By The Sea, Book One: Tess

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

  "Did you spit, Bridget?" asked Maggie, wide-eyed.

  "And I a Protestant? Whyever would I?"

  "What about Mrs. Bracken? Where was she?"

  "Yes, yes—the housekeeper!" cried Maggie. "She didn't spit, then?"

  "That wretched pill, if only she had!" Bridget, like most of the other women servants, had little use for the severe Mrs. Bracken.

  "But how did my father get a black eye? Oh God, this is terrible!" Maggie's breath had become short, and the two others were forced to stand and wait a moment while she gathered up the last of her strength.

  "Well, now, that was unfortunate, and himself a perfect innocent in the matter, and only doing his Christian duty. It wasn't myself in the stable, you see, but Peter Boot. I was in the kitchen, afeard for my life. Well! Enid breaks from Mr. Waterman's arms and flies to the stable, where the coachman, without a thought in the world of the goings-on in the kitchen, to say nothing of the torridness that's caught up his wife, is in the harness room, about to put his horses to the carriage. In roars Enid and, pointing a finger at his nose, says, 'You forced me into this marriage, see if you didn't!' If the coachman didn't stare! Peter Boot says his mouth were open so, the flies had no place else to go. Hard on Enid's heels comes Mr. Waterman, and then don't the fireworks begin."

  Bridget paused for breath and for effect, her gray-green eyes wide in a sea of freckles. "As it turns out, Enid and Mr. W. was lovers at a house in Saratoga ten years before, when he was valet and she a lady's maid. That being a man's world, she fell from grace while he was let off with the merest warning. She only married the coachman after it was certain he was to accept a position here, you know," Bridget finished up loftily. "To be with Mr. Waterman. Imagine. And him always so much more grand than Mr. Winward, even."

  Tess had her arm around her sister, who had begun, owing to her shortness of breath, to cough uncontrollably. Distressed, and irritated beyond endurance by Bridget's long-winded sensationalism, Tess snapped, "Can we get on to the part concerning my father's injury, or would that be hurrying you along, Bridget?"

  "Don't you be uppish with me, Teresa Moran," Bridget shot back. "Anyway, I've already told you: your father got between. He were in one corner of the harness room, burnishing some bit of metal, when the uproar begun. The coachman lunged for Mr. W. and they grappled and your father tried to pull them apart and he come down a cropper for his trouble," Bridget said with a nonchalant shrug. "When you think of it, what business has a groom to interfere with them as are above him?" she added spitefully.

  Tess ignored the commentary. "Then who's gone? Who's staying?" she asked anxiously.

  "I'm staying. As for who else—I'm sure I couldn't say. Anyway, you're to go directly to Mrs. Bracken's room," Bridget said to Tess, "and if I was you I should keep my lips buttoned close up when I was in there."

  "And if it's advice I want, I'll certainly know where to turn. Good afternoon to you, Bridget," Tess said, in a tone which allowed absolutely no room for another opinion.

  ****

  The last time Tess had been in the housekeeper's private apartments was when she'd been interviewed for a position with the Winwards five months earlier, in the house on Fifth Avenue. The Moran family had just emerged from Ellis Island armed with letters of recommendation from Lady Meller. The letters were an unlooked-for act of kindness on Lady Meller's part, because Tess's mother, a cook, had earlier been found guilty by a court of assizes of stealing whatever spirits were not locked away in the Meller pantry and drinking them. (Mrs. Moran was often drunk and an uneven cook as a result, but this was not within the province of the court to punish.) Sir Meller, a fair man but unrelenting, had insisted on dismissal, and Lady Meller had softened the blow by writing accolades for everyone.

  Mrs. Moran had died aboard ship on her way to America, and the family's grief was cut short by the need to find work. A cook was far and away the best paid member of a domestic staff; without Mrs. Moran, the family's prospects were grim. Still, there were always slots to fill in the larger houses, and the Winwards had more slots than most. To William Moran, who had been a smithy on the Meller estate, quite naturally fell the responsibilities of the groom, with young Will close at hand as stableboy. Maggie was assigned to the laundry, but Tess was offered a choice: still-room maid or laundry maid. She'd hesitated, torn between the higher, more appealing tasks of the housekeeper's assistant and the grueling duties of a laundry maid. She chose to work close to Maggie, of course; and Mrs. Bracken never got over the perceived slight. Mrs. Bracken remembered everything: every little inefficiency, every little mistake. Tess's mother would not have lasted out the week.

