I wish I knew how to respond.
She turns away, leaving me to watch the staff go back to work. I’ve delayed their afternoon, which means they won’t finish with their work until late this evening. I feel horrible. Also, she hasn’t given me a table setting, and unless I want to involve Aunt Herminie, I’m not going to get one.
As I head back up the stairs, a noise catches my attention and I peek over the railing. A boy dressed in a starched white shirt and plain black pants stands quite still in the kitchen foyer, looking like he’s waiting for some sort of instruction. Suddenly sounds from dinner preparation crescendo as someone drops something onto the slate floor—voices, and the pounding of feet, and the clatter of dishes. It’s a noise I’d never hear from the main part of the mansion. I always think of the basement level as being like the steam engine of a train—it’s loud and messy and you’re not supposed to see it, but it keeps the rest of the cars happily moving down the tracks. It’s an especially appropriate analogy, considering there are real train tracks down here that carry the coal from the street to the kitchen. I usually forget about the people who make the house run smoothly every day.
Mrs. O’Neil’s skirts swish as she strides into the hall. “Jonah, what are you doing there? You should be taking the waste from the lady’s tea to the compost.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The boy nods and retreats into the kitchen.
“Lord help me,” Mrs. O’Neil says under her breath as she starts up the steps for what I’m sure is at least the tenth time since lunch. I briefly wonder what it’s like to climb eighty-two steps ten times a day. Before she gets to the first landing, I hear her mutter, “What am I going to do with willful heiresses and disobedient kitchen boys? As if I didn’t have enough to deal with.”
As I rush up the stairs before she catches me, I remember an overheard conversation from last summer. My aunt was gossiping with her neighbor Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt Belmont from Belcourt Castle, one of the mansions down the street. “Can you imagine being born into a life of servitude, Herminie, dear? To spend your days elbow-deep in someone else’s unspeakables?” Mrs. Belmont chuckled behind her gloved hand.
To her credit, my aunt didn’t laugh. But neither did she defend the hardworking staff, from whom she demands an impeccable work ethic. I asked her about it afterward. “There’s nothing to be gained by disagreeing with Alva Belmont, Maggie. You should remember that. She’d have the whole of Newport society against me.” And then Aunt walked away to inspect the evening table settings for a dinner party.
I sigh and head toward the part of the house where I belong, feeling awful that I’m glad I wasn’t born into a life of servitude. As the niece of the owners of the The Elms, the most magnificent summer cottage on Bellevue Avenue, I was born into a life of privilege. But for me, that privilege sometimes feels like a burden.
Such is life here. The servants have their own staircase, and I’m not allowed to be anywhere near it or the kitchen or the attic, where the thirty-five full-time servants live. During my first visit here, when I was ten, I was allowed to play with some children visiting other cottages for the summer. Now, at thirteen, I am considered almost a woman, so there’s no fun anymore. Just manners. And of course speaking only when one is spoken to. And sitting quietly for portraits. And holding still. Constantly. Then there are the things forbidden for girls: sliding down banisters, of course. Also: walking without a chaperone, running, or doing anything that might result in perspiration. Aunt Herminie says it often, as if we’re likely to forget. “Young ladies must not, under any circumstances, perspire.”
I wish there were something more for me to look forward to than debutante balls and high-society parties.
New century, my foot; for a girl, there’s nothing progressive about living in the twentieth century.
Chapter Three
Hannah
I POKE MY HEAD AROUND a ginormous marble statue in the conservatory and watch the last of the day’s guests make their way across the back lawn and over to the parking lot. Departing guests don’t usually make me jealous, but right about now, skipping out the door and down to Newport Harbor for the night sounds a whole boatload better than an evening of dusting—my punishment for interrupting Trent’s tour.
Especially after an entire afternoon under strict orders to stay put in the attic. Okay, that isn’t actually the “Cinderella locked up by the evil stepmother” scenario it sounds like, since we converted the servants’ quarters up there into an apartment for me and Dad, and it’s really bright and airy, not dusty and dark like most attics. Plus, it has access to the amazing roof deck. So not exactly a prison sentence. But still.
I hate being told that I have to stay in one place. I’m usually given free rein to roam about all I want. But no. Not today. And all because palm-licking Trent went straight above my dad’s head and complained to the president of the Antiquities Society about my butting in on his precious tour. I tried with the damage control, but this is maybe the thousand-millionth time my dad has warned me to stay out of the docents’ way when they’re giving tours, and it turns out the thousand-millionth time is Dad’s breaking point. Who knew?
At least they didn’t fire him, so there’s that. I guess I’ll have plenty of occasions to “reflect” on my actions while I spend the next month on extra dusting duty. And I quote: “You’re going to get every painting in the ballroom, from top to bottom. Yes, all the way to the top. I don’t care that you need the ladder.”
I tried to tell my dad that Trent was giving the guests the wrong information, but all I got was a sad headshake and, “You forget, sweetie. I work for the Antiquities Society. They allow us to live here, but it’s not because it’s a requirement for the job. They could just as easily house me in an apartment downtown.” And, “The Antiquities Society likes to use esteemed locals as docents as much as possible, and Trent comes from a very old Rhode Island family.”
