Dragonfly Maid

by D D Croix

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing. Not enough sleep, I suppose.”

  How long had she stayed in Fayte Hall?

  “Oh, you won’t need to collect the firewood this morning. The Queen and her ladies will be breakfasting in their own rooms.”

  “I know I…” I stopped mid-sentence. It didn’t matter. I stepped closer to her and lowered my voice. “But shouldn’t I check on things up there? See that everything’s all right? With the Queen, I mean.”

  And to be sure Mr. Wyck wasn’t wandering the halls again, though I knew better than to mention it.

  She turned back to her porridge, took hold of a giant wooden spoon, and stirred. “Let’s just keep to our plan.”

  Our plan. Of course.

  Discouraged, I picked up an apple and used the slender paring knife to shave off the shiny red skin in long thin strips.

  For hours we worked in silence, until Mr. MacDougall came around the corner, scowling as usual and holding a freshly starched parlor maid apron in his grip.

  “Jane, please report to St. George’s Hall. You’ll be helping with receiving duties this evening.”

  There was a definite frown on his face, as though my assignment was not of his choosing nor his preference.

  “Thank you, Mr. MacDougall.” Mrs. Crossey gave him a keen look that made him look away.

  He sneered as he set an apron on a clean space on the table and moved down the aisle to set another in front of Marlie. Addressing her, he said, “You will be assigned to reception duties as well.” He didn’t even look her in the eye before moving on to talk to a young cook overseeing the roasting of a pheasant turning on a spit.

  “You heard him. Off with you now,” Mrs. Crossey said.

  I glanced at the clock overhead. It read a quarter till four. “It’s still early. The ball is hours away.”

  “The time will pass quickly, I assure you. Use it wisely.” She gave me a knowing look and I could almost hear her thoughts: Use the time to find the menace.

  It hardly seemed likely that someone plotting against the Queen would be hanging about the cloak room, but I knew an argument would get me nowhere. I gathered up the crisp, ruffled apron.

  Mrs. Crossey moved closer.

  “There’s a footman stationed in the Grand Vestibule,” she whispered. “An older gentleman. Chester is his name. Marlie knows him. You can trust him.”

  She turned back to the stove to stir her savory beef stew, steeped in the fragrance of rosemary and thyme. “Remember, you’re only collecting information. If you sense something—anything—you find me or Mr. MacDougall. No one else. Do nothing else. And for goodness’ sake, don’t forget the…” She patted her chest to indicate the Faytling.

  I swallowed hard and tried to calm the butterflies that had taken hold of my stomach. “I know. I can do it.”

  At least I hoped I could.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Garlands of white hydrangeas, peach roses, fuchsia tiger lilies, and sprigs of deep green foliage adorned the wood-paneled walls of St. George’s Hall. At the center, a bouquet on a round table towered over the tallest men, and ivory silk hung in wide ribbons from the ceiling to the walls, intersecting the colorful coats of arms belonging to the Knights of the Garter. The sight of it all stopped me cold.

  “Don’t let Mr. Bailey see you gawking like that, or we’re done for,” Marlie whispered, referring to the Chief Deputy of the Household. “We’re already late.”

  And so we seemed to be. A veritable army of footmen and maids had formed a line that stretched a good length of the immense hall, and pacing in front like a sergeant was the portly and monocled Mr. Bailey, scratching at his fussy beard and mustache as he bellowed orders like a military general.

  Marlie waited until his attention was directed toward the far end of the room before she joined the line and assumed the same chin-up, chest-out position as the others. I followed her lead, though the line was so long I found myself straddling the vestibule doorway.

  “I am aware of the discontent over our decreased numbers,” I heard him say as he turned and paced back our direction, “and that some have expressed concern over our ability to uphold our usual excellence in service. To that opinion, I say, hogwash. I am confident this staff is more than capable. Furthermore, allow me to remind you it is not only our duty to perform our tasks as they have been assigned, but rather our privilege to do so, for the sake of our Queen and country.”

