Love the One You Hate

by Grey, R. S.

  They’re all extremely kind, but also reverent, as if I’m not one of them, even though Cornelia promises me I am. It’s slightly unsettling. I’m not meant to be the person being waited on. I’m used to doing the waiting.

  During tea on Thursday, Cornelia slides a packet of paper in front of me.

  “Just a bit of pesky business. Our lawyers insist that all of our employees sign a non-disclosure agreement,” she explains, and I don’t hesitate to sign.

  There’s also an I-9 form and a W-4 form. Or was it a W-2? I don’t know the difference. I sign my name where she tells me to on a dozen different documents then sigh with relief when Rita enters the drawing room carrying the tea tray. I want to stand and help her, but Cornelia’s reproachful stare makes it clear I should stay right where I am and let her do her job.

  “Tell me about where you lived before you came here,” Cornelia says after Rita leaves us, adding a cube of sugar to her cup before swirling it around with her small spoon, never once touching the sides. Meanwhile, when I stir my tea, I bang my spoon so many times even I wince. “I know it was a group home.”

  “Yes, for at-risk young adults.”

  “And are you ‘at-risk’, do you think?”

  I look down, slightly embarrassed by the subject. “No, but the state seems to think I am. I have made some mistakes—though not in the way you might think,” I add quickly, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. “I just put my faith in the wrong people at times, and I’m still suffering the consequences. It’s made it really difficult to find good jobs and decent places to live. The group home was a good fit for me because the rent was really low and they didn’t care about my past.”

  “And you liked it there?”

  I think of the cold concrete floors and the hard twin mattress I slept on every night. I think of the other girls I never quite got along with and the loneliness I tried hard to ignore. It’s funny that until this moment I’d never considered if I liked it or not. It simply was my only option. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  “It served its purpose,” I say matter-of-factly. “Gave me a place to sleep at night, a consistency I’ve found hard to replicate since my parents’ deaths.”

  I look up to find she doesn’t look too pleased. Her deep frown doesn’t sit well with me.

  “It sounds worse than it is,” I assure her.

  Her lips purse. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “I really should give them another call. I let them know I’d be gone for a few days, but space is pretty limited there and I feel bad taking a spot away from someone who really needs it. That is…if I am really going to stay on here with you.”

  She nods quickly as if there’s no doubt in her mind. “I’ll have Frank drive down this Saturday and pick up your things. He can alert the staff about your new address and have your mail forwarded here. That should cover everything.”

  Oh good. One more person running around doing my bidding.

  “He doesn’t have to do that. I can go myself,” I protest.

  “No, actually, you can’t. You and I have an appointment on Saturday.”

  I sip my tea—a drink I’m quickly starting to love—and let Cornelia lead the conversation wherever she might like. It’s interesting how easily I’ve given in to her will to keep me here. It’s not exactly worth it for me to fight with her about it. I want to stay here—who wouldn’t?—and besides, I’m starting to discover that my being here isn’t purely for my own benefit. As the days stretch from one to the next and I spend more time with her, I think I start to understand Cornelia’s motives for bringing me to Rosethorn. She doesn’t need another person polishing silver; that’s clear. I think she truly meant what she said when she described me as her companion. Even though she’s surrounded by servants and has more “lunch dates at the club” than any one person might need, I think she still might be a little lonely. After all, I can’t help but wonder if I weren’t here, would she sit in that big dining room all by herself every night? The thought makes me sad.

  On top of her suspected loneliness, I get the sense that she feels sorry for me. It comes up on Friday when I prod her, again, about my room situation. I still feel guilty staying in the large suite when everyone else lives in the servants’ quarters. Rita let it slip earlier that day, while she was styling my hair, that I’m staying in the room Cornelia’s daughter used when she was a young girl.

  “Surely I don’t deserve to be in there,” I tell Cornelia at dinner.

  “And why not?” she demands, suddenly annoyed. “Why don’t you deserve to live in a room as beautiful as that one? Keep up the complaining and I’ll have Patricia switch you over to an even bigger suite.”

  I can’t help but laugh at her threat.

  But I don’t take her generosity lying down. Even though I’m not allowed to do traditional tasks, I do carve out little things to do here and there that make me feel useful. One morning, Cornelia takes me into her overflowing rose garden and hands me a set of shears so she can instruct me on where to cut them. Then she helps me arrange a little bouquet. Every other day after that, I make sure to go out and snip a few roses so I can arrange them in a vase and set them in the blue drawing room, where she and I meet for tea in the afternoons.

  I make sure to read the newspaper Collins includes with my breakfast tray so I have plenty to discuss with Cornelia at dinner.

  When she needs to go into town for shopping or to place an order at a gallery or boutique, I accompany her.

  Even still, all these tasks don’t amount to much, and they definitely can’t be considered work in the least. I feel niggling guilt eating away at me, especially on Saturday, one week since my arrival, when Cornelia brings a fashion designer to the house and insists on having me sit in for the appointment.

