by Janette Oke
A large four-poster bed with a blue spread and lace overlay graced one wall of the large bedroom. The window drapes were also of blue velvet with white lace. On the other side of the room was a marble fireplace with a comfortable grouping of soft chairs surrounding a low, highly polished wooden table. An ornamental lamp was placed on white lace in the middle. At the window was a window seat covered with blue velvet, almost hidden from view by several pillows of blue print fabrics and lace work. The chest of drawers and the tall wardrobe matched the polished wood of the bed. The walls that were not paneled were covered with beautifully patterned wallpaper, with blue as the predominant color.
Belinda just stood there trying to absorb it all.
Wouldn’t Mama love to see this, she breathed to herself, well aware of Marty’s love for beautiful things.
“The bath is through there,” indicated the young maid, pointing to a door off to the right. Her voice brought Belinda back to the present—she was supposed to be getting ready for tea. She flushed and hurried forward.
“I’ll wait for you in the hallway, miss,” said the maid.
Belinda did not dare linger any longer, though she certainly wanted to. She looked quickly about her, promising herself a leisurely, thorough inspection later, and quickly went through to the small room off her bedroom.
The bath, too, was in blues, but here bright spots of pink and some ivory had been added in place of the whites in the bedroom. It was most becoming, and Belinda wished she could skip tea and just wander the suite at her own leisure.
She poured water from the pitcher to the basin and looked about her for a washcloth. The only ones in view looked so new and so ornate she wondered if they were put there for use or for decoration. She had to use something, so at length she gingerly picked one up, dipped it carefully in the warm water, and wiped her face. Alarmed at the travel grime that showed up on the cloth, Belinda carefully washed it out the best she could and then hung it back on its rack. Hurriedly she smoothed her hair and went to present herself to the maid.
She was led through a long hallway, past many doors, down long winding stairs, and then through another hallway, and finally into a room where a bright fire burned on the hearth. Here, too, homey, elegant furnishings seemed to abound. In the midst of her pillows sat Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, Windsor before her and an older lady standing back slightly, listening carefully to the Madam recounting tales of her illness in the little town out west. For a moment Belinda hesitated. It was only now that she fully appreciated the difference in what Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was accustomed to and what they had been able to offer her.
“Come in, my deah, come in,” the lady said cheerily, motioning with her hand to Belinda.
Belinda felt suddenly shy. She could not refrain from looking dolefully down at her crumpled and slightly old-fashioned traveling gown. Surely it—or she—was out of place in this elegant home.
“Would you pou-ah, my deah,” invited Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, not seeming the least bit nonplussed by Belinda’s appearance. Then she turned to the butler and the elderly woman in the room. “Belinda has spoiled me dreadfully, I’m afraid. She nursed me the total time I was ill. Oh, she had replacements at times, of course, but it was really Belinda who cared for me. I don’t know what I should evah do without her. She knows exactly how I like my tea, the right amount of fluffing in the pillows, even how to make me smile when I get out of sorts.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth gave Belinda an appreciative smile and waited for her “exactly right” tea.
“Ella showed you yo-ah suite?” she asked as she accepted the cup.
Belinda could not keep the shine from her eyes. “It’s lovely,” she enthused.
“Good! Then you won’t be quite so tempted to be running back to one of those young men you left behind.”
Belinda could feel the color rising in her cheeks. She poured another cup of tea and handed the cup to the lady who still stood by the serving tray. The woman was obviously flustered, and she nervously indicated that the cup was not for her. Belinda was bewildered.
“Mrs. Pottah does not take tea in the drawing room,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth simply. “She has her tea in the kitchen.”
Now it was Belinda’s turn to be flustered. She felt her gaze travel to Windsor. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth seemed to read her question.
“Windsah does not take tea with us, eithah—unless on the rare occasion I can talk him into it.”
“I see,” murmured Belinda.
The woman called Mrs. Potter moved forward to serve Mrs. Stafford-Smyth some of the dainty sandwiches. She then hesitated, seeming not to know what to do next.
“Serve Miss Davis,” instructed Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “She will be taking tea with me daily.”
The woman said nothing, just moved forward with the tray of sandwiches. Belinda was alert enough to realize that what was going on in the room was not the usual—but she had no idea what the usual might be.
After Mrs. Potter had served sandwiches and Belinda had replenished the teacups, pastries were served. Belinda thought she should decline, but they looked so good and she was so hungry after three days of train fare that she could not resist. I’ll work it off later, she promised herself, and then wondered just how she was to work it off. While Mrs. Stafford-Smyth rested, there would be nothing for her to do, unless of course she could be of assistance in the kitchen.
When Mrs. Stafford-Smyth declared she couldn’t eat another bite, Windsor took her arm. “You wanted to see your roses, madam?” he asked with proper respect.
“Oh yes, Windsah, please,” she returned and was led sedately toward another door.
Belinda stood, carefully set her teacup back on the tray, and began to help Mrs. Potter gather the tea things. She was stopped by a dark look of disapproval. Not knowing her offense, she drew back, her eyes offering apology.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I meant to be most careful.”
