by Deeanne Gist
Her bottom half, stuffed at the waist. He jammed the skirt beneath the shirtwaist. Better. At least all she was missing now was her head.
“Mack?”
He stopped and leaned around the doorway. In one hand Tillie held a brown hat heaped high with feminine fluff. In the other, a horse brush. Or at least, what looked like one.
“You find it?” he asked.
“No, but handle the contents of those trunks very gingerly. If you wrinkle anything, it’ll add hours and hours to my workday.”
He glanced at the green skirt crumpled on the floor. “Will do.”
He straightened the folds in the skirt like an attendant fussing with a bridal train, reaching underneath to smooth out the net lining.
“What the devil are you doing?” Earl asked, amazement tingeing his voice.
Mack snatched his hand back. His brother stood at the top of the stairs wearing indoor livery and a wide grin.
Heat rushed to Mack’s face. “Tillie’s lady didn’t arrive until the eleventh hour and has a particular dress she wants to wear. I was helping her look for it.”
Earl raised a brow, but before he could respond, Tillie waded to the doorway.
“Earl! I thought they had you in the carriage house.”
“Moved me back inside for the party. Who’s your bird?”
“DePriest.”
He frowned. “Never seen her here before. She giving you a hard time?”
“I’m just a bit behind, is all. Did they send you up here after Mack?”
He nodded. “Time to go, big brother.”
“Not until we find that dress.” He tossed Earl his pocket-knife. “You start on that end. We’re looking for a brown-checkered one.”
Earl caught the knife one-handed, then popped open the trunk closest to him.
Tillie bit her lip. “Thank you.”
“Go on,” Mack said, turning his attention back to his trunk. “We’ll find it.”
She scurried inside the room, the tissue on the floor rustling like autumn leaves.
Earl removed a stuffed, dark blue shirtwaist with big white swirls, gave a short bark of laughter, then looked over at Mack with a leer and squeezed the bodice’s plumpest part.
Mack chuckled. “Don’t wrinkle it or you’ll make more work for Tillie.”
The green shirtwaist and skirt, ballooned as it was, had taken up almost the entire trunk. He flung a final piece of tissue aside, releasing a burst of flower-garden smells. Rearing back, he let the aroma dissipate before peering inside. A layer of the fanciest undergarments he’d ever seen lined the bottom. Frilly corsets, silk stockings, lacy falderals, and silk drawers.
He glanced at Earl, then quickly covered the unmentionables back up. The image of all those trappings had seared his brain, though. Thank goodness he wasn’t a footman. He’d never be able to look Miss DePriest in the eye.
“Found it!” Earl raised a wood brown shirtwaist with a diagonal plaid.
Tillie exclaimed from deep inside the room, then scurried out holding dainty slippers of the same fabric. “Oh! You did it! That’s it! Thank you so much.”
Giving her a broad wink, he bowed. “At your service, miss.”
The smile she bestowed on him sucked the breath right out of Mack.
“You better hurry, though,” Earl said, straightening. “The hourglass is running short.”
“I know. Thanks again.”
Earl laid the garment back in the trunk and headed toward the stairwell. “You coming, Mack?”
“Right behind you.” But instead, he waited until Earl had disappeared, then turned to Tillie. “What all do you have left?”
“That’s it. I have everything gathered and brushed, so it’s just a matter of getting it down to her dressing room.”
He nodded. “Well, fix your hair. You’re a mess.”
She touched her head, found locks of hair straggling down her back, then shoved the shoes she held toward him. “Here.”
He caught them against his gut, then watched her pull the hat combs loose. Whipping off the snowy cap, she handed it to him, too, its long streamers floating down to rest against his trouser legs.
She yanked out half a dozen hairpins, stuck them in her mouth, lifted her face to the ceiling, and shook her head like some forest sprite, sending waves of black curls to her hips.
His heart slammed against his chest. Never had he seen a woman do such things before. The grace with which she moved, the silkiness of her hair, the lashes lying along her cheeks, the white teeth clamped around celluloid pins. All of it mesmerized him.
