Having had to round my younger sisters up for their baths when they were little and had yet to covet the comfort of cleanliness, I knew just what to do. “Come along with you now. We’ve much to do to pass Mrs. Frye’s inspection and very little time left.”
Grabbing Bridget’s arm, I pulled her to one hip-bath, and shooed Janet and Adele to the others. “Now off with your clothes. I’ll have Mrs. Murphy go gather fresh uniforms for all of us from Mrs. Frye, so she can’t find a blemish.” I’d have to wear mine pinned so as to fit well enough to stay on, but nothing was going to stop me from being wonderfully clean.
By the time I managed to get the three maids in the hip-baths and had put them through the horrifying experience of ducking their heads under the water and scrubbing their hair, I had very little time left for my own bath. The water had cooled considerably in the tub, but not even that could lessen my ecstasy as I sank beneath the water. I hurriedly subjected every inch of my being to soothing suds and a soft cloth.
I’d been given a new life.
“This ’ill be the death o’ us,” Bridget said as she helped me dry my hair with a soft towel.
“’twill be the making of you, Bridget. Once you’ve accustomed yourself to the exhilaration of being clean, all of life will be brighter. Think about it. Remember how you felt racing down the hill to the village yesterday? Don’t you feel a little like that now?”
She frowned. “Perhaps, though running and bathing don’t have much to do with each other iffen ya ask me.” She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice so that Janet and Adele, who were across the room couldn’t hear. “Cassie, I don’t know how, but ya did this, didn’t ya?” Then she immediately shook her head and answered before I could. “No, how could ya?”
Suddenly, she grabbed my shoulders, a mixture of surprise and excitement on her face. “Blimey!” she hissed, still whispering, but more forcefully. “The Killdaren saw ya just yesterday and now he has us bathin’! He wants ya, that’s what. Yer not going to have to scrub much longer, ya aren’t. Be wearin’ dresses and drinkin’ tea with Miss Prudence. She was an upstairs maid until he took a fancy to her, dressed her up and had her educated he did.” She clamped her hand over her mouth, looked about and lowered her voice even more. “Best keep this as quiet as we can, now. No use in setting tongues wagging before there’s a need to. Miss Prudence didn’t say a word to anyone about it until she couldn’t hide that she was with a bairn. Ya might be right about this bathin’ stuff after all, Cassie.”
Bridget turned around and did a little dance on her way to the kitchens.
I stood, so flabbergasted that I couldn’t even speak. Good heavens. She truly thought being a man’s mistress was some sort of salvation.
During the morning meal, I still couldn’t find the words to express my shock, partly because of Bridget’s mercenary notions, and partly because I feared she was right. After last night’s debacle, Sean most likely thought I’d deliberately exposed my breasts to his view and had arranged the employee bathing with an eye to furthering his acquaintance with me, a very upsetting matter in itself. But not as horrifying as the idea of involving myself intimately with a man in order to escape doing chores. It was most likely the only way a woman in Bridget’s position in life could better her circumstances, and that realization disturbed me the most.
As the meal ended and the women gathered up the plates to be washed, I slipped a knife into my pocket, deciding any weapon would be better than no weapon. Bridget and I received the task of cleaning and polishing the music room after passing Mrs. Frye’s cleanliness inspection. Amazingly, she informed us she’d be hiring two scullery maids and a laundress. Then, starting tomorrow, a fresh uniform would be readied every other day for each member of her staff. They were to wear it the next morning, having their person in just as clean a state. Every Sunday, half the servants would be off the entire day. Then the next Sunday, the other half would have the day free.
I wondered less about Sean’s motives in providing a bathing facility then, and my heart warmed over the fact he’d heard and acted on what I’d said.
Bridget didn’t say a word until she shut the ornately carved, gold-leafed double doors, closing us inside the music room, then she started dancing another jig, bursting with joy. “I’ll not be scrubbing any more dishes or slavin’ over any more pots! And two whole days a month with my family! It’s a miracle, I say.”
