by Pat Bourke
“Quickly now.” Mrs. Stinson stepped out of the car and headed up the path.
Meredith slid across the seat to follow her. The driver held out her suitcase—closed now, and looking perfectly respectable—and indicated she should follow Mrs. Stinson. Meredith took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the handle of her suitcase. She couldn’t afford another accident. She started toward the house, her stomach fluttering.
“Harry Waterton!” The shout came from one side of the house. “Give it back!”
A small, blond boy raced around the corner of the house, straight at Meredith, a taller boy in pursuit.
“Oh!” Meredith cried as she leapt to the side, but the small boy swerved, too, and knocked her into the flowerbed.
He stared at Meredith in stunned silence.
Mama’s hat sat upside down on the path. Meredith’s hair had escaped its pins and a black curl dangled in front of her left eye. Her suitcase had landed in the flowerbed on the other side of the path. The medicinal smell of the crushed flowers made her stomach lurch. Meredith was sure Mrs. Stinson would march her straight back to Union Station and onto the first train home.
“Whoa, Harry! Damsel in distress!” The tall boy, grinning, offered her a not-quite-clean hand. Did every boy in Toronto think she was amusing?
“Thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.” She ignored his outstretched hand, and got to her feet with as much dignity she could, brushing the dirt off her coat and skirt.
“Sorry about that,” the tall boy said cheerfully. He was blond like the smaller one, and taller than she was. Meredith thought he must be fifteen at least. “Harry wasn’t watching where he was going.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry scowled. “I didn’t see her.”
“You need to get those eyes checked, Harry. You’ll never be a flier with those bad eyes.”
“I don’t have bad eyes! I will too be a flier!” Harry ran headfirst at the tall boy, who plucked the airplane out of his grasp and held it overhead while Harry pummeled him.
“Margaret!” Mrs. Stinson called from the top of the steps, “What in heaven’s name is keeping you?” Even the feathers on her navy hat seemed to be quivering with disapproval.
“Coming!” Meredith hastily scooped her own shabby hat from the path and righted her suitcase, thankful it hadn’t popped open again. She hastened up the steps without another glance at the boys.
“This way.” A thin, bald man dressed formally in a black jacket and white shirt held the big front door open. Meredith could see Mrs. Stinson waiting inside.
“Thank you,” Meredith said to the man as she passed, but his stony expression didn’t change. Another old crab—she crossed her fingers and hoped that she wouldn’t be working for him.
In the front hall, a fire blazed in a hearth so large that her little sister could have easily stood inside. A large portrait above the mantel showed a blonde woman dressed in an elegant, pale-blue gown.
“Follow me, please,” the man said to Mrs. Stinson.
“Straighten your hat, for heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Stinson whispered to Meredith before falling into step behind him.
Meredith settled her hat and followed, wishing she had a minute to compose herself. She didn’t want them to think she was some small-town hobbledehoy who didn’t know how to behave.
An angel holding a lantern crowned the intricately carved newel post at the bottom of a broad, curved staircase that swept to the second floor. Halfway up the stairs, a cozy window seat just perfect for reading on a rainy day sat under a stained-glass window. The many-branched chandelier suspended from the carved wooden ceiling high above cast dancing shadows on the wood-paneled walls.
The man led them through an archway and along a paneled passage lined with electric lights. Meredith was careful not to knock her suitcase against the walls. As beautiful as it all was, she hoped she wouldn’t be spending her days polishing acres of wood.
A growing aroma of cinnamon and fresh bread made Meredith’s stomach growl. The sandwich she’d eaten on the train had been hours ago, and the peppermint stick didn’t count.
“Here’s the new girl, Mrs. Butters.” The bald man held open the door at the end of the passage, and then stood to one side to let Mrs. Stinson and Meredith enter the kitchen.
A small, stout woman was taking something out of one of the ovens in the big black range set against one wall of the large room. She straightened as they entered, a pan in each hand.
