The Curious Case of Mary Ann

by Jenn Thorson

  “We’d best go,” said Douglas finally, glancing at a pocket watch while Mary Ann stood in disappointed silence. “I’d like to clean up and take you to that friend of mine. I feel confident that he can help.”

  “This? This is your friend?” asked Mary Ann breathlessly as she stood before the manor house. It was a sprawling edifice of red brick, ringed by red waters, over which a red drawbridge extended.

  “It’s the home of the Lord Carmine,” said Douglas. “He’s a Baron, you know. I excavated a moat for him in preparation for the Battle of Square Four some years ago. He’s promised me a favor.”

  “And how can he help me?” Mary Ann’s mind was swimming. How closely did the Royal courts of Turvy and Neath intermingle, anyway? Did this Baron have pull with Queen Valentina of Neath? Did he know the Royal valet, Jacob Morningstar? What if King Rudolf or Queen Valentina were the ones who ordered Rowan Carpenter’s death? Wouldn’t that be a bit close for comfort? Wouldn’t that be a bit…oh… incredibly stupid for her to even broach the subject? No matter how Mary Ann looked at it, she could not see how this Lord Carmine could assist without putting her in even greater jeopardy.

  She said as much. But Douglas just smiled, a rather toothy, tovey smile. “All in good time, Mary Ann,” he said, squeezing her hand. “All in good time.”

  There was a thick rope by the door and Douglas pulled it. A bell within rang. The front door opened a crack and Mary Ann could see the eye and the long nose of the First Footman, a sleek, noble-looking fellow of the equine persuasion. “Yes?”

  “Douglas Divot to see the Lord Carmine,” the tove said, with an impressive air of confidence.

  “Oh, yes, sir! Do come in,” said the First Footman. “Wait here, please.” And he trotted off to notify the Baron, leaving them in the good hooves of a Second Footman, who happened to be a donkey. It seemed Douglas Divot did have connections.

  Mary Ann noticed on the wall of the grand entrance hall was the taxidermy head of a tremendous beast, a creature with great bared fangs, jagged fins jutting from the side of its skull, horns projecting from the top and large, glassy red eyes at center. It was a shock to see it, mainly because she knew this beast. She’d seen the drawings. “Oh my goodness! Wasn’t that —?”

  “The Jabberwock?” said the donkey footman, with a smug, sideways glance. “And you should say ‘is,’” he corrected.

  Mary Ann frowned. The Jabberwock looked very Was to her. She suspected the Footman was simply being an ass.

  “The young master’s work,” the Second Footman continued. “Lord and Lady Carmine’s son, Sir Rufus, is a knight to the Red Queen, Rosamund. He slays the Jabberwock tomorrow, as prophesized. Day after, he’ll commence training for it. And sometime after that, he’ll quest for the Vorpal sword to do the deed. I’m sure you’ve heard the poem?”

  Mary Ann nodded, for the epic was well-known in Turvy, and long before she was born.

  “We’re very proud,” said the Second Footman.

  Douglas Divot beamed. “As you should be,” he said heartily.

  “Proud? Who’s proud?” came a voice, and an older man entered dressed in sumptuous red robes. His beard was ginger with a touch of grey, his mustaches russet and silver. His face was flushed in the hue of a tomato experiencing dyspepsia.

  “The Lord Carmine,” announced the returning horse footman and both footmen bowed.

  Mary Ann made a quick curtsey as Douglas bowed, too.

  “My Lord, I was telling our guests about your son’s upcoming Jabberwock quest,” the donkey footman piped up.

  “Oh yes! We’re very proud,” said Lord Carmine, confirming it all round. “The lad’s a hero. Or will be, when the deed’s officially done. Callooh, callay and all that.” He clasped his hands before him. “Now who have we here?” And his eyes lit on the tove. “Why, Devon! —”

  “Er, Douglas,” Douglas muttered.

  “—A delight to see you as always!” continued Lord Carmine.

  “And you, My Lord,” Douglas said.

  “What brings you here today?”

  “Well, My Lord, I was rather hoping to ask a favor,” said the tove.

  “Ask away, dear fellow! The old moat is sound and sturdy as ever it was. Why, if it hadn’t been for your clever thinking back in the battle days, we’d have been overrun by those Alabastards in the blink of an eye and we’d all be speaking Blanco-Turvian right now.”