“Nurse does not need to concern herself with the picking up,” the woman said curtly. “We all know our stations round heah.”
Belinda frowned. It was all so strange. A room with people, and you had to pick and choose who could be served. Work to do and only those designated for the certain job dared to do it. She had never heard tell of such a way to live.
“And what am I to do?” she dared ask.
“Madam gives your ordahs.”
“But . . . but she hasn’t given any,” Belinda reminded the woman.
“Then I guess you wait until she does,” the woman threw over her shoulder as she hoisted her tray and left through the side door.
Belinda, alone in the room, didn’t know whether she should exit through the door that had swallowed up Windsor and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, try to find her way back to her own suite, or just wait right here where she was. It was all so puzzling.
She wandered slowly about the room, admiring each piece of furniture, each ornately framed picture. Her eyes traveled over everything, drinking in the beauty of her surroundings.
Oh, she thought, I never dreamed anything could be so lovely. I could just look and look and look. And except for wishing that she had her family near to share her adventure with, Belinda was full of excitement and satisfaction. It won’t be one bit hard to stay on here, she told herself. It’s like living one’s make-believe. Then she turned to retrace her steps around the room one more time to make sure she didn’t miss a single elegant item.
In the days that followed, Belinda became more acquainted with her surroundings. The suite she occupied also had an adjoining parlor room. Here again the basic color was blue, with a pattern of rose and touches of mint green enhancing the design. Belinda could not get her fill of the softness, the coolness, the harmony of the colors. The polished grain of the furniture and elegance of another marble fireplace added to the charm.
Off Belinda’s sitting room was a door that led to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s suite. A button on the lady’s bedside table had been skillfully arranged to ring a
buzzer in Belinda’s room. Belinda soon discovered that there were many such buttons throughout the house. One in the parlor to ring for the maid. One in the drawing room to ring for the butler. One in the sunroom to ring for the cook. It seemed to Belinda that wherever Mrs. Stafford-Smyth took repose, a button was near her elbow.
But Belinda liked the button idea. It meant that she could attend the elderly lady without being with her every waking hour. She asked innocently for other duties about the house to make herself useful and was met with open-mouthed disbelief.
Do they think I’m capable of nothing but nursing? Belinda shrugged her shoulders and went to her own room to mind her own business. It wasn’t as though Mrs. Stafford-Smyth kept ringing her buzzer. Belinda had plenty of free time she could have used to lighten someone else’s load.
Her dilemma was partly solved by Mrs. Stafford-Smyth when she sent Belinda to the library to get her a book or two. Belinda was told to go to the drawing room and ring the bell for Windsor. He would show her to the library and indicate which new books Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had not yet had the opportunity to read.
Belinda did as she was told, and Windsor led her directly to a room with high-paneled ceilings and shelves upon shelves of books. Belinda couldn’t help but gasp at the find. Windsor selected a few volumes from a stack of books that appeared to have been set aside, and Belinda carried them, still in awe, to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
“I declare,” she said as she entered the room, “I have never seen so many books in all my life. Are they all yers?”
The lady smiled. “Of course. But if you like, we will pretend that it is a lending library. You may help yourself to whatever you like, anytime you wish.”
“Oh, may I?” Belinda could scarcely believe her good fortune.
“One hint. Don’t evah put a book back where you found it. Leave the book on the big oak desk in the middle of the room. Windsah is absolutely convinced that he is the only person in this house—in the world, I’ll wage-ah—who knows the proper place on the shelves for each book.”
This seemed a bit foolish to Belinda, especially when she planned to read many of the books. But she did not argue. She would do as she was bidden. As soon as she was excused, she went directly to the library to browse among the books.
It was difficult for her to choose from among so many, but at length she selected three volumes and took them to her room. The rest of the day passed quickly as she became engrossed in a Charles Dickens novel. An American history and a lovely little book of poems were also inviting. She no longer fretted that her hands were not busy—she would keep at least her mind occupied.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she thought, to read every book in there before I go home again? But she knew it would take years and years to devour all the contents of those ample shelves.
Belinda could sense a certain tension in the household. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she had the feeling it might have something to do with her. She couldn’t think of what she might have done to cause friction, but it was there, nonetheless.
One afternoon when Belinda and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth were enjoying tea in the east parlor, Mrs. Potter entered the room.
“Has Madam decided when she would like her dinnah party?” she asked.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth did some thinking. “Bring me a calendah, Pottah,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, and the woman went to do her bidding.
While she was out, the lady turned to Belinda. “I plan to have some of my old friends in,” she confided. “Not a large pahty, but my closest acquaintances. I haven’t seen them for so long and it will be nice to catch up on the news of Boston.”
She sat silently for a moment, then went on as though talking to herself. “Let’s see . . . we arrived home on Monday. We are now to Saturday. We could nevah be ready for dinnah guests by tomorrow. What night would you suggest, my deah?”
Belinda had no idea what to suggest. “How . . . how much time does the staff need?” she began. She had finally learned to refer to all of the household employees as staff.
“Windsah will take care of the invitations. The kitchen staff can be ready for the group I wish to have in two or three days.”