“That’s the last of them,” she said, her face rosy from the heat as she tipped the loaves of bread out of their pans to join others cooling on racks on the long kitchen table. Her smooth, gray hair was caught in a bun at the back of her neck, and the large white apron that covered her front was dusted with flour. Meredith thought she looked like the gingerbread lady cookie cutter in the kitchen drawer back home.
“Hello, my dear. I’m Mrs. Butters,” the woman said, taking Meredith’s hand, her black eyes crinkling into a smile. “And you must be Margaret. We’ll have to remember not to confuse you with our own Miss Maggie.”
Meredith groaned inwardly. Not here, too. “Margaret” felt wrong and wrinkly, like wearing someone else’s dress that didn’t fit. She didn’t want to start out by correcting Mrs. Butters, but she didn’t want to be called Margaret either.
“And you’ve met Parker,” Mrs. Butters said, nodding at the bald man.
“We have not, in fact, been properly introduced,” Parker said, his face impassive. He extended his hand. “How do you do?”
Meredith set her suitcase down and shook his hand. His fingers were a clutch of bony twigs with no sign of warmth in them.
“How do you do?” she said, hoping for some answering friendliness, but Parker looked at her as if he didn’t much like what he saw. She was surprised to see Mrs. Stinson nod at her with what might have been a smile. It seemed she’d finally done something right, but it didn’t ease the knot in her stomach.
A scuffle, a bang, and then a howling Harry barreled into the kitchen. “Mrs. Butters! Jack won’t let me play with his airplane!”
“Mr. Harry! Where are your manners?” Mrs. Butters crossed her arms over her chest.
Harry stopped in front of Meredith. “Are you the new one?”
“Manners, Mr. Harry, manners,” Mrs. Butters said. “This is Margaret.”
Meredith winced.
“She’s come to work here now that Alice has gone,” Mrs. Butters explained.
“I didn’t like Alice,” Harry said, glaring at Meredith. “She pinched me.”
“You probably pinched her first, you devil.” The tall boy—Jack—stood in the doorway, holding the model airplane.
“Did not!” cried Harry.
“Well, you probably kicked her, then,” Jack said. “You’ve kicked all the others.”
Harry ran at him, grabbing for the airplane, but Jack snatched it away.
“Mr. Jack! Mr. Harry! If you please!” Parker said, sharp as a strap across a palm.
The boys stopped.
“Mr. Jack, I suggest you give Mr. Harry the plane and take him outside,” Parker said in a tone that implied he didn’t expect an argument. He was clearly someone used to being obeyed. Meredith was glad he wasn’t reprimanding her.
“But he’ll break it!” Jack exclaimed. “I spent hours building it.”
“Mr. Jack.” Parker sighed. “Let me remind you that your father asked you to keep Mr. Harry busy until suppertime today. Mrs. Butters and I have some business to conclude.”
“It’s not fair! Why can’t Maggie do it?” Jack scowled. “Besides, isn’t this—,” he motioned toward Meredith,
“—Margaret girl here supposed to mind Harry?”
Except she wasn’t Margaret. Even worse, Aunt Jane must have got the job wrong. Meredith
stole a glance at Mrs. Stinson. Aunt Jane had told Mama that Meredith would be helping in the kitchen. She hadn’t said anything about minding anyone, and certainly not anyone as unpleasant as Harry Waterton.
“All in good time, Mr. Jack,” Mrs. Butters said, her hands on her hips, “but there won’t be a suppertime tonight if you don’t clear out and take Mr. Harry with you. You can take a cookie for each of you.”
“Oh, all right.” With one hand, Jack reached into a glass jar on the counter that held cookies. He grabbed his brother’s arm with the other.
“Ow!” Harry cried. “I want a cookie!”
“Outside, pest,” Jack said, towing a squirming Harry out of the room.
In the suddenly quiet kitchen, Parker turned to Mrs. Stinson. “I’m terribly sorry, madam. Dr. Waterton could not be here this afternoon, and I’m afraid we’ve all been pushed right to the edge since Alice left.”
“I understand completely,” Mrs. Stinson said in a soothing voice, although her straight back and pursed-up mouth didn’t look very understanding to Meredith. “There is simply no substitute for a loving mother, but Margaret will do her very best with young Harry.”