Blah, blah, blah. People (even kids!) who come from lesser-known Rhode Island families can have just as much to contribute. Just saying.
When I hear the front desk manager turn the bolt on the door, I jump into action and head for the drawing room. The stepladder hides out behind heavy curtains draping one of the windows, where guests won’t see it during tours. I carry it over the carpeting, being extra careful not to drag it and damage a bazillion-dollar Oriental rug. Then I adjust the ladder in front of the sideboard below my favorite picture—the one of Maggie Dunlap. If I have to endure death by dusting, I’m at least gonna start with the best part of the room.
Even though I’m super-annoyed with Trent, I would never take any of that anger out on the house or its artifacts. As much as I might pout to Dad about the docents, I love everything else about being here. There’s something about living in the middle of history that makes me feel like I’m part of something way bigger than me.
I gaze up at Maggie’s portrait. It hangs above this really elaborately painted sideboard. People back then (or at least the people who owned the Newport mansions) were pretty cool to hang their paintings in front of giant mirrors, because the backs of the frames get reflected, so they look kind of 3-D.
Maggie’s picture doesn’t even need that trick to feel lifelike, though. She seems ready to walk right out of the frame. I stare at her, like I always do, wondering what it would have been like to be her. Or even to be friends with her. I’ll bet she was amazing. I’ll bet she never felt halfway in her own time and halfway caught up in the lives of people who lived a hundred years ago. Why would she, when her own day and age must have been magical?
It’s not that I don’t love my dad and my friends and my life, but I’ll just bet everyone who knew Margaret Dunlap respected her and treated her like her opinion mattered. What would that feel like?
I study her hands, folded neatly in the lap of her butter-yellow dress. They’re so delicate. I’ll bet they were soft. I’ll bet she never did a day of dusting in her life. I’ll bet she wouldn’t have gotten in trouble for adding an
entirely appropriate and accurate anecdote to a tour!
But this is my life, not Maggie’s, and I have a punishment to live out. Even if it means spending the next two hours wiping down places that no guest will ever even see, let alone touch. Ugh. I climb up the stepladder and catch my foot in the hinge, almost toppling onto the wide lacquered top of the buffet sideboard.
“Oooopf.” I grab the scalloped edge of the priceless piece of furniture that dates practically back to the days of the Pilgrims. An ancient Chinese vase to my left wobbles once, twice, three times before I can steady it with shaking fingers. Phew! If I break something . . . But that thought is way too horrible to even finish thinking. I would seriously be extinct, and Dad would totally lose his job.
This is going to be waaay harder than I thought. I whip the folded feather duster out of my back pocket and open it, but even fully stretched out, I can reach only the bottom of the gilded frame. Although, this is still tons closer than I usually get to the painting. Looking up, I can see more detail than I ever could from the floor. From this angle I can practically see into Maggie’s eyes. Forget her eyes. I can basically see up her nose!
For a second I wonder if maybe Dad had ulterior motives when he dished out this punishment. He knows getting up close and personal with the artifacts is my favorite thing in the world. I just love how these objects that meant so much to people so long ago can still affect people today. I know they’re just things, but they make me feel like the people who came before me are still talking to me through them. Ugh. That sounds super-cheesy.
“Do you think I’m loony tunes, Maggie?”
So, yes. Sometimes I talk to a painting.
She stares back, but her eyes are so friendly, I decide she doesn’t think I’m crazy at all.
I sigh. “It must have been so unbelievable to live when you did. All those balls, and parties, and to-die-for dresses. I’ll bet everyone treated you with respect. I’ll bet you got to do anything your heart desired. You were an American princess, after all.”
As I chat away, I use my duster to get into the tiny crevices and swirls carved into her fancy gilded frame. I don’t usually pay close attention to the mirrors behind the paintings—they’re just your basic ones, except for the extra-fancy frames, and cleaning all that glass is someone else’s job, thank God!—but this time something catches my eye. Most of the mirrors around here have what I call age spots, little blobs of black discolorations that reflective glass gets over time. Nothing out of the ordinary about them. But this blob’s shape looks exactly like an old-timey skeleton key, and I never noticed that before. I mean, I know sometimes people claim they see the face of Jesus in the burnt parts of their toast, but a key?
That’s . . . different.
I can’t make out the very right edge of the age spot because Maggie’s portrait is hanging over it. I try to tilt the frame away from the mirror, but it’s too dark behind there to see much.
Do I dare?
I look around to make sure I’m alone. What I’m considering doing is sooo not allowed. Taking a priceless artifact down from its hanging spot? Frowned upon. In a BIG way. As in, my dad would have an aneurysm. Then again, this is only a reproduction, so it’s not exactly priceless, right?
Gently—so, so gently—I lift the frame off the hooks. I sway a little under the weight. Who knew frames were so heavy? Bending at my knees, I lower it carefully to the sideboard, where I lean it propped against the mirror. I straighten back up so that I’m eye level with the age spot blob. Now that I can see the rest of the design, it is unbelievably amazing how much it looks like the outline of an old-fashioned key. Which is the weirdest thing.
I reach my fingers up to touch it.