  Mary Ann had met a number of people from the White Kingdom of Turvy and they’d spoken quite the same language as everyone else. She did not point this out.

  “I was wondering,” began Douglas, seeking to change the subject, “whether you might be able to offer a housemaid position to my friend here.”

  Mary Ann turned to Douglas in her surprise. That was his plan? Admittedly, it did solve her food and shelter problems, but it did very little in terms of murder-solving.

  Lord Carmine appeared equally baffled, but for wholly different reasons. “Your friend?” The man blinked and looked all round. “Where are they, then? Have they run off? Security breach! Security breach! Man the what’s-it and ready the thingummy!”

  And the footmen trotted off in different directions trying to look busy doing something until the man calmed down a bit.

  Lord Carmine leaned to Douglas, fear spanning his face. “Your friend isn’t one of those sly spies from the White side, are they? Perhaps just posing as your friend seeking to infiltrate? I know how those slippery monsters think!”

  “Why, no, sir,” said the tove. “She’s —”

  “I am here, My Lord,” Mary Ann said. And she waited the moment for Lord Carmine to finally settle his gaze upon her.

  “Ah! There you are!” he said. “Where’d you come from? You do realize, vanishing while seeking a position somewhere does not reflect well on you, young lady? In fact,” he considered it further, “vanishing doesn’t reflect at all.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  “See, you vanish afterwards, once you’re hired and become just another one of the help,” he explained. “Not before. Right now I need to get a good look at you.”

  And this gave Mary Ann an idea. “I thought I’d vanish first, My Lord, to get it out of the way,” she said.

  There was a blink. A pause. Then the Baron’s face brightened. “Ah!” He tapped his temple. “Thinking ahead, then. Planning! Very bright girl! No sense waiting until you’re hired to do the needful things. You’re a go-getter, you are! You’ll be getting the Go and fetching the well water in no time.”

  “Yes, My Lord, thank you.”

  “And since you’re already working the position, I suppose that means I have to hire you,” Lord Carmine said.

  “If it’s a proper Turvian job, hiring would follow the work, My Lord,” she agreed.

  “Frabjous, then! Welcome to Carmine Manor. You will report to the housekeeper, Mrs. Cordingley. She’ll assign you your chores … If she hasn’t already …?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow at her, and she shook her head no.

  “Ah, well. Not everyone is quite so enterprising as our young … What did you say your name was?”

  She hadn’t, but admitting that might throw cold water over her proactive reputation. “Mary Ann, My Lord.”

  “Marion,” Lord Carmine said warmly. “Excellent! You’ll find Mrs. Cordingley somewhere around here, Marilyn. The cook will know.” He pointed. “That way.”

  Mary Ann followed his gesture down a long corridor. She paused, turned and looked at Douglas.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Darienne?” Lord Carmine asked. “Your cleaning quest awaits! Off with you!” And he made a shooing motion, like she was more goose than girl.

  Douglas gave her a wink. So Mary Ann mouthed her thanks and scurried off down the hall.

  

  The kitchen was much larger than the one at Mr. Rabbit’s, and a lot quieter and less pepper-centric than the Duchess’. There were two people in the room at the moment. The tall, round one wore a cook’s apron
that appeared to contain a stain-smeared history of meals, past and present, making it possible to read it like a menu of all the dishes one had missed. The other person was a mite of a woman in a red housekeeper’s uniform that was so stiff and starched, Mary Ann felt sure the lady’s clothes would shatter in a strong wind.

  Before the housekeeper was an enormous tray bearing an equally large plate and the cook was stacking food onto it in perilous proportions. She said, “Right, then! One big helping of adversity, hard-boiled … A side of irony (it’s so important to get enough irony in your diet, I always say) … Some bittersweet, topped with shredded expectations … All seasoned with a sprinkle of dehydrated tears. To drink? A cup of hot, steeped wit. And for dessert? A slice of right-side-up cake.”

  The housekeeper nodded and hefted the tray to her shoulder.

  “Mrs. Cordingley,” Mary Ann began, “if you please, I’m —”

  “Oh, and don’t forget this!” said Cook, ignoring the newcomer. “This is everything!” and she dunked a pocket watch into the tea. For a moment, Mary Ann thought the weight of the pocket watch might be the whole project’s undoing. The housekeeper wobbled and swayed like a willow in the wind, but somehow managed to regain her footing. She started away on rubbery knees. Mary Ann trailed after her.