  I assume, at first, that Vivien is there for Cornelia. We sit at a small oak table in the yellow drawing room, flipping through fabric swatches. I pick out colors and patterns I think would look nice on Cornelia, only to find out once they have a handful of swatches set aside that they’ve been choosing colors they think I should wear. It’s an honest mistake. Vivien only speaks French and Cornelia’s fluent as well, so I can’t understand a single word they’re saying to each other. It isn’t until Vivien stands me up and starts to take my measurements that I realize something is off.

  “What does it matter what my measurements are?” I ask as Cornelia sits back in her chair, completely unbothered as she watches Vivien turn me this way and that like I’m nothing more than a marionette.

  “Because you need new clothes. I can’t stand to see you wear those jeans with the ripped holes yet another time. I’ll throw them into an open flame, I swear it.”

  I open my mouth to protest—I have clothes! Rita has been bringing new outfits for me to wear every morning—but Cornelia holds up her hand to shush me. “Don’t bother to refute me. This is one battle I have no plans on losing. I assure you, you will be getting new clothes whether you like them or not. I’m the one who has to look at you. These clothes are for me, really. Besides, you don’t understand how wonderful it is that Vivien could come see us on such short notice. She’s very in demand. She had a modest atelier in the 2nd arrondissement, where I used to visit her when I went to Paris in spring, and she’d design my entire wardrobe for the season. Everyone knew of her, but I was the one who succeeded in luring her to our little island. Now, she spends half her time in Paris and half her time in Newport, dressing anyone who’s anyone.”

  So then why the hell is she dressing me, I say in my head, biting back the urge to continue arguing.

  “Restez tranquille!” Vivien says, poking me with a pin.

  That delights Cornelia. “She says to hold still, and I’d do it if I were you. She can get rather testy.”

  I scrunch my nose at her in a silent tease and then she rings for Patricia to bring in tea for us. I’m allowed a five-minute break before Vivien starts layering fabric all over me, checking colors against my complexion and pinning desi
gns in place.

  It feels like we’ve been at it for hours when Rita strolls in carrying a delicate white dress outstretched in front of her.

  Cornelia sits up straight and beckons for her to bring it closer.

  “Oh good, Rita. Thank you so much. Would you mind laying it on that chair until Vivien is ready for it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A gown for you to wear next Saturday.”

  My brows arch. I’ve seen gowns—Rita has stuffed me in a new one every evening since my arrival—and that is not a gown. It’s a piece of art. Delicate white lace drapes to the floor below a corseted off-the-shoulder top.

  “What’s next Saturday?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the dress. I sound a little awestruck even to my own ears.

  “My annual White Ball. It’s one of my favorite traditions, and it kicks off the entire social season here in Newport. My mother started it in 1904 and I’ve continued it in her stead. It’s meant to be a recreation of a night in Louis XIV’s court. The men are all expected to come in masks. Women wear white.” She tosses her hands up. “Oh, sure, it reeks of the puritanical bonds holding women back, as if a woman’s value lies only in her ability to be demure. She’s meant to be a delicate flower with all her petals intact—nonsense! But still, tradition is tradition, and I do think you’ll look lovely in white. We don’t have time for Vivien to create something custom, so she’ll alter this. I have a feeling you’ll wear it as beautifully as its original owner did.”

  The look in her eye makes me think this is one of her old gowns, and something like pride blossoms in my chest.

  I don’t bother telling her how much I’d love to wear it. The stars in my eyes are visible to anyone standing in that room.

  7

  Maren

  I dial my friend Ariana’s number, hoping she’ll answer. I’ve tried her three times since my arrival at Rosethorn, but she hasn’t picked up once. This time, when the call doesn’t connect, I leave a message.

  “Ariana, it’s Maren. Why aren’t you answering your phone? I’ve been trying to reach you to let you know I moved. I’m actually in Newport…” I let the sentence dwindle, unsure of how many details I want to give her. “It’s a long story, but I think I might be here for a while. I got a new job. Kind of.” I shake my head. “Anyway, I’ll leave the address for you just in case. I hope you’re doing okay. I miss you.”

  When I set the phone back down and look around the rose garden suite, I’m made aware of the sharp contrast between where Ariana likely is right now and where I am. I stare down at the cream and white striped sweater I’m wearing paired with designer jeans and navy flats. My hair and makeup are perfectly applied. My nails are painted a soft pink. I want to ridicule all of it. How ridiculous that Cornelia thinks she can just put me up in this room and dress me up like a doll, but it’s actually…nice. I like this nail color, and these jeans are better than my old ones.

  I want to find Cornelia’s entire world utterly absurd. I try to pick out the frivolity and concentrate on it, but it’s hard. Yes, on the surface, her every wish is granted. Every meal is decadent. Every outfit costs more than I dare to find out. Her world is filled with carnival attractions around every corner, and I doubt everything is as pearly white as it’s made out to be.

  And yet, I think there’s more to discover.

  One morning, when Collins brings in my breakfast, I ask him if he likes his job here. To me, it seems like an off-the-cuff question, but he stops in his tracks and turns to me with his thick white brows pinched together above his eyes.

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m just curious. I… Cornelia asks so much of you all, and I—”

  “And if she didn’t ask, what then? I’d be out of a job.”

