by J. M. Stengl
“Tell me everything.” His voice was low, guarded. “I’ve got five minutes.”
I related everything in two minutes flat.
Silence made me wonder how long ago I’d lost the signal, but then he said, “I can’t come today, and I don’t have any helpful advice. Don’t call emergency services—they wouldn’t be able to reach her either. If she’s distressed, try to calm her with your voice. She might be able to hear you. And keep me posted—with voicemail if I don’t pick up. I want to know everything.”
“All right.”
After he hung up, I wondered why he wanted voicemail instead of a text, but almost at once I was obliged to run back up the stairs. At the top, I turned right and ran down the hall almost to the end of the other wing. There in the shadows I leaned against a door and watched Lady Beneventi emerge from the elevator. Of course, the stubborn creature had not used her wheelchair but walked toward her suite with one hand on the wall for support. She still wore the purple cardigan set and gray slacks Maria dressed her in that morning, and her hair looked reasonably neat.
Not until she entered the suite did I follow her and wait at the edge of the barrier. I thought I heard muffled weeping, and my heart suddenly hurt for her. I could easily imagine how humiliating it must be for a proud, independent, strong-willed woman to be almost helpless to care for her own needs. I would probably react just as badly in the same situation.
“I’m right here, Lady Beneventi,” I called to her. “I won’t leave you. As soon as the sun sets, I’ll be in there with you.”
She didn’t answer, but her weeping paused. I suddenly had to back away to the top of the staircase. The door to the suite opened, and there she stood. “Gillian?”
“I’m right here, as close to you as I can get.”
“Gillian, is that you? Why don’t you come and help me?”
I waved my arms. “I can’t. You wished everyone would leave you alone, so none of us can get near you.”
She turned and shuffled away but left the door wide open. I crept forward until the barrier stopped me, and sat on the floor. Lady Beneventi rolled her wheelchair to a position across from the door, sat in it, and looked at me while the sun sank low behind her.
Since I had nothing better to do, I called Manny. As predicted, he didn’t pick up. There was no recorded message, so at the tone I said: “I’m not certain Lady Beneventi can hear me when I talk to her, but I’m sitting in the hall where she can see me, and she’s calm now. I’ll try to update you again after things settle down. I’m thankful for these shorter days. Ciao!”
Lady Beneventi never did admit she was wrong in making that wish, but her attitude toward me seemed subdued that evening, and she cooperated with Maria while preparing for bed. Poor little Bacio was overjoyed to be reunited with his mistress, but she merely pushed him away. The old lady looked so little and frail and pathetic. Her pale blue eyes watched me as I moved about the suite, straightening and cleaning up after her day alone.
“Gillian?” she said, her voice quavering.
“Yes?” A wave of affection for her took me by surprise.
“Why did you make such a mess of my shoe racks? I had a terrible time finding my sneakers today. Leave my possessions alone unless I give you permission to touch them.”
I had rearranged her bajillion shoes exactly to her orders only two days earlier, not without concerted attempts to persuade her toward a more practical system.
“I’ll arrange them to your liking in the morning,” I promised, keeping my tone sweet even while I burned inside. With any luck she would have forgotten all about it by then.
I lavished attention on Bacio before I locked him in his kennel. The silly creature had become attached to me for some unknown reason, and I had moments of fondness for him too.
Since the younger Ganza brothers and a few of the maids were hanging out at the table in the kitchen, I accepted a cup of hot chocolate from Elena and lingered to listen to the chatter about the day’s wish.
“I texted Manny this morning,” Luigi said, “but he never got back to me, so just now I texted again that everything is all right. I guess he’s in meetings about—”
“Gillian, is Maria back?” Elena asked me abruptly, and Luigi turned to give me a wide-eyed stare. He obviously hadn’t realized I was present. Why did it matter?
“Yes, she returned right after sundown,” I said. “She missed all the excitement, but Lady Beneventi was in a cooperative mood for her, which was hardly the case this morning.”