  The younger maids were afraid of Mrs. Bracken, and the older ones resented her. No one had ever been favored with a soft smile or a kind word from this most thorough of professionals, which was why Tess approached the interview as she would a walk along a high wire.

  Mrs. Bracken was seated at a large oak desk which was tucked into an alcove in the apartment. She motioned to Tess to take a chair alongside.

  "You know, of course, of the madness that overcame the staff, Tess?" Her expression was haggard but businesslike.

  "Some of it, ma'am. Bridget told me."

  "Oh—Bridget! Believe very little of what that magpie says. And for heaven's sake, don't pass on any of her version of events; it would be most disloyal to Mrs. Winward. You understand, of course, that changes must be made affecting you and your family. It is most important that the staff be set to running smoothly again: a large party of guests is due tomorrow—indeed, some have already arrived—who will stay in anticipation of The Breakers Ball next week."

  "Yes, ma'am." Changes affecting you and your family.

  "A new butler will take over within the week, a Mr. Ransom, who comes highly recommended. In the meantime," Mrs. Bracken continued in a careful voice, "I have sat down with Mrs. Winward in an effort to contain the damage as best we might. Bridget will replace Enid as head laundry maid."

  "Yes, ma'am." Bridget!

  "She has been an indifferent kitchen maid, and could never hope to rise to the position of cook. There is no talent there, as even she admits. Your father had to be let go—"

  "Father!"

  "—and as a result there seemed no point in keeping the boy on. It's unfortunate, but Mrs. Winward simply cannot tolerate fisticuffs among the staff."

  "But Father didn't do anything!" Tess burst out angrily.

  “He did, and he has the bruises to show for it. The matter is closed, Tess," she added brusquely. "It is not why I asked to see you, in any event. As it happens, but not in any way connected with today's events, young Miss Winward will soon be losing the services of Marie du Plait, her personal maid. Marie has announced that she is marrying and emigrating to Australia. Marie is under the illusion that she will find her fortune there. We shall see."

  Mrs. Bracken, whose everyday expression was a stern grimace, pulled the corners of her mouth down a bit further. Her gray hair seemed to turn grayer; her bun, to coil a little more tightly. The housekeeper accepted the everyday insanities of the lowest class of servant, but had nothing but contempt for the indiscretions of upper-house domestics who should know better.

  "In the meantime," she continued, "it has not escaped the notice of Miss Cornelia Winward that you are gifted with a needle, and she has asked for your services personally. It is, of course, a tremendous opportunity for you, Tess," Mrs. Bracken added unnecessarily.

  There was no question in the housekeeper's mind that Tess would accept: the position promised prestige, better wages, better working conditions. It was a far better position than even the still-room maid's. Tess, reeling from the upheaval that had shaken the Moran family, was madly assessing their shifting finances: Her fathers and brother's wages had disappeared in one blow. For Maggie, no change. For Tess, half again as much. But could she afford to abandon Maggie to the hard labor of the laundry room?

  "I assume, Tess, that the distressed look on your face means that you
can't find appropriate words to express your gratitude." There was dry menace in Mrs. Bracken's voice; obviously she remembered Tess's agony of indecision months earlier in New York.

  "Yes, ma'am," Tess answered with a touch of dryness herself, "that must be it." She would work it all out later, with Maggie, in their room.

  "Good. It's settled then. For the next few weeks you will be instructed by Marie. If you can afford lessons in hairdressing, I should very much advise it; Miss Cornelia is very particular about her coiffure. Until Marie leaves, your chief responsibility will be to keep up Miss Cornelia's rooms and of course her wardrobe. You will occasionally accompany Marie and Miss Cornelia—to tea, tennis, a picnic, a ball, perhaps. I must also request, though I am well aware that it is not the ordinary thing, that for a while you help keep up the guest rooms as well. As soon as I can find additional chambermaids to replace the ones we've lost today, that temporary duty will of course drop away. Since it is summer and there are no fires to make up, your duties as housemaid are considerably reduced."

