Marta's Legacy Collection

by Francine Rivers

  Marta decided to walk. She wanted to see some of the city, and who knew how many days would pass before she had free time to do whatever she pleased. Was the school in session on Saturday? She didn’t know. Knapsack over her shoulder, she hurried from the station and strolled along a cobblestone street, looking up at the high stone buildings with flags flying. She paused to watch the tower clock’s animated figures strike the hour. She passed by plazas and wandered in the crisscross of arcades lined with cafés, jewelers, clothiers, pastry shops, and shops with window displays of chocolate.

  As the sun dipped, Marta hurried toward the bridge across the River Aare. She climbed the hill and found the street name on the letterhead. By the time she found the right address, she felt tired but exhilarated. No sign told her she’d come to the right place, and the house in front of her looked like a grand mansion rather than a school.

  A woman in black dress, white apron, and cap answered the door.

  Marta gave an awkward curtsy. “I’m Marta Schneider from Steffisburg.” She held out her documents.

  “Never curtsy to the staff,” the woman said as she took the papers, glanced at them, and beckoned her in. “Welcome to the Haushaltungsschule Bern.”

  She closed the door behind Marta. “I’m Frau Yoder. You’re the last to arrive, Fräulein Schneider. You look tired. You didn’t walk, did you?”

  “From the train station.” Marta gaped at the grand staircase and the walls with portraits in gilded frames, the finely woven rugs, the porcelain figurines. This was a housekeeping school?

  “Most people ride back up.”

  “I wanted to see some of the city.” Marta stared up at the ceiling painted with angels. “I wasn’t sure when I would have a free day to see the sights.”

  “You’ll have Sundays to yourself. Come. I’ll give you an orientation tour. The downstairs holds the parlor, living room, the count’s offices, and the countess’s conservatory. The kitchen is on the other side, next to the dining room. The second floor has a ballroom and several large bedrooms. The third floor has most of the guest rooms. You and the other girls will be in the fourth-floor dormitory. The classroom is there also.”

  Frau Yoder walked head high, hands clasped in front of her. She extended her hand as she identified each room and allowed Marta a few seconds to glance around at the rich interiors. “The countess receives guests in this parlor. She had the walls repainted royal yellow after visiting the Schloss Schönbrunn in Vienna last year.” She lifted a hand before clasping both in front of her again. “That’s the countess’s portrait over the fireplace. She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

  A young woman with dark eyes and long, flowing black hair over bare shoulders seemed to stare down at her. The countess wore a necklace of diamonds and emeralds around her slender throat, and her dress looked like something from a history book Marta had read. “She looks like Marie Antoinette.”

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t end up the same way.”

  It seemed a surprising thing to say, and especially with such a dry tone. Frau Yoder moved on. Marta followed, growing more curious. “Do the count and countess conduct the classes?”

  “They will speak with you on occasion, but I do the teaching.”

  “Saintonge. Are they French?”

  “It’s not polite to ask, Fräulein.”

  Marta blushed. “Oh.” And why not? she wanted to say, but Frau Yoder moved on down a hall. Marta felt like a duckling racing after its waddling mother. “How many other students are in attendance, Frau Yoder?”

  “Seven.”

  “Only seven?”

  Frau Yoder paused and turned. She looked down her nose at Marta. “Only the most promising are accepted.” She looked Marta over. “Your coat is custom-made, is it not?”

  She had made it herself, but didn’t feel inclined to tell the woman. “My mother is a dressmaker and my father is a tailor.”

  Frau Yoder leaned closer and looked at the embroidery. “Beautiful work.” She smiled at Marta. “I’m surprised your parents sent you here. Come along.” Frau Yoder turned away again. “I want to show you the rest of the house. If you’re hungry, there is cabbage soup and bread in the kitchen. The count and countess are out for the evening. You’ll meet them tomorrow morning at ten in the upstairs classroom. However, I expect you there by eight for instructions.”