The group at the table talked quietly about other things, and I realized my presence made them uneasy. I left my empty cup on the counter. “See you all in the morning,” I said, trying to sound casual and friendly. They all returned various farewells, and I hurried upstairs.
So, Manny hadn’t responded to Luigi’s text. Had it come before or after mine? I had already guessed he was in meetings, but I wouldn’t have minded hearing more about his business. He seemed to know the Ganza family well, so maybe he’d gotten the renovation job on their recommendation?
As soon as I was in my room with the door shut, I flopped down on my bed and called Manny’s number. To my disappointment, he didn’t pick up, so again I left a message: “It’s Gillian again, with your weekly . . . no, make that monthly update. All is well at Torre Santa Lucia. Lady Beneventi survived her day of solitude. She was almost docile tonight for Maria, which was disturbing. But then she was snarky to me, which relieved my mind. I hope you’re doing well. Luigi says you’re in some important meetings. I, um . . . Good luck with whatever you’re doing.” I ran out of words then, so finished in a rush. “I guess I’ll see you sometime. Good night!”
Christmas crept up on me almost unnoticed.
What did it matter? It wasn’t as if I would have a real holiday. My parents were spending the winter at a resort in Caliente, and my siblings had plans with their friends and in-laws. My own friends hardly ever answered my messages. I saw hints in their posts and comments to each other about holiday excursions and parties—most of my old group would be celebrating the holidays at Faraway Castle and other posh resorts. No one asked what I would be doing. Not Raquel. Not even Max.
I was beginning to realize how shallow my friends were. They all “liked” each other’s posts and photos but were interested only in themselves.
Social media stinks.
I had bigger problems occupying my thoughts. “Maria,” I murmured to the stoic maid one afternoon while Lady Beneventi napped, “do you think the Trefontane family expects me to accompany Lady B to all these holiday parties and social events she keeps nattering about? She talks as if I’ll be there.”
I had succumbed to the habit of referring to my charge as Lady B when I wasn’t directly addressing her, a consequence of associating almost entirely with servants, or “the proletariat,” as my father would say.
Maria paused on the way to her bedchamber to reply with her usual lack of emotion, “I cannot predict what the family will decide.”
“She’ll have you with her. I would just be in the way.”
“I never attend social functions with my lady,” Maria said, reaching for the door.
“You sat with her at the garden party for statues,” I pointed out.
“That was a crisis situation, not a social function.” She stepped inside and firmly closed the door.
“Thanks for nothing,” I muttered, and stared through the balcony doors, shivering in a draft. Who’d have thought I would ever dread the prospect of engaging in high-class social functions?
My juvenile fantasies of meeting Prince Fidelio while in Vetricia were long dead. Socially, being recognized as Lady Gillian Montmorency, now companion to a dowager viscontessa, would be ruinous. I could easily imagine women giving me furtive glances while whispering behind their gloved hands.
A greater worry was the prospect of encountering Bird-nest Beard at Trefontane family celebrations. The memory of how cavalierly I had spurned the man was . . . distasteful.
He must have let his family believe he’d thought better of proposing to me—if they had any idea how I’d spoken to him, I most certainly would not have this job. They were probably relieved to have escaped the unsavory connection.
I also couldn’t help worrying that Lady B wasn’t strong enough for the weeks of social whirl she anticipated. Her mind, though like a steel trap in some regards, was losing track of important things more and more often. A steady diet of fluffy romance novels and equally trite television movies would dull the sharpest intellect. I already felt mine turning to mush.
During Lady B’s afternoon nap, I took Bacio downstairs and ran into Jacopo, who greeted me with his fatherly smile. “A letter for you, Miss Gillian.”
“For me? Thank you.” I accepted it eagerly but didn’t recognize the handwriting. The crest on the envelope looked vaguely familiar. I tore it open while running upstairs, with Bacio trying to shove his nose into the action.