“Then perhaps Wednesday evening,” suggested Belinda just as Mrs. Potter returned to the room carrying the needed calendar. Belinda felt the woman’s cold eyes upon her. She wasn’t sure what she had said or done that had caused her to be miffed. Wasn’t Wednesday giving the staff enough time?
“Or Thursday . . . or Friday,” she added dumbly, watching for some sign of regained favor.
It did not come. But the woman did turn from Belinda and confer with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “What day were you thinking of, madam?”
“Wednesday,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth without hesitation.
“Very good, madam,” said Mrs. Potter. “Is there anything in particulah that you would like the kitchen to prepare?”
“I will leave that with you and Windsah,” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “You know my agitation at fussing over menus.”
“Yes, madam,” responded the woman.
“Ring for Windsah, would you please, my deah,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth said to Belinda, and Belinda pressed the buzzer. Soon Windsor stood before them.
“Windsah, we are planning a small dinnah party for Wednesday night.”
“Very good, madam,” he said properly. “And how many will Madam be seating?”
“I would like you to invite Mrs. Prescott, and the Judge Allenbys, and . . . let’s see. No, not the Forsyths this time. We’ll save them for latah. Mr. Walsh. Celia loves to chattah with Mr. Walsh. And . . . one more couple, I should think. The Whitleys. That will do it. Yes, that should be just right, I think. That will mean eight at table. That should do.”
“But Madam only named six guests. With herself at table, that leaves one short.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, with some impatience, listed off, “The Allenbys, Whitleys, Celia Prescott, Mr. Walsh, myself, and Belinda. That’s eight,” she corrected.
Belinda had seen a flash of surprise in the butler’s eyes when her name was said, though he did not flinch. But the expression on Mrs. Potter’s face indicated open resentment.
Belinda had thought nothing of being included in the dinner list, for she had been taking all her meals with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, but when she recognized the looks on the faces before her, she began to wonder about the arrangements. Was this why she felt hostility in the house?
She dared broach the subject with Mrs. Stafford-Smyth when they were once again alone in the room.
“Did yer old nurse—I’ve forgotten her name—did she dine with you?”
“Of course not,” said the lady frankly. “She ate in the kitchen or in her own rooms. Mostly she had her meals taken up, I think.”
Belinda waited for a moment. “Do you suppose it . . . it would be wiser if I had my meals in my own room?” she asked softly.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth looked surprised. “Don’t you like sharing your meals with me?” she asked.
“Of course I do . . . it’s jest thet . . . well, I feel that yer staff might think it’s not quite appropriate, thet’s all.”
“Nonsense!” spoke the lady curtly. “This is my home and I can make my own rules.” Belinda could see that the lady felt the matter was closed.
“But I am another employee,” Belinda said candidly.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth looked up from her needlework. “You are more like the daughter I nevah had,” she replied softly, and Belinda was touched. How could she argue against that?
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had been paying Belinda generously throughout the months of her nursing care out west, and Belinda had tucked away most of the money rather than spending it. But with the Lord’s Day and the dinner party coming upon them, she decided that the time might be right to relinquish some of her hoarded funds. She entered the hall that led to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth’s rooms, walking quietly, lest the woman was resting. As she knocked gently and was bidden to enter, Belinda slipped into the
room.
“I do hope I’m not disturbin’ ya,” she spoke hurriedly, “but I was wonderin’ about doing some shoppin’. Are there dress shops nearby that I could visit? I know my dresses are dreadfully outdated and out-of-place here, and with tomorrow bein’ church an’ all, I . . . I thought thet perhaps—”
“Oh my,” said the lady, “I was hoping we could get by until I could go with you myself—but you are right. You would feel more comfortable with something new tomorrow. I should have thought of church. The fact that I am not quite up to going out yet myself should not preclude you from going. Of course you shall have a new dress—and hat—and a shawl, too, I’m thinking. And then of course a pair of dressy high-topped shoes and perhaps a parasol . . .”
Belinda was about to slow the lady down. She hadn’t intended to spend that much money.
“Windsah will have the carriage brought round and will direct you to LeSoud’s,” she instructed briskly. “It is the shop I had planned to take you to myself. Oh my, I do wish I could go with you—but then we’ll have othah outings. Bring me my writing pad, would you, deah? I’ll just drop a little note to Madam Tilley.”
And so saying, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth propped herself up on her pillows. Belinda meekly handed her the writing pad and the pen and ink, and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth began to write a letter for the lady called Madam Tilley. Belinda began to feel more and more anxious as the pen scratched on. It seemed the good lady was willing to spend all of Belinda’s hard-earned money. Well, she would just put her foot down once she got to the store, she decided. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would not be there to give orders then.
Belinda was sent to dress for her outing, and Windsor was given his orders and put his call through for the carriage. Before Belinda could catch her breath, she was traveling down the tree-lined streets on her way to the dress shop, with Windsor in attendance.
This time, without inhibitions, she stared openly from one side of the carriage at every mansionlike home, every expanse of green carpet, every hedge of roses, every fashionable carriage. This truly is a magic kingdom—no wonder Mrs. Stafford-Smyth loves Boston! she couldn’t help but conclude.