  Marta’s curiosity grew even more with her first sight of Countess Saintonge standing in the bare-floor hallway outside the classroom door. She was very young to be a headmistress of anything, and she wore less-than-modest clothing. Her brows slanted over a pair of sly, dark eyes. She opened her mouth in a silent laugh, showing small, straight white teeth. She whispered something behind her hand and a man appeared. He had gray hair, pale eyes, and a thin, angular face. He looked old enough to be the lady’s father! When he leaned close, Marta thought he meant to kiss Countess Saintonge right there in the hallway. He said something in a low voice and disappeared. The countess looked annoyed, but lifting her head, she entered the room with an air of hauteur. “Good morning, students.”

  Everyone shot to their feet and curtsied as they had been instructed to do.

  “Countess.” Frau Yoder gave a graceful curtsy. Each girl curtsied again as her name was mentioned.

  The countess clasped her hands delicately at her waist and began to talk about the fine reputation of the Haushaltungsschule Bern and the glowing reports she and the count had received from satisfied employers. “We select only the best.” Marta wondered at that, having spent the night with the others, most of whom had less schooling than she. We are the best?

  “Those who make it through the first three months will be fitted for one of our uniforms.” When the countess raised one hand, Frau Yoder made a slow turn, showing off the ankle-length black wool skirt, white high-collared shirtwaist with long sleeves and cuffs, full-length white apron with HB embroidered on the right pocket, and white lace-trimmed cap. “Only those who graduate receive the honor of wearing our uniform.”

  As the countess went on talking, Marta studied the translucent linen day dress with its tiny pin tucks, lace insertions, white embroidered flowers and leaves, and swirls of passementerie. She knew the hours and cost to make such a dress.

  “Fräulein Schneider, stand.”

  Marta rose, wondering why the countess had singled her out from among the others.

  “I expect you to pay attention when I speak.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Yes, Countess. And you will curtsy when you rise next time, and curtsy again before speaking.”

  Marta felt a rush of heat flood her cheeks. One hundred and fifty francs to learn how to be treated like a slave! One hundred and fifty francs Papa would expect to be repaid whether she completed the course or not. Clenching her teeth, Marta curtsied. “Yes, Countess.” She curtsied again.

  Countess Saintonge’s dark eyes surveyed her coolly. “Did you hear anything I said, or must I repeat it all?”

  Marta dipped again. “Yes, Countess. I heard.” She began to tell her word for word until the countess lifted one of those delicate hands to stop the flow. The countess gave a slight nod for her to sit. Marta remained standing. The countess inclined her head lower this time. Marta stared back at her. The countess’s cheeks flushed pink. “Why are you still standing, Fräulein Schneider?”

  Marta dipped more slowly this time and a few inches lower. “I awaited your command, Countess Saintonge.” She heard the nervous shifting of bodies around her. With another curtsy, Marta took her seat.

  When class ended, Countess Saintonge told her to remain behind. “Marta Schneider from Steffisburg, is that correct? What does your father do?”

  “My father is a tailor and my mother is a dressmaker.”

  “Ah!” She smiled. “That’s why you were staring. . . .” She looked at Marta’s shirtwaist and black skirt. “Did you make what you’re wearing?”

  Wondering at the woman’s change in manner, Marta dipped just to be cautious. �
��Yes, Countess.”

  The countess’s mouth curved with an odd, pleased smile. “Wonderful. You can make the uniforms.”

  Marta stiffened. “Will I have spare time?”

  “Most of your evenings will be free.”

  Her evenings might be free, but she wasn’t. “If you have the materials, we can discuss wages.”

  The countess’s dark eyes widened in surprise. “What would you demand?”

  Marta made a swift mental calculation and named an elevated sum for the uniforms.

  “That’s outrageous!” The countess named a lower price.

  Marta raised it. “And if I am expected to provide the materials, I will require the funds for that in advance, and the rest paid before I hand over the uniforms.”

  “You’ve been cheated, haven’t you?”

  “I haven’t, but my father and mother have.”

  “Is that any reason not to trust me?”

  “This is business, Countess.”

