by Y. S. Lee
Spurred by that thought, she sat up in time to hear the clock on the landing toll nine. Nine! Where was Cass? No tea, no bathwater, and it was two hours past her usual rising time. She was becoming quite a lady, marooned in her room by the absence of the maid. She washed using the water from her hand basin, dressed quickly, and went down to the breakfast room. It was deserted, and she was just sitting down to coffee, eggs, bacon, tomatoes, and toast when, from the back of the house, she heard a muffled but distinct crash and an outbreak of shrill scolding.
With an inward sigh, she went into the corridor. It was easy to determine the location. Even from the top of the servants’ staircase, Cook’s voice was enough to make her wince. Mary hesitated; she had no authority there, of course. But even as she paused, she heard the meaty slap of flesh against flesh. That decided her.
The trouble was in the larder. Rounding the corner, Mary saw fragments of glass strewn across the stone flags. Sprawled on the floor among the shards was the cringing figure of Cass Day, protecting her head with her arms.
“Good morning, Cook,” Mary said coldly.
Cook, a brawny woman in her early forties, glared at her. She was breathless. “What d’you want down here?” On the floor, Cass did not move.
“Miss Thorold is much concerned by the din,” Mary improvised. “She sent me to assist you.”
Cook wiped her forehead with her apron. “It’s that lazy, thieving brat,” she spat. “Caught her nicking those lamps.”
The remnants of a pair of oil lamps lolled drunkenly in a corner. “I see.” Mary swung her gaze from the lamps to Cass’s still form and back to Cook.
“She’s sacked, o’ course. But she needs a good lesson first, the sniveling weasel.” Cook’s sleeves were rolled up well past her forearms, and she was still enraged.
The two women stared at each other for a minute, weighing their choices. It was certainly within Cook’s powers to fire Cass and even to beat her. In the taut silence, a violent tremor shook Cass’s curled-up body.
“You’re busy. I’ll see her off the premises.” Mary glanced down at the girl, her voice cool and neutral. “Stand up, Cass.”
Cook’s eyes narrowed. “And just who’ll clean up this mess?”
“Cleaning and trimming the lamps is William’s responsibility.” Mary tucked Cass behind her. “I’ll inform him of the damage.”
For the first time, Cook shifted her weight. There was another tense silence. Then she twitched her apron defensively. “Get her out of my sight,” she snarled.
Mary’s palms were clammy with relief as she pushed Cass gently into motion. “Get your things.”
Neither spoke as they threaded their way through the kitchen to Cass’s “room” at the end of the scullery. It was a small space, unventilated and low-ceilinged, with a dirty straw pallet on the ground. The stone-flagged walls were slimy with mildew, mouse droppings made for a gritty footing, and the musty tang of urine permeated the air. Cass shuffled forward with a practiced stoop and retrieved a ragged nightdress from beneath the flour-sack bedsheet. This she rolled into a tight ball and stuffed into an equally threadbare nightcap. From a makeshift washing line strung between two beams, she took a much-patched petticoat and a pair of coarse black stockings. Finally, she groped in a crevice between wall and floor and, after a little fishing, retrieved a tiny memorandum book. The cover had been chewed by mice, but from the way Cass tucked it into the folds of her skirt, it seemed to be her most prized possession.
“I’m ready,” she mumbled. There was a small, bleeding patch on her scalp where the hair had been torn out.
Mary looked at her for a moment. “Come upstairs.”
Cass meekly followed her up the servants’ stairs, belongings tucked beneath her arm. When Mary turned the corner and began the climb up to the second floor, Cass hesitated only for a moment. Once in her bedroom, Mary closed the door firmly. “Now,” she said, “I believe you have something to tell me.”
Cass half lifted her head but dropped it again before Mary could catch her expression. “I — I don’t understand, miss.”
Mary reached forward and lifted the girl’s chin with two fingers. She wasn’t surprised when Cass flinched, as though expecting to be hit. She was, however, surprised by the tears glinting on her cheeks. “You didn’t try to steal those lamps. I know that as well as you do.”
