by Ruth White
Seventeen
Thursday, June 6th, 1929
On my day off the bell over my bed does not ring at daybreak, but I wake up anyway. It’s the first time in my memory that I have no plans for the day, no chores, nobody to look after. I roll over and go back to sleep. At eight o’clock, I can sleep no more, so I get up, slip into the green dress, and clip one of Mrs. Wayne’s gift barrettes into the left side of my hair.
Today I will familiarize myself with the grounds, but first I will eat breakfast and collect my pay from Louise. I add it to my stash in the pocket of the carpet bag. Then I go in search of the stables and find them far back from the slave quarters at the edge of a spacious pasture where the horses run free in fair weather. Chris is pleased to see me.
“I was afraid I made a bad impression on you the first day,” he says, “with that wisecrack about a roommate.”
“Piffle!” I say, with a wave of my hand to dismiss the subject. It’s a bit of slang I picked up from the other girls. “I thought you might introduce me to the horses.”
He calls the horses over to the fence, and lets me feed each one half an apple.
“I’ve never been on a horse in my life,” I confess.
“You didn’t have horses on that mountain?”
“No, we had mules – mean, stubborn, nasty old mules. But they did the work required of them. Dad always said horses are too proud to do the work of a mule.”
“I’ll teach you to ride if you like,” he volunteers.
“Is that allowed?”
“Sure. The family rides occasionally, but not nearly as much as they used to do, and the horses need the exercise.”
“I might take you up on that one day,” I say. “But I’ll have to get some kind of riding breeches, won’t I?”
“They’re called jodhpurs,” Chris says. “You can find them in town.”
I have never worn anything but a dress, and once again, I can hear Dad’s voice in my head. “No woman in my house will ever wear men’s clothes.”
Brody and Roman have taken the LaSalle to Richmond, but Chris takes me to the carport and shows me the other car, a Model A Ford, which he says is a step up from the old Model T.
“I’d like to drive you girls into Charlottesville on your day off, but Mrs. Myles says I can’t unless I happen to be going there anyway.”
“Is it too far to walk?” I ask.
“Depends on how accustomed you are to walking. It’s close to two miles. The other girls do it when they can’t get there any other way.”
“I’m accustomed to walking for sure,” I say. “Two miles of level road is nothing to me.”
I go to the vegetable patch on the far right side of the house, where Jeff and Brett are weeding. They greet me politely. It’s an impressive garden, and I walk through it admiring the way it’s laid out, and how well it is thriving. They are all smiles at the praise, and seem surprised that I recognize each vegetable from its leaves.
Next stop is the flower garden close to the house, where Zack and Mrs. Myles are clipping roses. Standing nearby, and apparently in conversation with the two of them is a tall, handsome, middle-aged gentleman. As he turns to me, I can see his resemblance to Roman. In fact, he could be Roman in his forties.
Assuming that Mrs. Myles will forget to introduce us, I put out my hand to him. “You must be Mr. Myles. I am Lorelei Starr, sir, the new maid.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lorelei Starr. What a romantic name. It reminds one of an old Irish or Scottish ballad.”
“Some of my ancestors were Scotch-Irish,” I say.
“And how long has your family been in the new world?” he asks.
“Since the early or mid-seventeen hundreds.”
“Says you!” says he. I have learned, again from the other maids, this is a slang expression of astonishment.
“Yes, sir. I don’t know my family history as you know yours, but I do know the oldest gravestone in the cemetery on Starr Mountain shows a death date of 1778.”
“Why, that means the Starrs have been here as long as the Myles have!” he exclaims, as if he finds this possibility incredible.
Mrs. Myles interrupts our conversation with saying, “Here, Lorie, dear, have a rose.”
She is bubbling over with good cheer this morning, the result being that her Italian accent is more pronounced. She tucks a rose bud behind my ear, stands back to see the effect, then turns to her husband. “Isn’t she as lovely as a summer’s day, Mr. Myles?”