I drew out a heavy sheet of stationery bearing the same crest and read:
Miss Gillian Montmorency,
I hope you are well.
I am writing to inform you that work will begin on the master suite at Torre Santa Lucia the day after Lady Beneventi joins her family for the holidays. Your assignment during her absence is to direct the clearing out of the lady’s rooms before Christmas Day, since contractors will arrive on the twenty-sixth to update the wiring and plumbing in the suite, paint, and replace the flooring. Once the renovations are complete, you and the house servants will prepare the suite for her return. I have written to the housekeeper and steward, so they are aware of the impending situation. You and the other servants are not, of course, required to work on the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth of the month.
This very proper note was signed by a Trefontane secretary, wishing me blessed holidays, etcetera.
My steps slowed as I pondered this news and tried to sort out my feelings.
It made sense to renovate the suite while Lady B was away. I approved. Being in charge would be a pleasant change; most of the domestic staff would be at my command. Lumping me in with the servants was a low blow. All things considered, I felt both relieved and oddly hurt to be left behind.
Five days before Christmas, Lady Beneventi, with Bacio in her lap, perched on the bench at the foot of her bed, snapping off orders to Maria, who packed her bags, and commanding me to run and fetch this or run and tell somebody that. I saw Maria furtively remove hiking shoes and a tiara from the collection, but many other nonessentials made the cut. Lady B’s eyes could be sharp when she suspected insurrection, and her tongue was sharper still.
I was so done with this—let her be gone already!
But when we finally had her dressed and ready to go, with a trunk, two garment bags, and a stack of roller bags packed with gowns and everything else she thought she might need, I started to worry. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Did her family realize how fragile she was?
We sent her luggage down ahead, since it filled the elevator’s entire cab. Once Luca sent the cab back up empty, we three entered, with Bacio riding in his lady’s lap, and I punched the button for the main floor.
“You look dowdy, Gillian,” Lady Beneventi informed me as the elevator descended.
“I suppose I do. I haven’t had a spare moment to look at a mirror today.”
“Then you should take a moment now.”
I didn’t answer, since the door opened just then, and Maria rolled the wheelchair into the hall. Her own possessions had fit into one reasonable bag, which strengthened my conviction that she owned maybe two identical changes of clothing. Lady Beneventi didn’t seem to mind having a personal maid who took no care about her appearance, which made her constant criticism of me feel even more unfair.
Lady B wasn’t about to let the topic go. She twisted in her chair to call back to me. “You don’t intend to travel in those jeans, I hope.”
“Travel?” I echoed before thinking, and hurried to walk beside her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The old lady’s eyes went wide, and her jaw dropped. “What nonsense is this?” she sputtered in rage. “You are my paid companion. Naturally you will accompany me everywhere I go during this holiday season. The wardrobe of an earl’s daughter must contain clothing appropriate for any occasion, so go and change this instant! And do something with your hair. A ponytail is absurd on a young woman your age!”
I glanced at Maria, but she was in her stone-face mode. Sometimes I suspected she enjoyed hearing Lady B pick me to pieces. I was on my own with this explanation.
I drew a little fortifying breath and said, “My lady, I received a message from the Trefontane family ordering me to remain at Torre Santa Lucia for the holidays. Maria will travel with you as your personal maid. You’ll have no need of my services.”
“But how will . . .? You . . . you must . . .” Her eyes flickered in their sockets. Her jaw quivered, then set hard. Straightening in her chair, she huffed softly and said, “How refreshing it will be to regain my independence! My son must have realized how superfluous you are in this household.”
Maria’s gaze skimmed over me and away. Bacio’s round eyes seemed to plead with me to come, but I didn’t dare so much as ruffle his topknot.
A few minutes later, as I watched the limousine skim down the curving drive, I wondered how Lady B and Bacio would fare without me for nearly three weeks. Despite her ragging and complaining, Lady B depended heavily on me. I kept track of her social commitments and weekly activities. I reminded her of medications, appointments, names, dates, and many other details her mind no longer bothered to retain. I took care of Bacio, from feeding to brushing to taking him to the groomers.
