The Rose Master (3 page)

After supper had been served for Lord and Lady Caldwell, the rest of us sat down to a quick meal before being rung back to provide nightcaps and, for her Ladyship, her usual cup of peppermint tea. We alternated between each other on that particular task, and tonight, the sword fell on my head. I groaned as I poured hot water on the powdery leaves, the smell floating up to me in a cloud of crispness, green, and cold; what I imagined a snow-covered pine tree would taste like. Not that I went around chewing pine needles.

Gripping the silver tray in two less-than-steady hands, I trailed back up the long staircase for what felt like the millionth time that day. The teacup scraped against its plate, setting my teeth on edge, but I finally made it to Lady Caldwell’s bedchamber. I cradled the tray against my side and released one hand to knock on the door, but as I brushed my knuckle to the wood, I caught movement off to my left. Curiosity was a fault of mine. A pretty large one, as it turned out.

The dim light from the scarab-like sconces did not allow a clear view of what had flickered past the corner of my eye. The shadows the pale lights drew forth obscured everything not directly under them. I knelt and placed the tray on the floor.

Walking forward with silence draped around me, I stepped toward the motion. I gasped as I saw more flickering, silver strands dancing in the moonlight pouring from one of the windows.

On the half-frozen pane were dozens of moths, their muslin wings extended in paused flight, their impassive faces staring at me. I’d never seen so many before, their spun sugar bodies covering every inch of the glass. I raised my hands slowly, placing my palms against the window, and, for an instant, I held a sheet of moths. Then the little bodies fell, and I jerked back. My heart stabbed its beats through my ribs, creating havoc with my breath. Surprise was quickly replaced with a gritty fear that refused to be brushed away. First the birds, and now the moths! There had to be something wrong in the city today; these could not be random events.

A sudden exhaustion dropped onto me. Every muscle jerked, and my every bone ached with hollow moans. My eyelids drooped, and I found I could hardly move.

I needed to get that tea to Lady Caldwell, but holding the tray between my hands did not seem like a good idea at the moment. I’d end up with peppermint-soaked stockings and one more tea set deducted from my pay. I shook my hands out, trying to get the blood that seemed to have deserted them moving, coaxing it back into circulation.

“I’m all right,” I said under my breath.

“Anne, is that you?” Elsie’s voice reached me from the staircase. Oh, thank God.

“Yes, it’s me. Elsie, can you help me a bit? I don’t seem to be feeling too well.” Within seconds she was beside me, peering into my face under one of the lamps.

“You look horrible!”

“Thanks. I try.”

“No, I mean, really. What happened?”

I shook my head and shrugged. “I don’t know. One minute I was fine and the next, I thought I’d faint.” My hands still trembled a bit against my thighs.

“What were you doing up here, anyway?” she asked.

I pointed to the tray, still lying accusingly on the floor where I’d left it. “I was bringing the tea. It was my turn tonight.” As I spoke, a weight seemed to lift off my chest and breathing became easier. My muscles relaxed, once again plump with air.

“Oh, that’s better,” I exhaled.

Elsie eyed me. “I’ll take Lady Caldwell her damn tea. You just wait here. Don’t go down the stairs by yourself, just in case.”

I nodded as she turned and picked up the tea set in her sure grip. She knocked once and entered. I leant my back against the ridiculous wallpaper, an avalanche of flowers and manic birds, and took steady breaths, enjoying my newfound calmness. A few minutes later, I heard the click of a door closing.

“All right, let’s go.” Elsie guided me to the staircase.

“I’m just tired, not at death’s door.”

“Could have fooled me,” she snapped.

I bit my lip and kept quiet as we trod down to the first floor. She led me to our room.

“I’ll go pick up the tray, don’t worry. Just lie down and see if you can sleep. Do you want me to bring you anything, some water, maybe?”

“No. Thanks, Elsie.” I held her gaze and smiled. “You saved an innocent cup and saucer from sure extermination.”

She chuckled. “It’s a good thing you had enough sense to set it down.”

I didn’t tell her the real reason why I’d abandoned it to the floor. I just didn’t have the strength for it, and I wasn’t sure she’d believe me even if I did. I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.

She took one more look at me and, after assuring herself I wasn’t going to expire in the next few minutes, left. I seriously considered falling into my bed fully clothed, but decided against it. No point in soiling the bed sheets.

I unpinned my cap, untied my apron and my dress, and slid off my petticoats and shoes. I threw on my nightdress and dug into my coverlet, the chill of our room having seeped into it enough for me to shiver. I sighed and closed my eyes.

Right before slumber took me, I saw the moths once again, their gentle bodies buzzing under my palms.

three

The next day hardly left an imprint on me. It passed in a fog of dust, cleaning vinegar, wet rags, and wood wax.

If I had expected it to be marked somehow, separated from the rest, I would have been wrong. My impending departure seemed to affect no one except Elsie, who was still morose, but had at least managed to keep her tears in check. She’d alluded to the previous night’s brief spell of sickness, but I’d waved her away with a feather duster, brandishing its fluff like a sword. I didn’t feel sick.