  I turned away, unable to stomach this insipid speech from a man with lily-white hands who had obviously never touched a broom or scrub brush in his life.

  As rousing as he was trying to be, I could not help but think his time would have been better spent foregoing this lecture and letting us simply get on with our work. At least when he paced back the other direction, it left me free to take in the flowers and the silks. But then a group of workmen ascending the Grand Staircase caught my attention. They were muscling up wooden crates from the lower floor before disappearing into a side room.

  I leaned toward Marlie and motioned their direction. “What are they doing?”

  She only grimaced, her stern look imploring me to be quiet.

  But it was too late. Mr. Bailey was already striding toward us.

  “My apologies. Did you have something to add to the discussion?” Each syllable dripped with sarcasm.

  “No, sir,” I muttered, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the parade of crates being carted through the hall because one of the delivery men was indisputably Mr. Wyck.

  Mr. Bailey wheeled around to see what I was staring at when Mr. MacDougall appeared at the stairs, carefully watching and directing the men and crates.

  Mr. Bailey’s brow furrowed. “MacDougall!” he called out. “Deliveries are to be routed through the kitchen. I was quite clear!”

  Mr. Wyck and the other workmen stopped and stared at Mr. MacDougall, who looked at Mr. Bailey with such puzzlement I had to snicker.

  I had never seen Mr. MacDougall called out, and from the scattering of gasps and giggles, I wasn’t alone.

  The House Steward adjusted his tie and swallowed hard. “Of course, sir. I was under the impression we were to—”

  “Never mind,” Mr. Bailey barked, waving off Mr. MacDougall’s attempted reply. “I’ll go over it again.”

  As this transpired, I watched Mr. Wyck. My fingers found the Faytling resting at my collar, and I squeezed it gently through my gloves. If you are capable of doing anything, do it now!

  The ground shifted and a swirling sensation licked at the space around me. A vision? I waited, eager for something.

  But nothing manifested. The feeling only teased. A wink at something beyond my grasp.

  “Are you from the kitchen?”

  The question jolted me from my near swoon. I tried to focus on the dour man in a footman’s uniform standing before me.

  “That’s us.” Marlie shot me a nasty look before turning her sweetest smile back to him.

  I nodded and saw that Mr. Bailey had crossed the vestibule to huddle with Mr. MacDougall. He seemed to have forgotten us altogether.

  “I’m Chester.” The footman touched the scarcity of silver strands the years had left him and cleared his throat. “Have you ever received guests before?”

  Marlie and I looked at each other and back at him. We both shook our heads.

  He frowned with mild exasperation. “Well, come on then.”

  He led us through the Grand Vestibule—past the place where Mr. MacDougall and Mr. Bailey had been, though where they’d gone I didn’t know—to a side gallery filled with chairs and side tables at the front and, behind two sets of folding screens, an area where guests could deposit coats and shawls and whatever sundry items they wished to store for the evening.

  Chester directed us to a secretary desk set at an opening between the screens.

  “This is your station. You shall accept the items from the guests and hang or shelve them as necessary. Take a ticket from that desk”—he motioned to
a stack of gold-embossed stationery and a quill—“write the number of the rack hook or shelf… You can write, can’t you?”

  I had been strolling through the makeshift aisles, acquainting myself with the racks but wheeled around. “Of course I can write.”

  He cleared his throat. “Just making sure. Now, that door there”—he motioned to a large one along the back wall—“is the resting room for ladies.”

  “And the gentlemen?” I asked. “Do they have a room as well?”

  He nodded with a degree of impatience. “The anteroom behind the vestibule has been set up for their purposes.”

  I looked at Marlie. She shrugged.

  He rolled his eyes. “Shall I acquaint you with it as well?”

  His opinion that we were not the most helpful of attendants was clear, and to be fair I was inclined to agree.

  Marlie and I nodded in unison.

  “Follow me, then,” he said.