And I made certain Lady Beneventi remembered the hazards of making wishes. I could not stop her once the “I wish” came out of her mouth, but I could and did remind her frequently of the thin line she walked. I could only hope and pray she wouldn’t do anything too disastrous.
The next morning, the entire indoor staff plus the Ganza brothers worked together, and by evening we had cleared everything—including the grand piano—out of the master suite and emptied the capacious closets, hauling most of the stuff into the gallery where I’d attended the “retro” dance that first day.
At first the servants had looked to me for direction about where to put things while I observed like a fine lady. But after thirty minutes of that, my self-control snapped. Some things I simply had to do for myself! As Luigi laughingly expressed it, “We’ve created a cleaning addict!” Sweeping and dusting quickly led to polishing and mopping, and soon I was hooked on hard work. I thoroughly enjoyed transforming chaos into order and had a knack for it, but my mother would never have allowed me to engage in such plebeian activities.
The next day, several maids and I sorted through antiques, collectibles, and quantities of junk. Conversation was awkward at first, since we had so little in common, but during those long hours of sorting, packing, carrying, and organizing, I almost felt like a carefree young girl among friends. No urgency to establish my importance, no dread of a verbal knife in my back.
“Are you going to join the baking party on Christmas Eve?” Valentina asked two days before Christmas. We were sorting discarded jewelry into categories, which required good lighting, magnifying glasses, and patience.
“Please do. It’s a blast!” Alessandra paused her work to exclaim.
“What baking party?” I asked, inwardly reacting with revulsion to the idea of a party based around menial labor.
“Every Christmas Eve we all get together in the kitchen and bake traditional biscuits and cakes, and then everyone takes some of it home to share with family,” Oriede, a tall, skinny girl with a cheery smile, explained. “It’s really more of a party than work.”
“The kitchen crew will have everything ready. We choose partners and create masterpieces,” Francesca said in her quiet way. “Any food left over goes to needy families in the village.”
“Will you join us
?” Valentina looked hopeful and pleading.
I couldn’t resist being wanted. After all, I’d already worked like a house maid. Why not add kitchen maid to my résumé? It might be fun. “Sure, why not?”
Nobody bothered to decorate the villa, since Lady Beneventi wasn’t around to appreciate it and most staff members would celebrate the holiday with their families, so it didn’t feel much like Christmas Eve to me. But Christmas joy flowed over me almost as soon as I entered the kitchen. Christmas music blared from a speaker, and someone had hung streamers and greenery from light fixtures and doorways.
Valentina waved me over to her work center at a raised rectangular table. “C’mon. We’ve got room over here.” She was stirring something in a bowl. “We’ll need a fourth: Alessandra couldn’t come—her family wanted her home today.”
“The guys should return soon. They’re out hunting for mistletoe,” Oriede informed me. “Who knows? Maybe Luca will volunteer to be my partner!”
“Fat chance of that,” Valentina sniffed.
I was just about to take an empty stool at their table when I caught sight of Luigi beckoning urgently from the hall doorway. Feeling a pinch of worry, I told the girls, “Wait just a minute. I’ll be right back.”
“No problem.” They were discussing getting me an apron as I walked away.
Luigi waved more urgently as I approached. “Hurry!” he hissed.
Could Lady Beneventi be in trouble? Or Manny? “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Watch out, Gillian!” Valentina called. Too late.
Luigi let go of the door, grabbed my shoulders, pulled me under the lintel, and plastered a kiss on my cheek. Too startled to react, I staggered back a step as he pointed up at a bundle of mistletoe dangling from the door frame and grinned from ear to ear. “Gotcha!”
Dimly I heard laughter and scoffing in the background. “Cheat!” somebody called.
I rubbed my cheek. “Why, you sneak! I thought there was really something wrong!”