Chapter Four
Maggie
THE FOYER IS MY FAVORITE room in the cottage. There is so much promise in a room that welcomes you to the rest of the residence. The marble columns, the tapestry with the dancing unicorn, the urn from the Ming dynasty—they all beckon to guests to experience the rest of the magical house. Unfortunately, lingering in the foyer is another thing not allowed (unless you are a guest, waiting for the mistress).
My meeting with Mademoiselle Cassatt is supposed to take place in the conservatory. It’s an odd relationship. I’ve spent so much time with her while sitting for the portrait, but she’s always speaking in French to her assistant. I have taken French lessons for years, but they speak so fast, and often in whispers I can’t hear. Every time I try to ask a question, I’m told to sit still and keep quiet.
I long to be able to ask questions and get answers.
I pass through the ballroom into the drawing room, toward my appointment, and something catches my attention. A flicker in my side vision. I glance up to see my favorite Newport seascape perched over an ornate mirror. Something in the corner moved, I’m sure of it. I glance toward the conservatory, half expecting Aunt to emerge. Looking back at the picture, I see it again—movement in the corner of the mirror. Do I dare investigate? I would do anything to stall for a few more minutes, but what I’m considering is definitely against the rules.
Sometimes I catch Aunt looking at me with sad eyes. I think it’s because I remind her of my mother, her sister-in-law, and I hope those tender feelings will help her to forgive me for what I’m about to do.
I know where Mr. Birch keeps the step stool for dusting the high mirrors, and it takes only a quick minute to drag out. I feel a thrill at doing something so . . . unexpected. Climbing up onto the sideboard over which the painting and the mirror backdrop hang, I admire the brushstrokes in the seascape. The harbor looks so beautiful in the painting—like I can almost reach out and touch the wispy clouds. Sometimes I wish I could escape into this seascape instead of being cooped up in the house, being obedient. I can almost feel the wind on my face. It’s a shame this painting will be replaced by my portrait. I wonder where this one will go. Maybe Aunt will let me hang it in my room.
Then at the edge of my vision—between the painting and the mirrored glass underneath—something moves again. Like a shadow. I carefully push the painting, which is hanging from hooks in the ceiling, aside as far as I dare, bracing for a giant spider to be the culprit. Aunt Herminie will not be pleased if she catches me touching the artwork, let alone climbing on the furniture, but I lean closer. There’s something there, a smudge, a shadow of some kind. I glance behind me to scan the room. When I look back at the section of the mirror, I get the shock of my life. Someone is looking back, like through a window. . . .
And it is not me.
Chapter Five
Hannah
OH. MY. GODDESS.
I’m squinting into the mirror, and, yes, I’m still looking at the same ballroom behind me.
And there’s a girl staring back at me in the mirror, all right. . . .
But she’s definitely not me!
In fact, she looks like a spot-on, dead ringer for . . . Margaret Dunlap. She’s wearing the same dress from the painting (except it’s green, not yellow, which is hardly the strangest thing about this scenario).
Mirror-Maggie blinks in surprise and cocks her head to the side as she looks into the glass. Wait, can she see me?
“Great, first I talk to inanimate paintings, and now I’m having visions. Crazytown, here I come,” I mutter. “Does spicy bean dip ever cause hallucinations? Because if so, I’d better lay off any more of Dad’s. Going loco is not going to help me get all this dusting done.”
“Pardon? I . . . Are you speaking to me?”
Omigod, Mirror-Maggie is talking! To me, I think!
I . . . This . . . What . . . ?
No. Way.
Mirror-Maggie has a forehead that’s as scrunched up as mine must be. She reaches a hand out slowly, hesitating before laying it on the mirror right on top of the key shape. I can’t help tilting my head in the opposite direction as my own hand comes up. I place my fingertips right against hers, and . . .
Chapter Six
Maggie
AS I SIT U
P FROM the parquet floor, it takes a moment for me to realize I have fallen off the sideboard in the drawing room. I scratch my head, trying to remember what happened. I was trying to get a better look at the painting being replaced by my portrait. I rub the bump on my head again, hoping there’s no bruise that will show.
I thought I saw something. Someone. In the mirror. But no, that can’t be right.
I don’t remember slipping, but that’s the only explanation for being down here, staring at the underside of the furniture.
When my head clears, I get shakily to my feet. Aunt Herminie expects me to report to the conservatory to meet with Mademoiselle Cassatt presently, but first I notice a framed painting tilted dangerously against the mirror above the sideboard.
“What in tarnation?” I slap my hand over my mouth. If Aunt hears me swear, I’ll really be in trouble. Especially the day before the big ball to unveil my portrait.
My hand still covering my mouth, I stand on tiptoes to see the painting. It looks exactly like the one I’ve been sitting for with Mademoiselle Cassatt. Except . . . except my dress should be green. Not that horrid shade of yellow.
Why in heaven’s name would she change the color of my dress at such a late date? And why is the portrait here and not in the conservatory, where Aunt and I are supposed to be seeing it in its finished form for the first time? I specifically remember Mademoiselle Cassatt preferring the light in there for the occasion of our first glimpse at it.
The Art of the Swap Page 2