  The countess’s eyes lit up with amusement. After several rounds, she agreed on a price slightly above what Marta had decided was fair. When everything had been settled between them, the countess laughed. “Fräulein Schneider, you are not like any girl we’ve ever had before.” She shook her head, eyes sparkling. “I doubt you will ever be a proper servant.”

  Marta wrote to Rosie and received a swift answer.

  What do you mean you doubt the Countess Saintonge is a countess?

  Letters flew back and forth with the speed of the trains.

  The countess sounds German one day and French the next. I heard C and C speaking English in the parlor yesterday, though they shut up fast enough when they saw me in the doorway. Actors, perhaps? Frau Yoder says it is impolite to ask. The pair of them could even be Swiss! I intend to take Mama’s good advice and learn all I can. . . .

  Perhaps they are just very good at languages and have absorbed the proper accents. . . .

  Did I forget to tell you C and C have parties every Friday and often have overnight guests on the weekend? C and C say everything is planned in order to train us. If that is true, then I am a cheesemaker’s daughter. I have said nothing of my suspicions in my letters home, but I will tell you. This house is large enough to need eight full-time maids to keep it clean and neat! C and C have taught us how to wash windows, floors, and chandeliers. Frau Yoder has taught us how to wax and polish banisters and floorboards. We dust figurines, beat dust from the drapes, clean rugs. We change beds. This place turns into a hotel from Friday night through Sunday afternoon. How can I not admire such audacity? C and C found a way to make servant girls pay for the privilege of maintaining their mansion!

  Are you writing all this in your journal?

  I’m saving the journal for better things.

  She had filled only one page, with recipes of the Beckers’ best-selling bakery goods.

  Marta never worked Sundays. She walked down the hill and across the bridge, into the old city to attend services at the Berner Münster, the most famous gothic cathedral in Switzerland. She loved to linger at the portal, studying the carved and painted figures. Green devils with red maws fell into hell while white and gilded angels flew to heaven. After church, Marta walked the Marktgasse, its arcades lined with shops bustling with customers. She bought chocolate and a pastry and sat near the Samson Fountain, thinking of Mama and Elise. She went to see the Bundeshaus and the Rathaus. She bought carrots and fed the brown bears at the Bärengraben, along with a dozen other visitors to Bern who had come to see the city’s mascots. She liked to buy a cup of chocolate and stand beneath the western gate and clock tower, waiting for the show when the hour struck. By the end of two months, Marta knew every cobblestone street and fountain in the old city.

  Mama and Elise sent a letter once a week. Nothing changed. Mama was making another dress for Frau Keller. Elise stitched the hem. Papa worked hard in the shop. Everyone was well.

  We miss you, Marta, and we count the days until you come home. . . .

  Every Sunday, before going back up the hill to the school, Marta sat near the fountain depicting Samson breaking the jaws of a lion and wrote to Mama and Elise. She told them what she was learning about housekeeping, leaving out her suspicions of the so-called count and countess. She described the city.

  I love Bern. Standing in the Marktgasse is like being inside one of Frau Fuchs’s hives. . . .

  Rosie suggested she stay.

  Have you thought about living in Bern? Think of living in Zurich! Wherever you go, you must write and tell me everything!

  Near the end of her six-month course, Papa wrote.

  I expect you to return home as soon as you receive your certificate. Ask the count and countess for a recommendation.

  He enclosed enough francs to buy a one-way ticket to Steffisburg and a notice. Schloss Thun had an opening for a maid.

  4

  On graduation day from the Haushaltungsschule Bern, Marta received a fancy diploma, a letter of recommendation signed by Count and Countess Saintonge, and a uniform with HB embroidered in black silk on the pocket of the white apron. She also had the francs she had earned tucked into the purse Mama had given her. She boarded the early train home. When she arrived in Thun, she went straight to the castle and asked to speak to the mistress of housekeeping.

  When Frau Schmidt came into the office, Marta took an immediate, instinctive dislike to the woman as she looked down at Marta with disdain. “You asked to see me, Fräulein?”

  Marta handed over her documents. The woman put on wire spectacles to read them. “You will have to do.” She handed the documents back to Marta. “You can start right away.”

