Corset Diaries

by Katie MacAlister

  Third Footman Duties

  The third footman rises at six o’clock, washes and dresses himself, makes his bed, and is present in the kitchen by six-thirty, ready to assume his morning duties, which are as follows:

  Clean boots of the family and upper servants. Boots are to be collected the prior night just before going to bed. As the butler, cook, and housekeeper all rise at seven o’clock, their boots should be cleaned first. Family members rise no earlier than eight o’clock.

  Empty and scour the chamber pots of all male servants.

  Chamber pots? As in chamber pots? I started to panic over the thought of chamber pots, then realized that it was no doubt just the servants who had to use them (poor people). I know they had water closets by 1879; probably they were kept just for family use. Whew!

  Still, poor Michael the third footman. Having to empty the slops—definitely an icky job. I can’t imagine there being enough money to pay me to do that, but I suppose if you had rubber gloves and a clothespin . . . oh, wait, no rubber gloves. Hmm. I’ll have to ask Michael later how he copes with this particular duty.

  3. The table in the servants’ hall is laid for break fast at eight o’clock. Breakfast is served at quarter after eight. The third footman and second scullery maid clear the table afterward.

  4. Attendance at morning prayers (quarter past nine) in the main hall is mandatory. The duke and duchess will preside.

  Morning prayers? Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything about being an agnostic.

  5. At half past nine, breakfast is taken to Lady Melody and the governess in the day nursery. The trays are collected a half hour later. Assist as necessary the scullery maids and housemaids as they clean the servants’ quarters and servants’ hall. The table in the servants’ hall is laid for tea at half after ten. Tea is served at quarter to eleven. The third footman and second scullery maid clear the table afterward.

  So far the grunt footman’s job didn’t seem to be too bad. The chamber pots aside, that is. I mean, yes, it’s a lot of running around, laying tables, taking up trays, but nothing too objectionable.

  8. The tables in the servants’ hall and housekeeper’s room are laid for dinner at quarter to twelve. Dinner is served at noon. The third footman and second scullery maid are responsible for passing around the dishes for the upper servants in the housekeeper’s room (also known as Pug’s Parlor) before returning to the servants’ hall for their own dinner.

  Pug’s Parlor! Too cute! I wonder if there really is a pug? The afternoon duties looked much the same, hauling up dinner, laying tables, cleaning up, and so forth. I riffled through the papers until I came to the duchess’ duties.

  “Everything all right?”

  I looked up. A portly young man with a blond goatee and moustache stood in the door of the compartment. He wasn’t my idea of what a producer’s assistant looked like, but Kip seemed knowledgeable enough. He had met me at the train station, taking charge when Pierce passed me on. In addition to making sure I got on the right train, Kip was also responsible for escorting that part of my wardrobe that had been completed and several bits of expensive film equipment that hadn’t been sent down earlier. “Everything’s fine. I’m just reading up on my duties so I’ll know what I’m supposed to do. It’s all a bit overwhelming, you know? I wouldn’t want to screw up and ruin the show.”

  Kip frowned and gave me a look that was more than a little jaded. “This project is very important, you know. You shouldn’t have taken it on if you thought you couldn’t do it. There’s a lot invested in this, Tessa. More than just money, time, and reputations. If you think you can’t do the role of duchess justice—”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted, laughing and holding up a hand. “I was joking, Kip. You know, ha ha? I’m just a bit nervous about the whole thing—I’ve never been on a TV show before. When I’m nervous, I crack jokes.”

  He snorted, his lip curling in derision. “I told Roger to use professionals, but would he listen to me? No, he wouldn’t, he just had to have common people doing the job. Well, so be it. It’s on his head. I’ve told Mark Tarvell that the whole thing would fail unless we had professionals.”

  “Mark Tarvell?” I asked.

  “CEO of U.K. Alive!” Kip snapped. “I know you’re a Yank and all, but that’s no excuse for sheer ignorance.”

  “Whoa, Kip, what bee got up your bu . . . uh . . .bonnet?” Why on earth was he jumping on my back? I mentally reviewed everything I’d said to him for signs of offense, but as that mostly consisted of me greeting him and a few polite, breathless chitchat things as he hustled me onto the train, I came up with a blank.

  “I’m too busy to stand here and explain it to you. I have to check on the equipment and your precious wardrobe. If I thought I’d ever see the day when I was nanny to a bunch of sound equipment and a clueless Yank . . .” He hurried off without explaining what it was I had said that set him off.

  “Maybe he’s constipated or something,” I told the empty compartment, then went back to the duchess’ duties.

  1. Crighton, the duchess’ personal maid, will awaken her grace at eight with tea, toast, and the morning correspondence.

  Well, that sounds nice. I wonder if anyone will actually send me letters or if someone on the show will write pretend letters to me? And would they film me in bed? The dressing gown and nightgown the wardrobe ladies showed me the previous night were gorgeous, all frothy lace and ruffles and fine linen with white-on-white embroidery. I thought about objecting to being filmed in such an informal situation, then decided I might not look too bad sitting in bed, leaning back against a plethora of silk pillows, lace everywhere, elegantly sipping my tea and scanning one of many invitations, my lady’s maid hovering attentively.