I could barely hear, for I stood in awe. The room wasn’t just a receptacle for musical instruments, but boasted a theater as well. Elaborate chairs with cream brocade seats and gold accents faced a stage framed in rich, snowy damask curtains fringed with gold. A grand piano and a huge golden harp sat center stage and were backed by the gleaming gold pipes of a pipe organ. Lining the cream and gold walls in beautifully carved mahogany and glass cases lay exquisite musical instruments of wood, gold, and silver. Some encrusted with jewels, others so rustic and frail in appearance that they had to be as old as the Druids themselves.
“This is unbelievable. Who plays these instruments?”
“It’s a right shame, it is, but no one does, though Mary was working with my sister Flora, teaching her to sing, she was.” Bridget handed me a dusting cloth and moved to the first glass case.
I followed her, peering closer at the odd black flute-like instruments wrapped with gold dragons, thankful to see a printed card explaining its use, for I’d never seen such an instruments in my life. “Tartoelen Dragon Shawms,” I read. “‘Differently pitched wind instruments that imitate the human voice. These shawms were used by a young actress in Vienna during a performance for Emperor Maximilian the First. He became so enchanted that he claimed this golden haired actress, Anna Breisua, for his lover. Jealous and fearful of losing their power over the Emperor, certain court nobles accused Anna of witchcraft, of casting a spell over the Emperor through the Dragon Shawms—’”
“She…was burned at the stake for her sinful deed.” Bridget finished the last sentence for me.
“Excellent.” I focused on Bridget’s improvement and avoided the pall the story cast over the pristine glow of the room.
Bridget frowned, more fiercely than ever before. “What do ya mean? That was horrible. The poor woman.”
“I meant your reading was excellent, Bridget. The events told were indeed horrible. Thank God the world has moved past such barbaric practices.”
“What do ya mean?”
“Parliament dispensed with that punishment about a hundred years ago, but if you ask me that was a couple of hundred years too late. After Bloody Mary’s reign, few men were burned at the stake, but they continued to burn women to death for the crimes of murder and counterfeiting until 1790.”
“Blimey. How’d you learn all that?”
“Reading. Books can tell you anything and take you anywhere in the world you want to go, Bridget.”
Her eyes misted. “And I’m learning how. You know, you’re like Flora’s friend Miss Mary, you are. She was always helping and a teaching the wee one, and teaching Flora to speak proper, and learning us all about the world. She read us the papers every day, she did.”
A huge lump of emotion caught in my throat. I nodded my head and scrubbed the glass harder, paying close attention to a blur that didn’t disappear until I blinked. My cousin had left a legacy behind, one of care and love.
“We’d better hurry. We’ll need to be further along before Mrs. Frye checks on us.”
Bridget laughed. “You’re learning too, Cassie.” She smiled and I smiled back.
We quickly moved through a number of glass cases. As we did, I silently read the captions for each of the instruments, but didn’t bring them to Bridget’s attention. By the fifth case I had an ill feeling in the pit of my stomach.
As wonderful as this room was, each of the captions beside the musical instruments explained the instrument—a lyre, a lute, a cittern, a spinnettino, a viola—its time period, and how that instrument played a part in the demise of the woman who used it
. Instruments that now lay silent as death, entombed in glass. The macabre research and expense to purchase musical instruments that had direct correlation to death cast a sinister cloud over the whole room for me, which I wasn’t quite ready to expose to Bridget, so I kept my discovery to myself.
Mrs. Frye made her usual inspection. After she left, Bridget heaved a sigh of relief and chattered. I nodded my head appropriately as she talked about how beautiful the diamond and silver lyre resting on the cream satin. I kept seeing the poor maiden who’d plucked the wrong note, displeasing her Roman master, and died for it. Though her story didn’t end there. The lyre played itself until the Roman master went mad.
“Do ya know how, Cassie?” Bridget’s question caught me unawares.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Can ya play any of them?” She swept her hand out to encompass the instruments.
“Only the piano.”
“Then ya must play me a song.” She caught my hand and pulled me toward the stage.