With quick, efficient movements, she gathered her hair into her hands, then wrung it like a mop and twisted it to her head, jamming pin after pin against her scalp.
Snatching her cap from between his fingers, she propped it on top of her head and tucked in the combs. “Thanks.”
He stood tongue-tied and off-balance as if he were a youth discovering life’s mysteries for the first time.
She rushed back inside and returned with hat, gloves, stockings, and who knew what all draped underneath a large ruffled petticoat.
“I guess I’ll have to come back for the dress. Thanks again, Mack.” Grabbing the shoes he’d forgotten he had, she rushed to the stairs, white streamers flapping behind her like wings.
It took him less than ten seconds to snatch up the brown-checkered shirtwaist and skirt, then follow her to the passageway which led to Miss DePriest’s room.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
Miss DePriest drove her fingers into her hair and vigorously scratched her head, undoing the second coiffure Tillie had styled. “No, no, no. That was too low and the last one too high. Somewhere in the middle and be quick about it.”
Picking up the hairbrush, Tillie bit her cheek. She felt as if she were in the midst of Mr. Southey’s story of the three bears and Miss DePriest was the grown woman who found fault with everything. Perhaps if Tillie left the window open, Miss DePriest would jump out and break her neck the way the impudent woman in the story had.
It was an uncharitable thought and she knew she shouldn’t have it, but there it was. She wasn’t ready to say her prayers and repent over it, either.
Twenty minutes later, hair finally dressed, Miss DePriest tugged on her gloves. “I shall want warm milk before I retire. And see to it that I have a proper receptacle. I don’t trust that . . . chair in the bathing room.”
“Of course, miss.”
“And do air out the room, Tillie. It has a bit of an odor to it.”
“Yes, miss.”
“But make sure you close everything up in time to build the fire. I deplore a frigid room.”
“I’ll make sure, miss.”
She paused at the door. “But not too hot, mind you.”
“No, miss.” Tillie bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll make sure everything is just right.”
Miss DePriest studied Tillie as if she sensed she’d somehow been maligned but couldn’t quite ascertain how. Finally, she nodded, snapping the door shut behind her.
Tillie allowed her shoulders to slump, then glanced about the room. A disaster.
Throwing open the windows, she took in a deep breath of fresh air and looked out upon God’s unblemished creation. Five miles to the west and obscured by trees and hills was the French Broad River. She remembered floating along it on a raft her brothers had built, looking at puffy white clouds and building air castles. Never in all her imaginings did she dream she’d be working for one of the wealthiest families in America in a chateau that could swallow up two or three palaces in Britain. Or so she’d been told.
Sighing, she turned around and started collecting the articles strewn about the room. Over the course of the next several hours, she scoured the bathtub and bathroom, dusted every table and chair, wiped the dressing glass, cleaned the hairbrushes, emptied the pitcher, filled it with fresh water, ironed the top sheet of bedding, turned back the covers, placed a gold-rimmed chamber pot beneath the bed, wound the c
lock, brought fresh flowers to the room, built a fire, and closed the windows.
She dreaded going to the Paris Gown-Room to fetch Miss DePriest’s nightdress and cap. She hadn’t been up there since she’d left it in such disarray. Word would surely have spread to Mrs. Winter. No telling what the housekeeper had done when she saw the condition of the room and the state of the hallway. And it would be hours yet before Tillie could finish unpacking the trunks and have everything in its proper place.
Hugging a handful of soiled garments to her chest, she trudged up the stairs to the south wing of the fourth floor. The corridor was spotless. Her stomach dropped. Where are the trunks?
Scrambling to the Paris Gown-Room, she opened the door and pulled up short. Not one trunk nor sheet of tissue littered the polished hardwood floor. Instead, the space was completely clear. Along the walls, Lucy’s garments had been replaced with tier after tier of Miss DePriest’s elaborate skirts for every occasion imaginable.