  I might just get the hang of this duchess business after all!

  Hmm. Where there was a bed, there was a bedroom. I assumed I was to have my own room, since I wasn’t really married to that handsome devil Max, and also because aristocrats more often than not slept apart. Somewhere in the stack of papers was a floor plan of the house, but I seem to remember seeing that the duke and duchess had bedrooms separated by a shared bathroom.

  Not that I expected a man like Max to be interested in me in that sort of a way, you understand. Just because I lusted after him the second I saw his picture didn’t mean that he’d feel the same way. I mean, I barfed on the man’s shoes! Even if he had been smitten with a sudden, unexplained passion for me, throwing up on his shoes would have more or less killed any soft, squidgy feelings he had for me. Vomit is the ultimate relationship destroyer.

  My face heated up just thinking about it. Since another round of mental self-flagellation would do me no good, nor would it erase Max’s first impression of me, I concentrated on my duty list.

  2. When her grace rises for the day, Crighton will arrange for a bath in the en suite bathroom, after which she will be available to help the duchess dress and attend to her hair.

  That sounded pleasant. Might be nice to be coddled a bit, although I never really have enjoyed other people playing with my hair. Still, I’m sure it won’t be that hard to get used to.

  What am I saying? Having someone wait on me hand and foot won’t be hard to get used to? Yeah, and maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.

  3. Morning prayers are conducted in the great hall at quarter past nine. It is traditional for both the duke and duchess to be in attendance. Breakfast is served at half past nine in the breakfast room. Those partaking of breakfast help themselves from the row of dishes set on the sideboard. Traditionally, the duchess pours tea or coffee for those present. The housekeeper meets with the duchess at ten to consult about the menus for the day and to discuss any other household matters that need the duchess’ attention.

  Hmm again. What sort of household matters would need my attention? Menus would probably be OK; I saw some when I flipped through the etiquette book. But other matters? Matters like when the sheets should be changed? Oh, well, if I do something horribly wrong
, I’ll just tell everyone we do things differently in the United States.

  6. The butler should be informed whether or not the duchess wishes to receive guests (be “At Home”), if she wishes to take the carriage out during the day, or wishes to go riding.

  Oooh! Riding! I’d forgotten about that! There were going to be horses, not just for driving around in the carriage but for riding. Now that was going to be fun. I’ve always wanted to have a horse. I love riding. It sounds particularly aristocratic to go riding every day. Yes!

  7. Luncheon is served at one o’clock in the dining room.

  Maybe I could work off enough calories riding so I could actually eat lunch?

  8. Afternoon tea is served at five o’clock in the scarlet drawing room. Traditionally, the duchess pours the tea.

  Tea pouring, twice in one day. What a hard, hard life those duchesses had.

  9. The dinner gong will sound at eight o’clock. Crighton will assist the duchess in dressing. Dinner is served at nine o’clock in the dining room.

  What? No tea pouring?

  It is traditional that at the end of the meal, the ladies withdraw to the gold drawing room for coffee and await the return of the men.

  Ah, there it is, I just knew duchesses couldn’t be let off the hook with only two pourings a day. The thought of those poor little skinny aristocratic arms straining to lift a full teapot three times a day just makes me want to weep.

  Not!

  10. Crighton will await the duchess in her bedchamber in order to assist her undressing.

  And so to bed, the end of a full and satisfying, if pointless and completely useless, day.

  Oh, yes, I think I could live that sort of a life for a month!

  Wednesday

  September 1

  9:02 A.M.

  My bedroom

  I can’t breathe! I mean, I really, really can’t breathe! Crap, late for morning prayers.

  Wednesday

  September 1

  10:18 A.M.

  At the escritoire in the morning room

  How long can a human being survive without being able to breathe? I think I see spots before my eyes. I think I’m asphyxiating. I think I’m . . . oh, double crap, I forgot Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper.

  Wednesday

  September 1

  10:19 A.M.

  Still at the escritoire in the morning room

  LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF TESSA SEE RIORDAN

  If I die before the day is out, I’d like all my worldly goods left to my cousin Cyprian. I hope she sues the wardrobe department for killing me.

  Wednesday

  September 1

  12:50 P.M.

  Black-and-gold japanned desk in the scarlet

  drawing room, with a candlestick, by Mrs. Peacock.

  Well. This day has certainly been different from what I imagined it to be. I suppose I had better explain how things happened in a coherent fashion, rather than jumping around (Corset! Max kissing me! The servants! Being filmed while Max kisses me! No air! Max and his lips! Annoying brat child! Max! Max! Max!) like a deranged jackrabbit.

  An aside: What is it with the English and their weird breakfast foodstuffs? After my bath and a quick nap at the hotel, I had trotted out in the wee hours of this morning to find a quick breakfast since my stomach was still on Seattle time, and found a place that served traditional English breakfasts, which, in addition to the normal eggs and potatoes, included grilled tomatoes and beans on toast. I ate them because I like to try new things, but still, beans on toast? For breakfast?