“Well…I…”
“Please. Ack, just one. I’ve dreamed of hearing it played. Mrs. Frye won’t be back for a while.”
“All right.”
Bridget and I hurried up the marble steps to the stage. I felt a little like I had yesterday when I’d run down the hill. From the pink flush staining Bridget’s cheeks, I got the idea that she felt the same. What was it about doing something forbidden that made life more real? At least it did until the deed was done, then often life felt worse.
The piano was like a cream cloud of luxury, the keys were wonderfully light to my fingertips and the sound of the notes could only be described as heavenly. Brahm’s “Lullaby” came first, bringing treasured remembrances of hearing my mother softly sing my sisters and me to sleep. Then the haunting tones of a Chopin Nocturne followed by many beloved songs eased from my heart and fingers to fill the hall, but when I hit the last high note, a muted clink sounded.
Frowning, I stood and peered into the piano bed, surprised to see a puddle of silk material bunched over the hammers. I pulled the material loose, discovering it to be a red scarf.
“That’s my sister’s,” Bridget cried out and grabbed my arm. “She had it on the day she left, she did, a present from Jack it was. What’s it doin’ here?”
For a moment, my heart skipped with fear until common sense thankfully stepped in. “I daresay there’s more than one red silk scarf. And it could be that your sister accidentally left it behind, which would make it yours.” I handed the scarf to Bridget.
She stared at the red silk for a few minutes then slowly brushed her fingers over it before clutching it to her cheek. My heart went out to Bridget at that moment more than ever because I could see in the bare emotion shadowing her eyes how much she missed her sister.
“Is it all right if I run the scarf to our room? I might ruin it by stuffing it into my pocket.”
I wanted to tell her that wouldn’t be likely, but from the reverent awe in her blue eyes, I knew the scarf was too much of a valued treasure to ever be stuck into a pocket. “Go. I’ll wait here.”
Bridget didn’t hesitate. She dashed quietly away.
After inspecting the inside of the piano for anything else obstructive, I sat again and replayed the song the scarf had interrupted. I played another, this one a lively Hungarian dance that reminded me of gypsies, bonfires and nights when the moon brushed the world with silver-star dust, creating a beautiful painting that perhaps only God could fully see.
Suddenly a suspicion that I was no longer alone in the room crept over me, along with the very chilling realization that I did not want to be alone with whoever had taken something so beautiful as music and made it so horrible. A curtain at the opposite end of the stage rustled, as if touched by a breeze…or a hand.
My fingers crashed to the keys, making a sharp discordant jumble, and I stood. “Who is it?” I demanded, determined not to give into the fear jumping onto my heart.
No answer, but I heard faint breathing that the stage amplified even more. Goose bumps pricked my skin.
Run! My mind shouted at me. The curtain rustled again and I stepped away from the piano, my hand sliding to the knife in my pocket as I hurried across the stage. Two steps from the stairs a sneeze echoed through the room. I’d expected any sound to be from a man, not the soft sneeze of a child.
Pulse beating less wildly, I turned and tiptoed across the stage to the curtains. Snatching them back, I found Rebecca huddling there, clutching her rag doll.
She cried out, moving away from me, her hand searching all around, as if she were terrified and needed to escape. She wore a pink lace dress over what had to have been a dozen petticoats considering how fully her dress flounced about her ankles. Pretty stockings and dainty slippers with pink bows that matched the tiny bows in her coifed hair completed her attire. She looked as if she were a lady about to meet the Queen, rather than a child at midday play. She’d apparently escaped the incompetent watch of her nurse again.
“It’s all right,” I said softly. “It’s Cassie? Remember, I held your hand yesterday?”
She didn’t respond. She kept backing away, uncannily moving in the right direction to escape. I thought about reaching out to her, but feared I would only frighten her more. I wondered how she’d gotten here without me and Bridget seeing her and I wondered why she’d come.
The music. Play the music.