  I blink rapidly, taking in his words.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  His expression softens and he nods. “My parents both worked at Rosethorn before me. My father was Edward Cromwell’s butler, my mother Cornelia’s lady’s maid. They were both rewarded handsomely for their servitude and loyalty, and I’ve found the same home for myself here. Cornelia might be traditional and formal in her home, but she’s also one of the most generous humans I’ve ever known.”

  As if the universe isn’t done proving that point, Collins’ words are hammered home over the next few days.

  On Monday, Cornelia opens her doors to the children of St. Michael’s Day School so they can use her blue drawing room for music lessons. All morning the sound of children singing fills the house. Tuesday, Cornelia welcomes the Historical Society of Newport for a luncheon and lecture about preserving the Gilded Age mansions along Bellevue Avenue, Rosethorn being among them. I sit in for the meeting and take notes. On Thursday, during tea, Cornelia sits down with a slightly hysterical woman. She’s stressed about the fact that the venue has fallen through for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation annual luncheon, and without missing a beat, Cornelia offers up Rosethorn’s gardens.

  “We’ll host it here. Have your planners coordinate with Diane.”

  “I can help too,” I volunteer.

  The woman turns to me with tears in her eyes, and Cornelia nods. “Yes, perfect. Maren will sit in during our planning meetings and help me remember the details. She’s very good at taking notes.”

  I can’t be sure, but I think she’s making fun of me for that historical society meeting. Then her wink confirms it.

  “You two are absolute angels. You have no idea how much this means to me and to the organization.”

  Later that day, I’m helping Cornelia organize her closet so we can pull a few items for Dress for Success, or at least that’s how it started. We did stack up a large pile of blazers and slacks and sensible heels, but now we’re just playing dress-up, putting on the most ridiculous accessories we can find.

  “You look like a movie star in those,” she assures me as I tip a pair of cat eye sunglasses down the bridge of my nose and give her a teasing wink over the top of them. “You have to keep them.”

  “No way. They’re Chanel,” I say. “Even I know that brand.”

  “Yes, and I haven’t worn them in years. Better that you take them.”

  I slide the glasses off and put them right back where I found them, pointing to a small box in the corner of the room as a way to distract her from the topic.

  “What are those?”

  The box I’m referring to is overflowing with plaques and awards. Two or three have actually tumbled out and are leaning against the side of the cardboard container. When I step closer, I see they’re from all different organizations: the Audubon Society of Newport, the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Words like Top Donor and Woman of the Year stand out along with Cornelia’s name.

  She shrugs like it’s nothing. “People love doling out accolades.”

  “Maybe you deserved them.”

  “Perhaps, or maybe it’s just one’s duty to give back and contribute to the world. I don’t think I necessarily need a pat on the back for doing so.”

  “Cleary,” I say, dusting one of them off. “I can’t believe you have these stuffed in here like this.”

  “And what should I do with them? Hang them around my neck?” She snorts, and it’s the most unladylike thing I’ve ever seen her do.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  She shoos me away from the box. “Now, go down and ask Collins for a bag for all these clothes. You and I can drop them at the donation center on our way into town.”

  Later, when I return to my room to read before dinner, I find a small envelope sitting on my bedside table. I frown, at first thinking it might be a letter from Ariana—not that she’s ever written to me—but there’s no address printed on the front, only my name in swooping cursive.

  Ms. Maren Mitchell.

  Inside is a paycheck made out to me. The amount makes my heart drop: more than three thousand dollars for two weeks of work. Work—ha.

 
; My hand trembles as I look at the dollar amount again. I think of how far the money could get me. I dream of all the things I could spend it on. And then the moment passes, my stomach squeezes tight, and I open my bedside drawer, depositing the paycheck and the envelope inside.

  8

  Nicholas

  When I arrive at Rosethorn on Saturday afternoon, the grounds have already been taken over by delivery trucks and auxiliary staff, preparing the house for my grandmother’s ball. I was meant to arrive last night, but I couldn’t get away from work until this morning. I park on the gravel drive to the right of the house and step outside, breathing deep. I’m reluctant to leave the ocean breeze, but I’m hungry, and the first item on my agenda is to go down into the kitchen and see what Chef is whipping up for tonight. Surely he needs a taste tester.

  I’m stopped by every member of the staff I cross paths with, hugging them and telling them I’m glad to be back. I stay away from Newport in the winters, like a bear going into hibernation, except instead of sleeping, I’m working.

  I’m striding down the back hall, which is usually reserved for employees, headed toward the kitchen when I notice music drifting out from the blue drawing room. I stop and listen, finding the sound comforting after so many months away. It’s not uncommon for Rosethorn to be filled with music, and my grandmother has always had a soft spot for the piano. She forced me into lessons as a child, but I had no patience for reading music and sitting still. I’d clonk and clank my way through a thirty-minute lesson, always watching the clock and missing keys as my teacher chided me. The moment the hour hand announced the end of our time together, I’d escape to the gardens, running like a fugitive from the law.

  When I make it to the kitchen, I spot Collins conferring with Chef, no doubt going over all the food they’ll have for the ball. There are a dozen more people in here than usual, staff they’ve brought in for today to assist in the preparations.