My mind kept fiddling with what little I knew about my new position. I knew nothing of my employer, except possibly his family’s name, and I had a vague idea of what my duties would consist of, but I was sure a country home, even a manor, was run in a different style than a city one. Her Ladyship had said it would be a similar type of position, so at least I could expect the basic indignities of service life: the emptying of chamber pots, the yanking of moist bed sheets, the waxing of filthy floors . . . as long as I did not have to take on any of the scullery maid’s duties, I would be fine. I had been through that particular type of work years ago, when my mother had first brought me to be trained in household service.

Her Ladyship was right. I did come from a long line of maids and gardeners, coach drivers and stable keepers, with the odd butler or housekeeper thrown in. My family’s blood had lived alongside some of the wealthiest and most influential people of London—small comfort when you had to carry yet another night’s worth of human waste down endless stairs.

My mother had served Lady Caldwell for years before she had met and married my father, so she had been in good standing to ask for my admittance to the household. I did not remember much about my mother. She’d died when I was still too young to engrave her features in memory’s mold. And I barely saw my father, even after my mother died. Only on Sundays, at church, could we sometimes greet each other, but for too many months out of the year, he traveled with his employer. He’d been Lord Exter’s valet for years, a toothy man who laughed like a cat battling a hairball.

My father, Henry, was a man who valued propriety above all else. It wasn’t surprising, really, since his parents had both been crucial members of Exter House’s staff. He’d been raised watching his mother choose to serve her employer before feeding her own child, and yet he held no resentment for the life he was born into. He enjoyed his duties, such as they were, and even now, liked nothing better than to earn Lord Exter’s curt nod of approval. Whenever I was in doubt of anything, his voice was the one I heard, pointing me to where my duties lay.

My mother, Agnes, had been a different creature altogether. I’d painted a blurred portrait of her as someone full of anxious fire from what Mary had told me over the years. She’d had ambition for herself, which, for a servant, and a female one at that, was not the healthiest of attitudes to possess. She’d chafed under the rules that made little sense to her, yet she’d had no power to change them. Her intelligence and knack for taking command of situations had earned her a place next to Lady Caldwell, but still, before she became ill, she had begun to yearn for more, like a horse tugging at the reins. Mary had known her well and always answered whatever questions I might have about her, but it wasn’t the same. I missed her, though I never really knew her.

My father had met my mother in a celebration of something or other, when the two households (and many more) had come together for a few days of reveling. My parents had begun exchanging letters as frequently as work had allowed and, after a few years, had decided marriage would not be a bad idea. They’d managed to conceive me by some manner of miraculous juggling that I’ve never cared to investigate further, but their lives never truly joined as normal husband and wife. It was not possible, not with them living in different households. Their employers, of course, did not find it convenient to allow one of them to leave so they could be together. My father had bowed to Lord Exter’s wishes without too much fuss and had left my mother to care for me at Caldwell House while he fetched cuff links and straightened bow ties.

Many servants went through that, though. I might even go through that when I decided to marry and have a family of my own, but still, the thought of it left me cold.

When my mother died, I was taken in by Mary, who was an interesting version of motherhood. She possessed little patience in general, even less for children, and she’d already had Elsie to care for by the time I ended up motherless. I was grateful, however, for even her rough care and lack of demonstrative affection. If it weren’t for her, I don’t know what would have happened to me, since I doubted Lord Exter would have welcomed my four-year-old presence into his orderly household. I wasn’t too sure my father would have either, for that matter. In his eyes, I would have disturbed the proper order of things.

It had taken a bit to accustom myself to Mary, but I’d learned one very important trait from her: self-sufficiency. She was never one to coddle.

By the time I was five, I could kill and pluck a chicken on my own, and I could chop carrots at a good clip without slicing off any fingers. I’d hated all of it, though. I could not stand the smell of raw meat, and I could have committed crimes after chopping bowl after bowl of walnuts. The kitchen was not for me. I’d loved to watch Elsie, though, as she and Mary prepared dishes and meals for entire banquets. Getting to sneak a treat when they weren’t looking wasn’t too awful, either.

When I became old enough to work as a parlor maid, I’d gladly clasped the broom and set out for the dusty trenches. I was good at it, and as much as I complained, I liked the way an object seemed to reemerge from a film of powder. All I could wish for in my new position was that whatever my employer had in mind for me did not involve boiling pots.

The more I thought of my impending departure, the more my heart ached at leaving Elsie. We’d been inseparable from the day we’d met, two motherless girls chattering late into the night. I knew there was only one Elsie, but would there be anyone even remotely like her at Rosewood Manor? Would there be anyone with whom I could laugh and speak in earnest?

I could only hope so.

When night finally came and we tucked in to a hasty supper, the butler, Mr. Easton, coughed softly and looked down the table. He cleared his throat and everyone turned to face him, some still chewing.