Three pairs of eyes fastened on Meredith. She didn’t know how she would keep that furious little hurricane in line. Harry was nothing like her sister Ellen—books and dolls wouldn’t hold his attention for even a minute. Back home, she’d told herself that working in Toronto would be an adventure. Now it looked like it might be a mistake.
Parker cleared his throat. “Listen carefully, Margaret.”
If she was going to work here, Meredith thought, she just couldn’t be called Margaret. She wiped her suddenly sweaty hands on her coat.
“You will primarily work with Mrs. Butters in the kitchen, but you will have other duties in the household,” Parker was saying. “Mrs. Butters will explain those to you. And you are to help with Mr. Harry as needed, under Mrs. Butters’ direction. You will report to her on those matters.”
He looked at her, eyebrows raised, and Meredith nodded, even though she hadn’t really taken in much of what he said. Her stomach felt squeezed into a too-small space.
“There will, of course, be times when I require your assistance,” Parker continued, “and then you will report directly to me. Do I make myself clear, Margaret?”
She had to set them straight right now. If she left it any longer it would be too late. Meredith opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Parker leaned toward her. “I repeat: do I make myself clear?”
“Don’t stand there gawping, Margaret,” Mrs. Stinson said.
Meredith swallowed hard. “It’s Meredith!” she squeaked.
Parker’s eyes narrowed. Mrs. Butters’ eyebrows knit together.
“I’m not Margaret, I’m Meredith,” Meredith said in a rush. “Meredith Hollings.”
Parker looked at Mrs. Butters, and then they both looked at Mrs. Stinson, who looked as if she’d swallowed something nasty.
“Did I say ‘Margaret’?” Mrs. Stinson tittered. “How silly of me. I meant ‘Meredith,’ of course.”
Now Mrs. Stinson’s face was red. Meredith would have liked to savor that, but she was watching Parker and Mrs. Butters, hoping that they understood, worrying that they might think she’d been rude.
“Meredith Hollings,” Parker said carefully, as if he couldn’t quite fit his mouth around such an outlandish name.
“Welcome to Glenwaring, Meredith,” Mrs. Butters said, smiling. “We’re glad you’re here.”
“Sundays free and Wednesday afternoons as arranged.” Mrs. Stinson was all business now. “One weekend free each month. Wages paid on Fridays.” She turned to Meredith. “And, of course, impeccable behavior at all times.”
“No suitors.” Parker said firmly. “Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Meredith replied. Imagine him thinking she’d have suitors! He must think she really was fifteen after all.
“Yes, Parker,” he said.
He was cross with her already! “Yes, Parker,” she repeated.
“Not a scrap of training.” Parker shook his head. “Mrs. Stinson, Dr. Waterton clearly stated—”
“Don’t worry, Meredith.” Mrs. Butters said warmly. “You’ll soon have the way of it.”
Meredith let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She suited kind Mrs. Butters, if no one else. The knot in her stomach loosened for the first time since she’d stepped off the train.
“Then we’re settled,” Parker said. “As long as you’re satisfied, Mrs. Butters?”
“Absolutely,” Mrs. Butters said. “Meredith looks like a capable young lady.”
Meredith could have hugged her.
Mrs. Stinson consulted the small gold watch pinned to her lapel. “Look at the time! I really must be going. Tell Dr. Waterton I’ll call next week.” She pulled on her gloves and turned to Meredith. “Impeccable behavior,” she cautioned, as though Meredith might start a ruckus at any minute.
Meredith watched Parker escort Mrs. Stinson out of the kitchen. She was glad to see the back of that unpleasant woman but was worried that Parker would turn out to be worse.
Surely the kitchen of a house as big as this would have lots to keep her busy! And even though she wasn’t looking forward to it, minding Harry Waterton meant she likely wouldn’t spend much time with crosspatch Parker.
Toronto might just turn out to be an adventure after all.
Chapter 4
“Hang your coat and hat on a hook by the back door, Meredith,” Mrs. Butters said once they were alone, “and we’ll have a cup of tea.” She filled the kettle and set it to boil on the big, black range with its bewildering array of doors.