Cass’s face twisted with surprise, but she neither confirmed nor denied the remark.
“You haven’t told me your side.”
Cass scrubbed her sleeve over her face. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible. “What good would that do, miss?”
“None, as far as Cook is concerned,” acknowledged Mary, passing her a clean handkerchief. “But the truth is important. Would you really want me to go on thinking that you were a thief? And a stupid thief at that?”
Cass half sobbed, half laughed. “No.”
“Well, then, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
She spoke slowly. “Cook made me clean the lamps this morning. It’s ’cause William drank too much last night and he’s behind today. I was taking the last two up to the dining room when I fell and smashed the lamps.” She twisted the handkerchief nervously. “That’s all.”
“So to cover for William, she accused you of stealing the lamps?”
Cass nodded.
“Well. Cook’s responsible for engaging her own help, and I can’t help you get your post back. But even if I could, I don’t think I would.”
Cass looked hurt. “But why?”
“I want to help you, Cass,” Mary explained gently, “but not to a place that’s dangerous to your health.”
Cass’s jaw took on a stubborn shape. “Any place is better than no place. And now I’ve no letter of character. I can’t get a place without a character.” The tears welled up again, and she swiped at her eyes.
“Use my handkerchief, Cass. Please.”
There was something about the handkerchief; perhaps it was simply too fine to soil. In any case, Cass stoppered her tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Quinn,” she mumbled.
“Don’t be. Listen, Cass, do you really want to be a scullery maid?”
A shrug. “It’s what I know, miss.”
Mary waved one hand impatiently. “But do you remember when we talked about being a lady? Not a real lady, but one like me?”
“Ye-e-s. . . .”
“Well, would you still like to try to be one?”
Cass blushed. “That was just dreaming, miss.”
Mary took the girl’s thin hands in hers. “What if I told you it wasn’t a dream, Cass? What if I said it was possible for you to go to school and meet other girls your age?”
Cass frowned, more in bewilderment than refusal.
“Lessons are work, too,” warned Mary. “You won’t enjoy all of it. But you could learn.”
She shook her head, as though to clear it. “Miss, you’re not . . . I’m a scullery maid. That’s all. You’re very kind, Miss Quinn, but I can’t. I can’t even understand what you mean.”
Mary stifled a sigh. “I know this is sudden. What I mean is that I know someone who can help you. She’s a teacher at a girls’ boarding school, and she’s interested in —” She broke off. Cass’s face had gone still and rigid and she was edging toward the door, shaking her head. “What’s the matter, Cass?”
Cass continued to shake her head. “You’re very kind, miss, but please, I must go.”
“Let me give you a letter — it’s like a character, but for school instead of working in service. You can take it to this school. . . .”
Cass blinked, then nodded once, sharply. It wasn’t the eager acceptance she’d hoped for, but Mary immediately sat down and lifted the writing desk onto her lap. It took her a minute to find pen, ink, and paper. Dear Miss Treleaven, she wrote, Cassandra Day, the bearer of this letter . . .
The door clicked, and Mary looked up. By the time she’d reached the doorway, Cass was already halfway down the hall, spri
nting, her squashed bundle of clothing clutched hard against her side. Mary’s first impulse was to give chase. But what good would that do? Even if she caught Cass and personally delivered her to Anne Treleaven, the Academy wasn’t a prison. Reluctant pupils were always permitted to go. She listened to the receding clatter of Cass’s footsteps and rubbed her face wearily. Her fingers were slightly greasy — probably from touching Cass’s. She washed her hands and went back down to the breakfast room.
It was becoming a morning of domestic crises. Half an hour later, when Mary happened to pass by Angelica’s bedroom door, she couldn’t help but hear a smothered sort of wailing. She hesitated. Angelica had never welcomed her concern before, and she couldn’t imagine that changing now, but yet after yesterday’s escapade, Mary felt responsible for her.