  “Pardon me,” Mary Ann tried again, “are you Mrs. Cordingley? I’m supposed to report to you for housemaid work. My name is —”

  “No time now, girl. I must take this up,” Mrs. Cordingley told her, looking pained but still trying to keep a stiff upper lip about it. “So start with the fireplaces. Then fluster the moldings, massage the brass, milk the jugs, tickle the ivory and when you’re quite done with that, report back and I’ll give you some real work to do.” She tripped a bit on the first of the steps leading up from the kitchen and weaved ominously.

  “Oh, my!” Mary Ann rushed toward her, arms outstretched, trying to anticipate the direction of the inevitable tumble. “May I help you? Where are you taking it? I could carry half and together we could —”

  “You just never mind,” Cordingley said, ultimately stabilizing herself once more and turning away. Her voice echoed in the stairwell, “Off with you! Those moldings won’t fluster themselves!”

  

  It was after no guidance and considerable trial-and-error, Mary Ann found where the cleaning implements were stored and she began work on the fireplaces. She sought them out among the maze of rooms, polishing the facades and sweeping the tiles first, then shoveling out the embers, all properly backwards and Turvian. Next, she moved on to the baseboard moldings but had some trouble getting a good fluster up. Most of the woodwork that edged the rooms was fairly stoic, so you had to threaten it with sandpaper and wire brushes, before it got truly upset and sweated itself into a nice, oily polish.

  In the case of the entry hall, however, even the sandpaper wasn’t an incentive. So she found herself uttering the most heartless of threats: “Oh, so that’s it! That’s how you want to do things! I’ll get a match then, shall I? A lit match? Is that what you want?”

  Well, the moldings changed their behavior soon enough at that. And it was just in time, too, because the door burst open and a crowd thundered in. The group was led by a young man in light armor, assistants at his side with hounds and horns. All of them were clad in the reddest of red tunics, boots and leggings, chatting and singing, barking and tootling, as were their penchants. All them, that is, except for the young man in the armor. That one moved silently forward then stopped in the middle of the room, staring at the Jabberwock head on the wall as if in a trance. His face, a white canvas with a collection of red spatters across the nose and cheeks, grew three shades paler at the sight of the creature. In a moment, he was so pale, the White Queen would have merrily tucked him into her Royal Guard. He let out a miserable sigh as he clutched his rumpled ginger curls, an action which sucked all the life from his entourage like a flame in a vacuum.

  “Sir Rufus,” one of the squires asked, “what’s wrong?”

  “N-nothing,” he said after a moment, in a voice as hollow as a haunting soul’s. “All of you, wait in the drawing room. No — not you, Russell.” He indicated one man. “You come help me with this armor.” Sir Rufus moved suddenly toward the staircase, where Mary Ann had been flustering the spindles. Before she could even crawl out of the way, he was right there, stumbling over her. A moment later, he had drawn a sword — not one of the Vorpal variety, she noticed — and whirled around, scanning the area. “Who did that? Where are you?” He finally spied her. “Oh.” The pale face turned pink. The small blue eyes surveyed her sharply. “Whatever are you doing there?”

  “Crouching, Sir?” She indicated the woodwork.

  “I see. Well, one has quite enough problems without also being on the alert for rampant crouching.” He sheathed the sword. “Really, miss, if you must insist on it, at least crouch taller, would you? Where people can see you properly.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Mary Ann.

  And at that, he looked somewhat mollified. He spun once more on a booted heel and clanked off, followed by the one called Russell.

  

  By tea, Mary Ann was hardly able to believe it was the same day she’d buried her father, it all seemed so very far away. There was a constant bustle of activity at Carmine Manor. For one, Mary Ann had never before worked at a place with so many servants. There were the footmen, Cook and Mrs. Cordingley the housekeeper, of course. But there was also a somewhat piscine-looking parlor maid called Mabel, a red-cheeked scullery maid called Emmaline, Lady Carmine’s personal maid who was an aloof, elegant girl named Celeste, and several others she had yet to meet. All but Celeste had been brief and busy, but still welcoming. Celeste was busy, too, though mainly in having personal words with a lanky young carriage driver. From what Mary Ann overheard, those words were more neigh than yea.

  With tea, Mary Ann learned what was expected of her at mealtimes, after meals, and what tasks should be done before the house had settled down for bed. By this point, bed was sounding very pleasant, indeed.