  He covered the distance to the door in long, hurried strides before disappearing into the vestibule once again. If he was trying to lose us, he couldn’t have done a better job of it. When he glanced back to check that we followed, I could swear there was disappointment in his eyes to find us still in pursuit.

  Finally, he turned a corner and opened a door, releasing the scent of cigar smoke and pipe tobacco, newspapers, and hair pomade. I peeked inside and found a formal room arranged with high-back chairs and side tables topped with crystal ashtrays, decanters, and tumblers.

  “The gentlemen’s room—”

  A commotion around the corner stopped him. I turned to see Mr. MacDougall storming down a flight of stairs.

  “No, no, no!” the man cried over his shoulder. “It must be now. It cannot wait.”

  Another man still hidden in the staircase called out from behind him, “Sir, we cannot leave our posts.”

  I recognized the voice even before I saw the man emerge into view, a dark sweep of hair escaping beneath a tweed cap, as usual. It was Mr. Wyck.

  “This cannot wait. The shipment must be unloaded immediately.”

  The two of them disappeared down the turn of stairs descending to the lower floor, and I craned my neck to watch until I could no longer see them.

  “What are you doing?”

  I hadn’t heard Marlie come up behind me. She was looking down the stairwell, trying to see what I was looking at.

  “Who’s down there?” she added.

  “No one. I thought I saw something, but I must have been mistaken.” It was better not to tell her what I suspected of Mr. Wyck. One question would lead to another, and I had no sufficient answers. Not yet anyway.

  “We should get back,” she said. “We can’t miss the early arrivals.”

  “Of course.” I was growing more certain, however, that the threat we sought was already here.

  When I fell back, she stopped and whipped around with a scowl. “What’s taking so long?”

  What, indeed.

  “I forgot something in the kitchen. Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

  Before she could object, I darted back to the stairs. Only when I’d reached the bottom did I pause to look back, so I was sure she wasn’t following me. No sign of her.

  Good. But where had Mr. Wyck gone? The narrow stairwell had corridors leading in all four directions. I scanned each, and one looked as promising as the next.

  “Careful, boys, careful.”

  Voices! It was Mr. MacDougall somewhere along the corridor to the right.

  I looked around the corner and saw him, standing beside a door opened to the castle’s North Terrace. He was ushering through the workmen, each carrying a crate emblazoned with the word “fragile” in bright red letters. Some crates were large, some small, and they all were being taken to the same place.

  But where was Mr. Wyck?

  I edged closer. One man, then another, and another. I had seen these men in the Servants’ Hall, but not one of them was the one I sought.

  Suddenly, he was there, stepping over the threshold, his arms embracing a crate.

  I leaned farther to get a better view, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  Then Mr. Wyck spied me. I shot back behind the wall, but it was too late. My heart thundered in my chest as I searched the corridor for somewhere to hide. Could I get up the stairs and out of view before he reached the corner? Hardly. Then I heard Mr. MacDougall call out.

  “Not that way, son,” the man said. “We must stay clear of tonight’s preparations. Backstairs only to the Rubens Room, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Wyck grumbled.

  I exhaled the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and waited. After a long moment, when I no longer heard footsteps, I peeked around the corner again to see the door still open, but no one coming or going. I ventured closer and heard the voices outside.

  Keeping to the shadows, I saw Mr. MacDougall and four of the men, Mr. Wyck among them, standing around the cart, where one enormous crate still waited. It was as big as a stove and even taller.

  “We’ll have to take it up in pieces,” one of the men said with a rough rub to his beard.

  “Absolutely not,” Mr. MacDougall said. “It cannot be dismantled.”

  “How about a pulley?” another suggested, pleased with himself. “We could hoist it up to the room.”

  His neighbor wheeled around with a grimace. “And how do you suppose we’d manage that without plucking out the window?”

  The one who had made the suggestion scratched his head. “Yeah, guess that wouldn’t work.”

  “Guess not,” his neighbor scoffed.

  Mr. Wyck, who had been standing apart from the others with his head down, jumped into the cart, tipped the large crate, and watched it balance on its edge.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. MacDougall said with obvious concern.