Before he can respond, she turns to me again. “Which reminds me, Brody is bringing the Angel home with him on Saturday. I would like for you to be her personal maid while she’s here. Make her feel special.”
“You mean Miss Angela?” I say, “of the Richmond Temples?”
“One and the same. Our Brody is going to marry her, you know. I wanted a Christmas wedding, but he insists on waiting until June. I am so excited and anxious for the union, I don’t
know if I can wait a whole year. But I suppose I must.”
My mind is reeling. “Do you think I’m experienced enough to be the personal maid to a girl like Angela Temple?” I ask.
She laughs gaily. “Of course! All you have to do is stay close to her and do everything she asks of you. And look pretty, of course. Did you know that in the grand European courts the prettiest servant girls were chosen to be personal maids to the royalty? It was a great honor.”
Mr. Myles smiles at me, and rolls his eyes.
“Angel will be helping us plan our first summer party,” Mrs. Myles goes on. “It’s for the purpose of introducing her to Charlottesville society as Brody’s intended.”
Saturday, June 8th, 1929
I am dazzled by my first sight of Angela Temple, as I’m sure everybody must be. She has just arrived in the LaSalle with Brody and Roman from Richmond. She stands on the terrace with a tall glass of iced coca-cola in her small white hands. Her dress is a soft blue and white silk which floats around her pencil-thin body like a mist, barely touching her knees. Her hair is blond and bobbed. Draped across her forehead and tied in the back, is a narrow sash of the same material as the dress.
She has finely chiseled features and eyes the bluest of blues. Her complexion is an advertisement for Temple’s Cosmetics. Around her neck and dangling to her waist is a double strand of beads, also blue and white. If she weren’t a person of such high standing in society, she would be considered a flapper in that outfit, but a very beautiful one.
Brody is standing beside her, tall, dark and handsome in a classy beige summer suit. Melancholy Baby is playing on the radio, and for the space of a heartbeat I feel an unexplained ache in my chest. Both Brody and Angel are silent as they watch me approach.
“I’m Lorie, Miss Temple. I will be taking care of you during your stay.”
Her face lights up. “Lorie! What a charming little thing you are.”
“I am to stay near you at all times,” I explain, “except at night, of course, and attend to you. Mrs. Myles’s orders.”
“That is so ritzy!” she gushes, and gives Brody a little nudge. “Isn’t that ritzy, Brody?”
“Yeah,” Brody says, without enthusiasm. “That’s ritzy.”
“How old are you, darling?” Angel asks me.
“Sev…uh, eighteen,” I say.
For a minute I think I got away with that, and I did with Angel, but not with Brody. He gives me a sly smile. Yes, he caught it. Now he knows I have lied about my age.
“For the moment I am content,” Angel says to me, “and need nothing. So, AT EASE!”
These last two words she barks like a drill sergeant, then laughs at her own little joke.
I laugh politely. “I’ll be right over here.”
I find a lounge chair close enough that I have a good view of her, but far enough away that I can’t hear her conversation with Brody. In my pocket is a letter from Jewel which I have not been able to open and read since I grabbed it from my mailbox. Maybe now is a good time.
&nbs
p; Dear Lorie:
I’m sure I will hear from you soon, but I couldn’t wait to write and tell you what has happened. We have had a shotgun wedding right up here on Starr Mountain! I know you will have no trouble figuring out who it was – Opal and Eddie Johns! It happened on Sunday, the very day you left on the train. We heard about it from Aunt Sue who was called in to witness. She said Uncle Ben stood right there beside them with his shotgun while Eddie Johns quaked in his shoes and said his I do’s. She said Opal’s belly is big, and she must be at least five months along.
I think of you all the time. The boys miss your cooking awfully bad, but we hope you like your job. Write!
Love, Jewel
I read parts of the letter again. Opal pregnant and married to Eddie Johns! I find myself smiling at the picture Jewel has painted for me, of Eddie quaking, and Opal standing there with her belly poking out, while Uncle Ben keeps his gun visible. The classic shotgun wedding!