She equipped herself with a tea tray and knocked at the bedroom door. It required persistence, but after several minutes, she heard a muffled “Come in.” The bedroom was in darkness and the air was thick with sleep and stale perfume.
“I brought you a cup of tea,” Mary said to the lump under the bedsheets.
Angelica continued to sob into her pillow.
Mary was genuinely alarmed. This was, after all, the day after the supposed happiest day of Angelica’s life. “Angelica? Are you ill?”
Long silence. “N-no.”
“Did you fall out with Michael?”
Angelica’s face appeared, puffy and red and grotesque. “N-no. Yesterday was lovely — Michael was lovely — everything is love — lovely. . . .” She melted once again into tears.
Mary didn’t know how to respond. “So — yesterday was lovely but today is not?”
Angelica made a mewling sound that seemed like agreement.
“But you don’t know what’s the matter?”
Angelica shook her head and bawled. After several minutes, exhausted and hiccupping, she stammered, “I — I’m like this. Sometimes.”
Mary remembered the morning after the party. Angelica should have been triumphant, but instead she’d seemed utterly miserable. “Why don’t you sit up? You’ll breathe more easily.” She poured a glass of water.
Angelica struggled up clumsily and blew her nose. “You must despise me,” she said eventually. “My life is so easy compared to yours, but I’m the one crying over nothing.”
“I don’t despise you.” Mary said the words automatically, but realized that she did mean them. Angelica was a selfish brat. But for all her wealth and privilege, she was as powerless as Cass Day in the ways that counted.
Angelica sighed and looked down at her hands. On her left ring finger was a plain gold band, so thin it was barely more than a shadow. Her face clouded again.
“You don’t regret marrying him, do you?” Mary asked. “You seemed quite sure of yourself yesterday.”
Angelica’s face crumpled again, as if to cry, but she managed to control herself. After a few minutes, she spoke. “I thought marrying him would make me happy. It did make me happy for a few hours. And then — we came sneaking home yesterday to dinner as usual — it was as though nothing had changed.” She gestured feebly. “It’s all the same. I’m still here. He’s still the secretary. I thought I would feel different.”
“Things will be different as soon as your parents find out you’re married. Perhaps you and Michael should tell them.”
Angelica drank some tea. “I lay awake all night thinking about that. But it’s more than that. I expected getting married to change everything, but it’s made the same things more complicated. I feel trapped — not by marriage but by everything else. I — I don’t know how to explain it.”
Mary looked at Angelica for a minute. Then she said, “I know you don’t like me much, but may I offer my opinion?”
“It’s not that I don’t like you . . . but I had decided not to like you.” She half smiled. “I don’t suppose it matters to you, but I think you’re interesting.”
Interesting. It was a painful reminder of James’s assessment of her — and his later disdain. Mary drew a deep breath and focused on Angelica’s situation. “I think,” she said carefully, “that there are some women for whom marriage and children are the most important objects in life. But I think there are others who long for more. Your unhappiness reminds me of that sort of need.”
Angelica’s brow wrinkled. “Marriage is what I was raised for.”
“You’re a gifted pianist, Angelica. Have you ever thought of doing more than playing for your family and friends?”
A faint blush tinted her cheeks. “My music teachers always said so. . . . I never thought — never allowed myself to think . . . And I’m married now.” Her shoulders slumped. “It’s too late.”
“Is it?” Many actresses and opera singers continued to perform after they married. “Couldn’t you be a musician and a wife?”
“I can’t do that!” Angelica looked genuinely scandalized. “And poor Michael . . .”
“He seems a reasonable man, and he wants you to be happy. He would probably be proud to have a talented wife.”
Angelica shook her head, agitation visible now in those round blue eyes. “It’s not done. It’s just — it’s not . . .”
“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” said Mary quickly. “Only suggesting that your unhappiness might be due to your lack of choices.” She couldn’t gauge Angelica’s response. “Only you can know that, but I didn’t want to go away without saying this.” And it was true. At some point in the last half hour, she’d gone from being Angelica’s dutiful companion to a concerned acquaintance. In Angelica’s misery — as in Cass’s — Mary saw her own history.