  Mr. Wyck didn’t respond until he had set the crate back down. “What I’m thinking is, there’s a dolly in the stable that we use to move feed sacks. We could use it to move this box.”

  The way Mr. MacDougall’s eyes widened I thought he might embrace Mr. Wyck, right then and there.

  “Capital idea. You there, go get it.” He gestured to the bearded man, who nodded and jogged off.

  When he was gone, Mr. Wyck leaned against the cart. He looked at his two colleagues then at Mr. MacDougall. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple strong backs to get this up to the Rubens Room. I know Mr. Jameson would prefer someone get the horses out for their exercise before the crowds arrive.”

  Mr. MacDougall appeared to have been lost in thought but perked at the mention of a crowd. “What? Oh, yes. Of course. Go on along then. One of you stay behind, though. Yes, how about you?” He indicated the bigger, burlier one with the beard.

  Mr. Wyck stepped up. “I’ll stay.”

  The other two stable hands looked at him like he was crazy for volunteering. Mr. MacDougall looked suspicious.

  “I’ve lugged feed around the stables enough to have a pretty good handle on that contraption. I can manage it, with Charlie’s help, of course.”

  The scrawnier one grinned and shuffled back from the cart, tugging the other one with him. “As long as you’re sure, mate. We should be getting back, now that you mention it.”

  Before Mr. MacDougall could argue, they hurried down the lane.

  “What in the world are you gawking at?”

  I wheeled around to find Marlie behind me.

  She was eying the cart. “What do you suppose that is?”

  “I believe it might be something called a calliope.”

  “A what? Oh, now I see what you’re up to.” She turned to me with a wide, knowing smile. “Mr. Wyck?”

  “Hardly.” I didn’t enjoy lying to her, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t risk her confronting him on the spot. He would only deny it, and then where would we be? “I just wanted to see the instrument in the cart. I heard it’s rather remarkable. A piano that makes music out
of steam. Can you imagine?”

  “Does it now?” She looked back at the large wooden box. A slow, creeping grin spreading across her face. “And I’m sure Mr. Wyck is of no interest whatsoever. C’mon. There’s time for this later. We’ve got work to do.”

  Reluctantly, I allowed her to pull me away.

  When we reached the receiving room, the footman was there, looking apoplectic. “Where have you been? You cannot leave the chamber unattended. If you have a question or need—”

  “Sorry, it couldn’t be helped,” I said. “We won’t leave again.” I looked at Marlie. “At least not at the same time.”

  The footman grabbed his lapels and appeared to have more to say before thinking better of it. “Fine,” he relented. “Do you have any questions?”

  I brushed past him and entered the chamber. “We take the coats and cloaks and whatever else and hang them up or put them on a shelf. Fill out a ticket and give it to the guest. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” he said with a huff. “Now if anything should go wrong, you can find me near the entrance.”

  If something went wrong, I doubted he would be any help at all. “Where will Mr. MacDougall be?”

  He scratched his head. “It’s difficult to say. He moves about. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just…” I looked at Marlie. She shook her head. I knew what she meant. The less we spoke of our true mission, the better.

  Marlie stepped forward. “It’s just that we want to be sure he sees us doing a good job. The kitchen is fine and all but…”

  A liveried man swept through the door. “There you are, Chester. A carriage is on its way.”

  Chester rolled his eyes and glanced our way. “And so it begins. Get to your places, girls. It will be a long night, I assure you.” He straightened his cap and hustled off with the other footman.

  I leaned closer to Marlie. “Thank you for your help there.”

  She smiled and winked. “That’s what friends are for.”

  The words stopped me cold. Friends? Is that what we were?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The clatter of the approaching carriage jolted me from Marlie’s surprise declaration. Guests to the Queen’s masquerade ball would be funneling in soon and there was no time to waste. I hurried to the chamber door to see the first arrivals. I hoped that’s what I appeared to be doing anyway because I was really searching for Mr. Wyck and Mr. MacDougall.