Dropping the laundry by the door, Tillie moved to the adjoining room and turned on the light. Rows of fashionable hats perched atop individual wire stands. More shoes than she’d ever seen in her life lay amongst them.
She opened the chiffonier. The green shirtwaist Mack had unpacked lay carefully inside, still stuffed with tissue. Beside it, a navy shirtwaist. Every drawer and chest had been filled but one. Inside it were the sachets of flower petals she’d labored over all week.
Who had done this? Surely not Mrs. Winter. Definitely not Lucy. Perhaps Dixie? But no. A harassed Dixie had stuck her head into Miss DePriest’s room halfway through her rounds to ask if the bedding needed to be freshened or the fire stoked.
But by that time Tillie had already taken care of it.
Who, then?
Turning around, she saw a single trunk shoved into one corner. Frowning, she raised its lid and found undergarments and unmentionables inside. A fleeting thought, so preposterous Tillie dismissed it before it had fully formed, came back and took root.
Had Mack and Earl done this? But they couldn’t have. Earl had been in full livery and would be attending to the functions on the main floor. Mack would be chopping ice, getting up wood, carrying garbage to the outside cans, and storing trunks.
She looked again at the hats and shoes. Noticed that though they had been placed on the shelf, they hadn’t been arranged in a meticulous fashion as any woman would have done. No, they’d been tossed up in any order. At any angle.
She opened a drawer. Noted a sleeve on a shirtwaist had been trapped underneath the body of the garment. She rearranged it.
Going into the Paris Gown-Room, she looked at the skirts. Several hung off-center. Implausible as it seemed, there was no other explanation. Who other than Mack would retrieve the trunks? Who other than he knew about Lucy’s garments and the missing sachets? And why would all of Miss DePriest’s articles be stowed away except the intimates?
Shaking her head, she tried to picture that big man with his big hands grappling over loops and buttons and tiny ribbon closures. Handling hats with ostrich plumes and birds’ wings. Being confronted with every variety of women’s underclothing from stockings to corset to drawers. And where on earth had he found all those skirt-supporters? Had he juggled the padded hangers, with ribbons and ornaments jangling, up four flights of stairs?
He must have. No one else knew she needed them. No one else had the freedom to disappear to any corner of the house. Her heart filled. With gratitude. And pleasure. And something she didn’t want to acknowledge.
The dances in the dark, she could defend against. The quiet moments in the mornings, she could defend against. The kisses, she could somewhat defend against. But this. There was no defending against this. And now that she’d had a taste of what a lady’s maid position required, did she even want to?
She quickly found a silk nightdress and nightcap with matching sacque. She’d lay out her lady’s nightclothes, get the milk ready to warm, and then she’d track down Mack.
She hadn’t been able to find him. No doubt he’d headed to bed as soon as possible. In the morning he’d have more than his share of boots to polish, logs to carry, and errands to run.
She toyed with the idea of joining him on the terrace as was their custom, but Miss DePriest had only just retired. If Tillie wanted to meet with Mack, she’d have to rise in two short hours.
A night breeze drifting through the windows of the corridor cooled the back of her neck. Her candle threw shifting shadows along the succession of sharp-pointed arches leading to her bedroom.
Stopping at the second to last door, she turned the handle, anxious to fall into bed. She wondered what the visiting domestics thought after seeing the rooms they shared tonight with Biltmore’s staff. She knew many worked in wealthy homes which offered nothing but dismal unheated attic rooms with bare floorboards, lumpy flock mattresses, and ill-assorted furniture discarded by the family. That they slept two, three, and sometimes four to a room. That in the thick of winter they woke up shivering while ice crusted their water jugs.
She lifted the chimney of her lantern, touching the candle’s flame to it. At Biltmore, Mr. Vanderbilt had purchased brand-new furnishings specifically for his staff. Each had a wrought-iron bed, a rush-seated rocker, oak wardrobes and dressers along with all the requisite linens. They had a bathing room down the hall with indoor plumbing and heat piped through the walls.
Blowing out the candle, she replaced the chimney. Though the room had an Edison bulb, she still preferred lantern light. Turning around, she took a sharp breath.