“I’ll leave you to think about that,” she concluded. “Do you need anything else?”
Angelica was already lost in thought. “Hm? Oh — no. But Mary?”
She paused at the threshold. “Yes?”
“Thank you — once again.”
As no one desired Mary’s company that morning, she quickly announced her intention of going for a walk and caught an omnibus to St. John’s Wood. How ironic that she’d made a hash of everything except her bolt back to the safety of the Agency. On Acacia Road, the brass plaque that announced MISS SCRIMSHAW’S ACADEMY FOR GIRLS seemed almost unbearably comforting. She unlatched the wrought-iron gate and slipped inside, steeling herself for the worst. Her need for counsel was great, and if the advice was unsparingly harsh, so be it.
Anne’s office was on the ground floor. It was surprisingly modest, both in size and decor: no sprawling mahogany desks, smoky oil paintings, or crystal decanters here. Instead, the room was as spare and trim as the woman herself, softened only by the profusion of potted plants. The door was ajar. At Mary’s light tap, Anne looked up instantly. Her eyelids barely flickered at the sight of Mary but, for her, the tiny movement represented a significant display of emotion. “Hullo, Mary.”
Mary was horrified to find herself blinking back tears — yet again. First at the Lascars’ refuge, then nearly before James, and now . . . “I’m sorry — bursting in on you like this — I couldn’t think what else to do — I’ve made such a mess — I know it’s the final day tomorrow. . . .”
Anne shut the door and enveloped Mary in a fierce hug. She was remarkably strong for one so bony. “It’s all right; don’t try to talk just yet.”
Mary wasn’t quite sure why she was crying: for her abject failure as an agent-in-training; for disappointing Anne; for betraying James; for not reaching Cass; even for Angelica, who cried so easily. Once permitted to let go, it was some time before her tears slowed. Eventually, as they tapered and she began to hiccup, Anne produced a handkerchief and a glass of brandy. “Drink that.”
Mary sat and drank. She mopped her face, blew her nose, and attempted a shamefaced smile. “I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t apologize for crying. Suppose you tell me what you’ve been doing?”
Mary told her story with logic and economy, excluding nothing — except, of course, her private conversation with
Mr. Chen. While she was tempted to tell Anne about her father, it was all too new. Too raw. And some part of her wondered whether it was even safe. . . . Unconsciously, she touched the jade pendant, which lay concealed beneath her dress.
Would Anne and Felicity despise her if they knew the truth? Would they be like so many other Englishwomen and men, priding themselves on being fair and modern but secretly fearing and loathing her? She’d heard the full range of epithets in her childhood. Although the hate words were ugly, the problem was larger than that: it was that she couldn’t bear to hear them from her benefactors.
Yet even while common sense told her that Anne and Felicity would never insult her with those names, she continued to shy away from the truth. If she did tell them — even if they didn’t abhor her — she would cease to be simply Mary Quinn. She would always be the half-caste, the Chinawoman, the different one. Neither fish nor flesh nor fowl, as the proverb had it, but she would become a thing. She would belong nowhere and be like no one.
When Mary finished her tale, Anne was silent. Mary tried not to fidget. Whatever criticisms Anne made, she would accept. She would demonstrate that she was capable of learning from her errors.
Anne’s quiet voice cut through her thoughts. “Why did you come here today?”
She wasn’t prepared for that question. Floundering for a moment, she pulled herself together. “I need your advice.”
“What on?”
There was no short or pleasant answer possible. “I don’t know what to do next. I haven’t overheard any discussion of the shipment from India. I have made a series of errors, some of them very grave. I have been reckless. I have broken my word.” Here, she halted.
“All that is true. You also overstepped the bounds of your assignment. The primary agent was most displeased with your attempts to search the warehouses. By breaking in and nearly being caught, you made her task much more difficult than it need have been.”
Mary’s face burned. She hadn’t even considered that possibility.