when anyone's late to table, though luckily we don’t need to do much serving in the morning. We set food out on the sideboard and they come down and eat when they please.”
Rose rushed to dress, but she struggled with her corset lacings. Aunt Olivia and she had always laced each other up, so she was grateful when Lydia came behind her and with a few tugs set her to rights. Hastily Rose donned her petticoats, dress and a new white apron she’d sewn expressly for this position. Her hair, which she would normally have plaited before bed, had completely fallen out of its pins. Pulling a brush out of her valise, she tidied it before twisting it into a serviceable knot at the back. The hair that framed her face was shorter, as was the style, but since this was not the sort of situation one curled one’s hair for, she braided each side and pinned that back as well. Lydia stood watching her and sighed dramatically.