  “What pay do you offer?”

  Frau Schmidt looked affronted. She took off her spectacles and tucked them into a small case on a chain around her neck. “Twenty francs.”

  “A week?”

  “A month.”

  Marta forgot all the lessons Frau Yoder had taught on diplomacy. “An untrained dishwasher is paid more than twenty francs a month!”

  Frau Schmidt harrumphed. “Everyone understands what a great honor it is to work in Schloss Thun, Fräulein!”

  “As great an honor as working at the Haushaltungsschule Bern, I imagine.” She tucked her documents back into her knapsack. “No wonder the position is still open. Who but a fool would take it!”

  When Marta arrived home, before Mama could reach her, Elise let out a cry of pleasure and flew into her arms. As Marta held Elise, she saw the changes that had occurred in Mama during the six months she had been in Bern. Dismayed, she set Elise aside. Mama patted her cheek rather than embrace Marta, who took her hand and kissed it.

  Papa barely raised his head from the garment he fed through his sewing machine. “When do you plan to apply for that job at the castle? You should go now or it’ll be gone.”

  Marta looked over her shoulder. “You could welcome me home, Papa.”

  He raised his head and gave her a cold glare.

  “I went to the castle before coming here. I turned down their offer.”

  His face reddened. “You did what?”

  “I assume you sent me to school so that I would earn more than twenty francs a month, Papa.”

  “Twenty francs!” He looked taken aback. “That’s all the castle pays?”

  “Frau Schmidt looked like Frau Keller’s twin sister. She seemed to think the great honor of working there is worth the lesser pay.”

  Papa shook his head and pumped the sewing machine pedals. “The sooner you find work, the sooner you can repay the money you owe me.”

  She’d hoped he might congratulate her on her graduation, that he might feel some pleasure in having his elder daughter home. She should have known better. “I’ll start looking first thing tomorrow morning, Papa.” He’d get his tuition and book money, though there had been no books! How she wished she could tell him he’d been duped, but he’d only take it out on her. Nor did she dare take the satisfaction of telling him she’d earned back
twice what he paid those two scoundrels by demanding a fair wage.

  Mama looked tired, but happy. “It’s so good to have you home.” She coughed. Unable to stop, she sank into her chair, covering her mouth with a soiled rag. When the spasm finally ended, she looked drained and gray.

  Elise looked at Marta. “It’s been worse the last month.”

  “What does the doctor say?”

  “She doesn’t go to the doctor.” Papa pulled the garment carefully from the machine. “Doctors cost money.”

  Marta got up early the next morning and prepared coffee and Birchermüsli so Mama wouldn’t have to do it.

  Mama came into the kitchen looking drawn and pale. “You’re up so early.”

  “I wanted to talk with you before I go out.” She took Mama’s hand and folded the francs she’d earned into it.

  Mama gasped. “How did you come by so much money?”

  “I made the school uniforms.” She kissed her mother’s cold cheek and whispered. “I did spend a few francs on chocolate and pastries, Mama. I want you to see the doctor. Please . . .”

  “It’s no use, Marta. I know what’s wrong.” Mama tried to press the money back into Marta’s hand. “I have consumption.”

  “Oh, Mama.” She started to cry. “Surely he can do something.”

  “They say the mountain air helps. You must put this away for your future.”

  “No!” Marta tucked them deeply into Mama’s apron pocket. “See Dr. Zimmer. Please, Mama.”

  “And what would Papa say if I went?”

  “Papa doesn’t have to know everything. And don’t worry about his money. He’ll get it.” A little at a time.

  Marta found a job in the kitchen of the Hotel auf dem Nissau, famed for its magnificent view of the mountains. A dining platform had been built above the hotel, and guests made the climb each morning, enjoying a sumptuous breakfast and the sunrise.

  After less than a month, Chef Fischer told Marta to report to the supervisor for reassignment. Herr Lang told her she would carry trays of meals up and dirty dishes down the mountain. Her pay would also be lowered, and she would receive only a small share of the servers’ tips.