Before I could question the thought, I went to the piano. “Would you like to hear more music?” I asked the child. She stopped moving away the moment my fingers hit the keys and the soothing tones of Moonlight Sonata filled the room.
After a few minutes, she moved toward me, sweeping her hand and foot in tiny, graceful arcs before her, making her look like a ballerina warming up for a performance.
“How old are you?”
She faced a point off to my right and held up seven fingers very methodically. Given her petite size, I had thought her to be five.
“Seven then.” Hearing my voice, she turned in my direction. “Just the age I started to learn how to play the piano. Can you play?”
“N-n-no,” she stuttered.
Was she still afraid? “Would you like to play?”
“C-c-can’t, can’t see.”
“I know,” I said softly, realizing that her speech pattern didn’t stem from fear. “But you can still learn to play.”
She shook her head and backed away.
“Well, then, perhaps you can just listen. Would you like to sit where you can best hear the song?” I meant for her to join me on the bench, but when she reached the piano, she sat on the floor, leaning against its leg as if she’d done it many times before. Adding that observance to Bridget’s remark that no one ever played the instruments in this room, and the finding of the red silk scarf, made a puzzle just as unsettling as the histories of the glass-encased instruments.
“Blimey.” Bridget rushed into the room. “I barely missed Mrs. Frye in the center hall.”
Rebecca jumped up, holding her doll tightly to her.
“Oh!” Bridget came to a halt. “How did you get in here, wee one?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Well, no mind. Come along with ya. I’ll see ya back safe to ya room.” Marching up, Bridget caught hold of the child’s hand, and helped her down the stairs. “I suppose Nurse Tolley is up in your room snoozin’ away, thinking you’re at your nap.”
Rebecca remained silent, but bowed her head. Bridget didn’t seem to think it odd that Rebecca didn’t say anything.
“I’ll come with you.” I hurried down from the stage. “It’ll be good to know where Rebecca’s room is so that I can take her back there should the need arise in the future.” Bridget nodded and we all left the music room.
Reaching the center hall, Bridget turned up the expansive curved stair leading to the second floor. Our steps on the carpeted runners were silent and hushed, making almost every movement one of reverence, which happened to be very appr
opriate. Presiding on the walls from great heights were full portraits of what I assumed were dark-haired Killdaren ancestors. In the oldest painting, the style of dress dated from a generation or two prior to King Henry the VIII, and surprisingly enough, one painting showed a dark-haired gentleman with a man who appeared to be that King and his second wife, a smiling Anne Boleyn. Obviously she had no idea a beheading awaited her. It made me wonder if we all walked through life utterly unsuspecting of horrors lurking ahead of us.
That thought brought Mary to mind as the three of us reached the landing for the second floor, Bridget leading Rebecca with me following, and my scalp began to tingle as a queasy feeling roiled inside of me. I’d seen this rich corridor before. I’d seen the sets of double doors situated just like the ones we passed, and I knew we’d stop at the third set of double doors on the left, just as I had seen in my dream of Mary last night.
Mary had led me to these doors, to Rebecca’s room, and had begged for me to…what? As desperately as I’d wanted a bath, I wished Janet and Adele had been a few minutes later waking Bridget and me this morning.
Nurse Tolley answered Bridget’s knock. The moment the nurse saw Rebecca with us, she let out screech of frustration that sent Rebecca diving back behind me, clutching her doll to her heart.
“How dare you frighten her like that!” I admonished the woman as I steadied Rebecca with a comforting arm. Rebecca pressed against my skirts, like a toddler seeking comfort.
“How dare you, a scullery maid, speak to me like that! I’ll have you know this child is the spawn of the devil. I put her in her bed an hour ago and she has not come through these doors because I’ve been in the sitting area the entire time.”
Bridget shuffled in front of me and put her face in front of the nurse’s. “Cassie ain’t no scullery maid. And unlessen you pay her close attention and show her the respect due a highly educated person, then I’m a thinking we needs to let Mrs. Frye and Mr. Killdaren know the wee one was wanderin’ about unsupervised again.”
Midnight Secrets Page 10