  Strange breffy notwithstanding, Kip got the luggage and me to the house by eight thirty. The front door was opened by a tall guy in lovely dark green livery with a hard collar and white bow tie, dark hair slicked straight back, and kind of an impertinent smile. I liked him right away. He bowed nicely when Kip, pushing his way past me, told him who I was, but I could see a gleam of rebellion in his eye when Kip ordered him out to the taxi to bring in all the equipment and the trunk containing my wardrobe.

  “Just a second,” I said, putting my hand on his arm as the man started for the door. “I’m sorry, but I have a terrible memory for people’s faces, and an even worse when all I’ve seen is a picture. You’re one of the footmen, right?”

  He looked around us quickly, but Roger and his crew had been waiting for us, and they were busy talking to Kip. “I’m the footman, the first footman. Teddy Talbot is my name.”

  “Hi, Teddy, I’m Tessa.”

  He grinned.

  “Oh yeah, Kip just said that, didn’t he?” I made a face and waved my hand toward Roger and the crew. “So, how is it? Kind of strange to be filmed doing everything?”

  “Not for me, no. I’m an actor, you see.” Teddy flashed me another smile, a fake one this time, an actor’s smile, the kind where there wasn’t anything in his eyes.

  “Oh. I didn’t think they had any actors here.”

  He glanced toward the people at the end of the hall, still clustered together and talking quickly. “They don’t know. I’m hoping this gig will be the break I need.”

  “Ah. Well, good luck. Oops. I mean, break a leg.”

  He bowed again and trotted out to the taxi. I took a quick look around the hall and had just enough time to take in the sights—a high, arched gray ceiling that reminded me of a cathedral, heavy chandelier that replicated the ceiling’s arches, marbleized walls of a soft blue gray, dark wood medievalish chairs, a couple of tables bearing bowls of flowers, and blue-diamond-tiled floor— before Roger turned and waved me forward.

  “Tessa, my dear, how are you feeling? Better? Good. Now I would love to take you on a tour of the house, but there’s no time. You must go straight upstairs and get into your things. Sam—you remember Sam—will be waiting to film you at morning prayers. Quickly now, upstairs and get changed. Kip, the sound equipment, you did remember to bring . . .”

  Roger hurried off, waving his hands and talking a mile a minute. I turned to Sam the cameraman and smiled. “Is he always like that?”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Always. How you feeling this morning?”

  “Much better. I’m really sorry about that yesterday. I was . . . um . . .”

  “Nervous?”

  “That, too. And a bit worse for wear for a liquid lunch.”

  Sam’s eyebrows rose, but he did nothing other than to gesture toward the others, still chatting next to two tremendous metal storks that flanked either side of a curved inglenook nestled beneath the stairs. “That’s Tabby there in the blue track suit; she’s the other cameraman. Beyond her are Matthew and Wilma; they’re our sound crew. It’ll be us four who dog your every step.”

  I grimaced and waved at the others when they looked my way. They waved back. “Yeah, well, I’m still trying to get use to that idea. I’m not exactly the sort of person people want to film, so all this is a bit of a shock.”

  “You’ll do fine,” he said, slinging a camera up into the harness he wore on his chest. “Just be yourself.”

  “TESSA!”

  I turned at the shout. Roger stood in the doorway, making shooing motions. I nodded and scurried up the carpeted stairs, stopping when I got to the curved landing that bowed out above the inglenook, halfway up the stairs. I leaned forward and called down, “I don’t know where my room is.”

  “Down the hall to the left, third door on the left,” Sam called back.

  “Thanks! See you in a bit.”

  I barely had the impression of an intricately papered hallway before I found my bedroom. I hurried in, then stumbled to a stop. “Wow! What a room! This is gorgeous! Oooh, is that a fainting couch? I’ve always wanted to have a fainting couch!”

  A woman appeared in a doorway across the room just as I was heading for the blue-and-cream striped fainting couch. “There you are! I’ve been waiting for an hour for you!”

  “Oh, sorry, there was some sort of a delay with the train. You must be Ellis Crighton. Hi, I’m Tessa, and I’m—”

  “L
ate. You will address me as Crighton. We don’t have time for pleasant conversation, I have to get you dressed now in order for you to be downstairs in time for morning prayers. I assume your garments have arrived?”

  Her lips were thinned into such a tight line it was amazing she could force words through them. Then again, maybe it was the way her nondescript sandy-colored hair was scraped back from her head into a meager little bun.

  Whoops, my claws are showing. Saucer of milk for one, please.

  “My wardrobe, the part that’s done, is downstairs. I think—”

  “It won’t do you any good downstairs, now will it?” Ellis snapped as she bustled past me toward the door. She was wearing what I assumed was standard for a lady’s maid in 1879—a black skirt that was draped around the front and gathered behind her knees in a poofy lump, and gray blouse with a high, uncomfortable-looking neck. Poor thing, I’d be snappish, too, if I had to wear such an awfully hot-looking outfit on a warm late-summer day.

  “I’m sorry, the footman, Talbot, said—”