  "Yes, ma'am. I understand."

  "Well, then. For the moment, there is nothing further. You will get together with Bridget and bring her up to date on the present laundry routine; she has not worked in the laundry room in over a year, and meanwhile the Bradford washing machine has been installed. But first, I would very much like you to see Jinny about helping her prepare some of the guest rooms. She is quite overwhelmed; and meanwhile new carriages seem to be arriving on the half-hour. That will be all."

  "Yes, ma'am," Tess said one last time. "Thank you, ma'am." She rose to leave.

  Mrs. Bracken's eyebrows lifted in ironic surprise. "Tess," she said, calling her back in mid-exit, "I have a good opinion of you. You are a seemly young woman who avoids the idle gossip of the hall. You dress with attention and take pains with your hair and skin. It is to your great advantage that you have learned to read and write and have made an effort to rid yourself of the worst of your Irish accent and distressing colloquialisms. Do not think such ambition goes unobserved. You can do quite well for yourself, if only you apply discipline and diligence. Mrs. Winward is not an ungenerous employer, though she may seem remote at times. Remember that."

  Tess, not yet eighteen, stunned by the dramatic mix of good fortune and unjust reversals, did her best to look the part of a well-mannered servant who was at home in the world of elegant carriages and costumed balls, trans-Atlantic liners and private railway cars. "I shall certainly do my best, ma'am, and I think that my best will suit Miss Cornelia very well."

  Mrs. Bracken, thin and stiff, gave the tall and graceful Tess a long, appraising look. "I'd like to think so, too."

  ****

  The next seven days could fairly be said to have transformed Tess's life. Although Tess was familiar with most aspects of domestic service, she knew little about the duties of a lady's maid. Lady Meller had been attended by old Prudhella, who'd served on the Meller estate all her life. As a result, Tess had never had occasion to lay out a riding habit or pack a trunk full of a lady's needs for a weekend. She spent the next few days under Marie's sometimes offhand tutelage, carefully noting Miss Cornelia's habits, from the time she preferred to be awakened to the temperature of her bath water and her favorite kind of tea.

  Tess turned her mistress's wardrobe inside out, marveling at the superb craftsmanship in the gowns from Paris, brushing the satin boots with a light and loving touch. By the end of the week she had memorized the contents of the French provincial armoires that lined Cornelia Winward's dressing room. Miss Cornelia herself, intensely vain, had shown a keen interest in Tess's discreet suggestions for improving the cut or fit of one or two of her gowns, and by week's end had gone so far as to assert to her mother that Tess was the best lady's maid in Newport and that it was too, too bad that plain Gertrude Vanderbilt was not lucky enough to have Tess's good services for her coming-out party the following week.

  Tess was dazzled. Only in her most far-flung dreams had she imagined being privy to the nonstop glamour that marked a Newport debutante's life. The laundry room might have been a million miles away from the mistresses' bedrooms. Tess had been often bored and always skeptical when the footmen and housemaids sat around the servants' hall exchanging garbled and inaccurate gossip about their masters and mistresses. But when Miss Cornelia and her older sister Isabel excitedly compared notes after a ball while their maids carefully removed the diamond tiaras from their heads, well—it did seem to Tess that the gossip was much more accurate. Besides, holding a tiara encrusted with diamonds and pearls, if ever so briefly, brought home to her the idea of boundless wealth far more dramatically than did carelessly spilled port on priceless damask.

  Late at night, after Tess helped Marie to see their young mistress comfortably to her bed, she would return to the garret room that she would be sharing with Maggie for so little longer and pour wonderful gossip into her sister’s ear. Maggie would be lulled into a respite from her racking, painful cough and into sleep, often with a dreamy smile on her lips. And then Tess would ease her arm out from under Maggie's head and creep silently over to her own bed, and next to it she would sprinkle a handful of rice on the floor and kneel on it.