“Must be an amusing letter,” a voice says, and I find Roman standing at my elbow.
I jump to my feet and stuff the letter back into the pocket of my uniform.
“Do sit back down, please,” he says, as he takes a chair next to mine. “You aren’t needed right now.”
I look at Angel and Brody who are seated on a glider, talking as they glide back and forth. They seem to be tending to each other quite nicely without any help from me. I sit down again.
“From the boy you left behind?” Roman says.
“What?”
“The letter you hid in your pocket. It made you smile.”
I don’t answer his question. Let him think what he likes.
“Uh, oh,” he says. “Sorry. None of my beeswax, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But it’s true,” he says. “I just can’t help it if I have this picture in my head of some big strapping mountaineer pining away for you.”
“You mean some fat hillbilly?” I say.
Roman’s laughter is so uproarious, it brings a smile to my face.
“Ah, Lorie, you’re copacetic,” he says, as he wipes a tear from his cheek.
“I don’t know the word,” I say.
“Copacetic? It’s the new slang. It can mean a lot of things – all good. With you, it means adorable.”
“And you are cheeky, Mr. Roman,” I say back.
He laughs again, and I notice that Brody and Angel are looking at us.
“Lor...eee,” Angel calls me in a sweet little girl voice.
I jump to my feet and go to her.
“I thought of something you can do for me,” she says. “Would you be a love and go to my room, and unpack my clothes for me? Please, please, pretty please?”
“Of course.”
I leave to do Angel’s bidding, but I don’t really know where I’m going. I haven’t yet been above stairs in this house. I go through the ball room which is so big and empty I can hear the echo of my steps. I find Tootsie in the servants’ hall ironing shirts.
“I have to unpack Miss Angel’s clothes,” I tell her. “Do you know where her room is?”
Tootsie leads me to the old part of the building and up the stairs to the second floor.
“This is the bedroom of Mr. and Mrs. Myles,” she informs me as she points to the first door on the left, “and the other rooms on this floor are guest bedrooms. Brody and Roman have the third floor to themselves.” She opens the second door on the left. “Miss Angel is in here.”
For the next half hour I am lost in a cloud of the softest, most feminine, pinkest and bluest silks and satins and chiffons ever in the world. The under garments slip through my fingers like gossamer. As I hang each dress on a velvet hanger, I press my face into the material, just to feel it against my skin. Oh, god, will I ever have anything this lovely?
On the dressing table I set out her bottles and jars of creams and lotions and perfumes, soaps and bath salts and oils and shampoo, lipsticks and nail polish and eye paint. On top of the bureau I spread out her headbands and beads and rings and brooches and earrings and watches and bracelets. Apt trimmings for the kind of girl who will always have more choices than she really needs – in everything.
Finally I turn down the coverlet and lay a nightgown across the pillow, so she will have something handy to slip into when she comes upstairs tonight. It’s soft, pink, silky, almost transparent. I imagine her wearing it. It falls across her shoulders and around her little body like feathers. Suppose she wears it on her wedding night? Just suppose. Brody will put his big brown hands on her and kiss her throat…no! No, Brody. I feel that ache in my chest again. I want it to be me. I want it to be me.
What if I smashed one of those bottles of nail polish all over this nightgown? I could say I found it like that in her luggage. It must have happened on the trip. What a shame.
“Lorie, what are you doing in here?”
I am so startled I jump and let out a little cry. “Oh, Mrs. Myles, it’s you. I was just…”
She is scowling at me from the doorway.
“I’m unpacking Miss Angel’s things for her. She asked me to.”
Mrs. Myles’ frown melts into a smile. “Isn’t that lovely? And look there. You have laid out her nightgown. You are a fine lady-in-waiting, Lorie, my dear. I don’t care what your background is.”