Across her bed lay a navy serge skirt and lovely white shirtwaist. Mrs. Winter must have decided that while Tillie was acting as lady’s maid, she should hang up her apron and cap in order to don clothes befitting her temporary station.
She turned on the Edison for a better look, then crept to the edge of the bed and grazed the hem of the blouse. Silk. Not a shirtwaist, after all, but a silk-waist.
The weariness of the day, the petulance of Miss DePriest, and the late hour all evaporated. A resurgence of energy winged through her. She wanted desperately to pick up the clothing, hold it against her, see how it would look. But she wouldn’t think of touching it without washing first.
Grabbing her pitcher, she flew down the hall to fill it. Never in her life had she readied herself for bed so quickly. Within minutes she was lifting the silk-waist and pressing its sides against her, resting its arms atop hers.
She’d never worn a silk shirt before. Moving to her chest of drawers, she cleared off its surface, placing pencil tablet, brush and comb, tooth powder, buttermilk soap, and her copy of Rob Roy on the floor. Then she carefully laid her silk-waist on the bureau, smoothing it.
Next she folded the navy serge skirt over the back of her rocking chair. Clasping her hands together, she brought knuckles to lips, stared at the clothing, and thanked God for her good fortune.
Reluctantly, she turned off the Edison and extinguished the lantern. Crawling into bed, she closed her eyes to thank the Lord again but fell asleep before she reached the amen.
What seemed like moments later, someone shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Miss Tillie. The call button in the South Tower rang. Y’ best hurry.”
Layers of black weighed against her eyes. She tried to peel them away but couldn’t.
More shoulder shakes. “Come on, now. Wake up.”
Light flooded the room. She covered her eyes with her arm.
“Yer lady’s ringing, miss.”
Cool air touched her skin and someone tugged at her arm.
She opened her eyes.
The night step-girl had turned on the light, thrown back the bedsheet, and was pulling Tillie’s arm.
She shook the sleep from her brain. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“The South Tower Room rang fer ya.”
“What time is it?”
“Three-thirty.”
Three-thirty? She’d only been in bed for little more than an hour. What could Miss DePriest
possibly need at three-thirty in the morning?
Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she stuffed on her shoes without stockings and grabbed pins from her bedside table. “All right. I’ll check on her. Thank you for waking me.”
Twisting her hair into a coil, she jammed hairpins into it while hurrying down the dark corridor to the maid’s closet. Freshly laundered uniforms, aprons, caps, and collars hung from pegs lining the four walls of the barren, oversized closet.
Poking her arms through the sleeves of a calico, she wriggled as the body of the dress cascaded over her nightdress. No corset. No drawers.
She grabbed a starched apron and cap off a peg and put them on as she made her way down the stairs. At the entrance to Miss DePriest’s room she paused, smoothed her apron, then knocked and entered. Electric light from the hallway spilled into the darkened room.
“Miss DePriest?” she whispered. “Did you ring for me?”
“It certainly took you long enough.” Her voice was clipped, wide awake, and very displeased.
“I’m sorry, miss. Is there something I can do?”
“The ticking of this infernal clock is keeping me from my sleep. Take it away immediately.”
“Yes, miss.”
She was so used to the Edisons, she hadn’t thought to bring a candle. Feeling her way around the edge of the bed, she found the offending clock and tucked it under her arm.
“Will there be anything else?”
Miss DePriest flopped over to lie on her other side. “Not right now, but if I summon you again, I expect you to respond in a more timely matter. Is that understood?”
“Yes, miss.”
Backing toward the light, Tillie slipped into the hall and softly closed the door. She looked at the clock, not sure of what to do with it. For now, she’d put it in the Paris Gown-Room.
It was four-fifteen before she returned to her bed. She wondered briefly if Mack was on the terrace listening to the silence. Forty-five minutes later, she was awakened. The South Tower Room’s call button had been pushed.
Tillie would not find her way back to bed for eighteen more hours.