  "Dear Mother Mary, let Maggie get well," she would pray as the little grains cut into her skin. "Don't let me forget those I love best. Don't let me be jealous of a life I was not born to live, or abandon those who gave me the life I have. Make me remember. Amen." And then she would say a rosary, sometimes only half-consciously, before she swept up the little grains of rice with her hand into a box and fell exhausted into a deep, short sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Cornelia stood in the doorway of her mother's bedroom and stamped her foot. "No! I will not have my maid turning out beds for stupid guests. Isabel gets to keep a maid all to herself. Why can't I have Tess?"

  "Because, darling," Tess heard Mrs. Winward say from within, "you have two. Once Marie leaves, you can have Tess all to yourself. But for now we're dreadfully short-handed, and if Tess doesn't mind doing the guestrooms, I don't see why you should."

  "Because it's embarrassing, mother! How would you like it if your maid cleaned out the slops of ... of some perfect stranger!"

  "Tess cleans out your slops, darling," Mrs. Winward said with a tolerant smile in her voice.

  "Oh mother, that's perfectly different!" Cornelia said in a tragic voice, and she spun on her heel and marched unseeing past Tess, who was on her way to the opposite wing to turn out the Blue Room.

  Tess was behind schedule, of course. Back in Wrexham Lady Meller had been fond of saying, "An hour lost in the morning has to be run after all day," and that was exactly what Tess was doing. She'd gotten up before dawn to do what she could in the laundry to ease the burden on her sister; from there it was on to Cornelia to prepare her for another exhausting day of entertainment; from there, on to her temporary duties as chambermaid.

  It was late morning. Tess had thrown open the windows of the Blue Room and had emptied and rinsed the pans, scrubbed the basin, removed and cleaned the slop pail, and was in the process of shaking and turning the featherbed before placing the mattress back on top of it. It was an awkward job, better done by two; but Tess was making the best of it when a voice from behind her said, "Oh, blast! I've come at the wrong time, have I?"

  Still clutching the ungainly featherbed, Tess turned to look behind her. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir," she said, surprised to see a guest in his room at that hour. She recognized the gentleman instantly: impossible to forget the dark, thick mustache and the alert, friendly blue eyes that had prompted poor Maggie to smile and wave. Besides, Tess had listened to Cornelia and her sister speculating at length one night about their houseguest. It was decided that Edward Hillyard could charm a hummingbird away from its nectar; but as for money, he had not enough.

  The handsome guest made no move to enter the room, but only stood watching Tess with a somewhat distracted look.

  "I ... I'm running a bit late," Tess explained. "Is there a c
onvenient time when you'd like me to return?"

  "No, no, stay right where you are," he said quickly, lowering his voice. "The plain fact is, I'm hiding from that insufferable ... well, never mind. But do me a favor, would you? No one can possibly think to look for me here, with you turning out the room. I'll just sit quiet as a churchmouse in that corner with my copy of Town Topics, until you've done. They ought to be well away on their picnic by then." He favored Tess with a quick, almost shy flash of white, even teeth.

  "Ehh ..." It was an Irish syllable, a stammer of indecision which she'd been trying desperately to purge from her speech pattern. "Ehh ... I ... don't think I ought to stay, sir. Truly ...."

  "Nonsense! I'm going to neither bite nor compromise you, young woman. Stay and finish your work. I'm a fugitive from society just now, utterly desperate for a quiet moment. Do go on."

  And that ended the matter. Mr. Hillyard took up a position in a frail-looking Louis XV chair, crossed his legs, opened the pages of his newspaper, and appeared to immerse himself in the latest Newport scandals.

  Tess, at a loss for what to do, resumed her plumping of the featherbed. She was nearly finished with the room, but still, it was awkward—doubly so, since the man was the same who'd caused her the spasm of mortification on Bellevue Avenue.

  Eventually the impatient crinkle of turning pages ceased, and Tess felt rather than saw his gaze addressed to her. It was a very different feeling to be stared at by a well-dressed gentleman while you worked than it was to be the object of a footman's gaze. Peter Boot's ardent intensity had been predictable, and also indiscriminate: he would stare at most anyone with a pulse. But when a gentleman noticed that you weren't just another piece of furniture—it was flattering. She colored, intensely self-conscious of the movement of her breasts as she fluffed and shook the cumbersome featherbed.

  "Here, let me help you with that," he said, tossing his paper aside and approaching, despite her protests. "What's your name?"