With that she bounces away and goes about her business. She doesn’t care what my background is? Deflate. Deflate. And what was I thinking to fantasize like that? I wasn’t thinking. Just feeling. But I don’t like Brody in that way. Do I? I look at myself in Angel’s mirror. There I am in a maid’s uniform. Just Lorie, the maid.
********************
When Angel finally releases me at eleven, I go to my room and begin to pace the floor while my mind races. I can’t be still and I know I can’t stay indoors. I never before realized that all those treks up and down Starr Mountain helped me to clear my head, and if it ever needed clearing, tonight’s the night. I go outside and there is Dixie on the porch waiting for me.
“Come on, girl.”
We begin to walk down the long, oak-lined brick driveway. There are lamp posts along the way to light the path. Dixie walks very close to me, and I put my hand on her head. She seems to be in great need of affection, as I suppose I am too.
“Sweet Dixie. My best friend.”
“Where are you going with Trixie?” someone calls.
“What?” I turn to see Brody walking a short distance behind us.
“Are you trying to steal my dog?” he says.
“Of course not!”
“I’m teasing, Lorelei,” he says.
We face each other under the canopy of oaks.
“Roman teases you, and you laugh,” he says.
Somehow that sounds a bit petulant, and I don’t know how to respond.
Then he speaks kindly. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No, I just felt like walking. I’m used to walking a lot.”
“Okay. May I walk along?”
“If you like.”
We proceed in silence for a few moments before Brody says, “It must have been the letter.”
“What letter? What are you talking about?”
“Roman told me you got a love letter. That’s why you’re grummy.”
This makes me laugh out loud in spite of myself. “You and Roman are worse than two nosy old ladies.”
“Hear! Hear!” he cries, lifting his hands to the sky. “Someone dares to call the heir apparent a nosy old lady!”
Yes! Bantering with Brody feels right.
“Nosy old lady!” I taunt him. “Nosy old lady!”
He smiles. Our arms bump together as we walk. He is so..oo tall, and his shoulders are twice as wide as mine.
“Be that way,” he teases, “and see who likes you when you grow up.”
“Be what way?”
“Keep all your secrets to yourself. You know everything about me, and I know nothing about you.”
“I’ll tell you one
thing you want to know about me,” I say, “just one.”
“Okay, where do you get your hooch?”
“From Marie,” I blurt, then immediately clap a hand over my mouth as we both stop dead still in the driveway. I feel my eyes grow wide. “Oh, my god, Brody. Oh, my god. What have I done?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “What have you done?”
“It was only one bottle, Brody, I swear,” I sputter. “I know it’s against the rules, and it’s illegal, and it tasted awful. And...” How did those words slip out of my mouth so easily? “Why on earth did you ask me that, Brody?”
“It’s the customary question these days, but it’s said as a joke. It’s not supposed to be taken seriously.”
I am mortified. “I’m such a dumb Dora,” I say. “I don’t know anything.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he says. “Just tell me about it.”
With as few words as possible I tell him the story of the blackberry wine.
“Only one bottle?” he says.
“Yeah, and did I say how awful it tasted?”
“I think you did. But you drank it anyway?”
“Yes, it was my first night here. I wanted to fit in. But now they are going to hate me.”
“Was it your first drink of alcohol?”
“Yes! My first ever.”
“How did it make you feel?”
“Not much of anything. Maybe a bit goofy.”
“So those girls have corrupted you?” he says.
“No! No, I wouldn’t say that. I had a choice.”
“Okay, Lorelei, this is a very serious thing. We need to talk about it.”
I am miserable. We continue our walk in silence.
Finally he says, “Here’s the deal. You do one thing for me, and I’ll never tell a soul what I have learned from you tonight.”
“That’s blackmail! What one thing?”
“Tell this nosy old lady about that boyfriend back home.”
“Brody!”
He laughs. “I’m razzing you, sweetheart.”
“You scared me out of my wits.”
“One lousy bottle of blackberry wine among five girls?” he says. “That’s pathetic. If you’re going to be a wino, you’ll have to do better than that.”