  “This is our room,” said Emmaline and she swung the door wide to the female servants’ quarters. There were three large beds in the room. “So now it’s you and me, and Mrs. Cordingley, and Cook and Mabel. Celeste sleeps downstairs off of Lady Carmine’s room. Mrs. Cordingley gets her own bed — this one.” She pointed. Even the bed looked starched. “But you can bunk with me, here.” Emmaline hopped onto the bed by the window. “I’m happy to have a bedmate, actually. I don’t like the dark much. Terrified of it. They poke fun of me sometimes, Mrs. Cordingley and Mabel do, but there’s just something about these dark old houses that give me the heebies. Do you like it? The room, I mean, not the dark. Though, do you like the dark? Not fond of it, me. That’s why I have the bed by the window. Little bit of light, you see. Comforting.”

  She paused for answer and possibly for breath. Mary Ann wasn’t sure which question to address first, so she just smiled and thanked the girl.

  “What is your name, by the way?” asked Emmaline, pulling back the covers and removing her work cap. “You see, no one’s quite sure. Someone thought it was Marilyn, but then Marion, Darienne, Terrilyn and Tamsin seem to have happened somewhere along the way. Of course, that’s Lord Carmine for you. Very nice man, a very fair employer, but terrible with names. Why, in my time here, I’ve been Imogene, Emily, Amy, Allison and even once Ignatia, which I’m quite grateful was never an idea that popped into my parents’ minds, that’s for certain. The only ones he gets right are Mrs. Cordingley and his son, Sir Rufus. Only he never calls his son ‘Sir,’ as that would be silly,” said Emmaline, imparting that extra bit of wisdom. “So, what’s your name again?”

  “Tamsin,” said Mary Ann, selecting from the menu of names presented to her. She liked the sound of it, and until she knew more about Lord Carmine’s royal connections, she suspected it was a lot safer than her own.

  “Tamsin’s a nice name,” agreed Emmaline. “We’re
both lucky we’re not Ignatia, eh?” she philosophized.

  Mary Ann agreed it was fortunate. And perhaps somewhere, some poor Ignatia felt her ears burning. But Mary Ann was able to borrow an extra nightdress from Emmaline, who simply couldn’t believe she’d come to work with no possessions at all, and it wasn’t long before the other staff filtered in, readied themselves, and the lamp was put out. The draft from the window ruffled the curtains and blew across Mary Ann’s face. Someone snored, she noticed, and given the number of occupants in the chamber, it was hard to pinpoint the guilty party. She was quite sure it wasn’t Emmaline, who was still and silent for possibly the first time since Mary Ann had met her. But the remaining three across the room were still suspect.

  She thought the bone-weariness of the day’s events would carry her on the waves of sleep, a current of snores to rock her, and for a while this did prove true. But then the sleep gave way to fitful dreaming. She saw funeral wreaths of oyster shells wheeling their way across her view. Wreaths of shells, mother of pearl flashing at her in the light. It made her squint and wince — until the buzzing started. The flies buzzing in her ears, in her mind. A cloud of flies, blocking the light, darkening her view. She found herself dumped on a sandy beach, sopping. She tried to stand but she couldn’t bend. She was stiff as a board, floating, suddenly made of wood, carved wood floating on a choppy current out to sea. But the flies followed, landing on her, and oh, how she wanted to swat them away! The buzzing was so loud now, she woke up, arms flailing. In a moment, the buzz had melted into the sound of rain, pattering furiously against the slate roof above their little attic room. The precipitation mixed with the gentle sound of snores.

  4

  Morning arrived with the swift, careening intensity of a runaway carriage and Mary Ann rolled out of bed and into her new housemaid’s uniform feeling bleary and sore. This uniform was certainly different than the ones she’d worn in Neath. For one thing, the whole ensemble was red — no particular surprise there. But the bodice was smooth and unadorned, there was no apron at all, and the skirt had the sleek, flared look of a horn, which kept its shape through a hoop sewn into the bottom hem. The cap was unlike any she’d seen. It was a sphere that perched on the bun of her plaited, upswept hair. She suspected the whole thing would take some time to get used to. The base hoop was awkward and unpredictable, and it forced her to account with greater accuracy her width between doors. She discovered this last feature the hard way, when trying to leave the bedchamber.