Tall windows poured late-afternoon light into the kitchen. The clay-colored walls and gray-green cupboards were like a much-washed quilt wrapped around the room. A scuttle heaped with coal squatted beside the range. Pots and pans had been stacked on the counter beside a wide, grey stone sink set under the windows—waiting for her, Meredith guessed.
“Meredith’s an unusual name for a girl.” Mrs. Butters took a plate from the large painted dresser against one wall, and filled it with cookies from the jar on the counter. “It’s Welsh, I think. Is your family Welsh?” She set out two china cups and saucers with cheerful yellow roses around the rim.
“My Granddad was from Wales. I’m named for him,” Meredith said, her eyes on the plate of cookies. She hoped Mrs. Butters couldn’t hear her growling stomach.
“That explains it, then,” Mrs. Butters said. She spooned tea from a tin canister into a sturdy, brown teapot, and then poured in boiling water from the kettle. “And where are you from, Meredith?”
“Port Stuart,” Meredith said, “on Lake Erie. My Granddad had a general store. My mother runs it now.”
“Sit down, my dear. We’ll let that steep a minute.” Mrs. Butters settled into a chair at one end of the table. “A general store, you say?”
Meredith took the chair nearest Mrs. Butters. “Yes, ma’am.” Those cookies looked tasty.
“Port Stuart’s quite a distance. I’ll bet you’re hungry.” Mrs. Butters pushed the plate of cookies closer to Meredith.
Meredith reached eagerly for a cookie. Its sugar-and-cinnamon smell whisked her back to the wooden spice bins in Mama’s store where she would scoop spices into tiny brown bags. Their exotic aromas were like messages from places that never had winter.
She hadn’t meant to eat the first cookie so quickly. “May I please have another?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Butters said. “You’ve nice manners, Meredith. Still, you’re a skinny thing, even if you’re nearly as tall as Mr. Jack. How old are you, dear?”
Meredith arranged her face into an expression she hoped looked serious and responsible. “I’m—I’m fifteen.” She tried
to take smaller bites, but the second cookie was as delicious as the first. She reached for another.
“Good gracious, you certainly are hungry! And probably still growing,” Mrs. Butters said. “However, I suppose some people look young for their age. Why don’t I set out a bit of cheese, too, and slice up some of this bread?”
Mrs. Butters set about slicing bread and shaving cheese from a block on the dresser. “As Parker said, you’ll mainly work here in the kitchen with me,” she explained, “but you’ll help keep an eye on young Mr. Harry when he’s not in school.”
Meredith hoped her face wasn’t revealing how she felt about that. “Where’s Mrs. Waterton?”
“Mrs. Waterton, bless her, died a year ago April. Everyone’s taken it very hard. Mr. Harry had just turned five, poor lamb. He’s in school now and that helps keep him busy. He can certainly be a handful, but I guess you know that by now.”
“What about Ja—Mr. Jack?”
“Mr. Jack was devastated. He still gets angry at the smallest thing, and he’s older than Miss Maggie. She’s thirteen, and a girl needs her mother. She’s always been difficult but now…” Mrs. Butters sighed. “Never mind. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”
Meredith could not imagine losing her mama. It had been hard when Papa had left. At first, Meredith had clung to the hope he’d come back one day. The telegram, when it had come, had been terrible enough, and she’d known she’d always miss him, but through it all she and Ellen had still had Mama.
“You’ll help Parker wait table and serve when there are guests for dinner,” Mrs. Butters said as she set the plate of bread and cheese in front of Meredith.
Waiting table would be more fun than scrubbing pots or running after cross little boys. Meredith hoped there’d be lots of dinner guests. She sandwiched three slices of cheese between two pieces of bread, her mouth watering.
“Parker’s the butler,” Mrs. Butters continued, pouring more tea into Meredith’s cup, “and Forrest—the man who drove you here—is chauffeur and gardener and handyman all rolled into one. Mrs. O’Hagan comes every weekday to clean and does the laundry on Mondays.”
