A Winter's Promise

by Christelle Dabos

  “Desiring for a woman to be punctual is not really knowing her,” Berenilde responded, teasingly. “Just ask your sisters!” She clasped each young girl to her bosom, as though they were all her own children. “Patience! Melody! Grace! Clarimond! Gaiety! Relish! And here’s my little Dulcie,” she concluded, hugging the youngest of the seven. “I missed you so much!”

  From the safety of Mime’s half-closed eyelids, Ophelia’s eyes glided from one sister to the next. They were all so young, so blond, so delicate in their white dresses that it might have been a trick of mirrors. The adolescents responded to Berenilde’s embraces with an affection that was certainly more sincere than her own. There was true admiration in their beautiful, clear eyes.

  The seven sisters all bore the mark of the Web on their foreheads. If Ophelia were to believe Thorn, each one of them had already seen her face through the eyes of their brother. Would they casually mention her in front of Berenilde? If that had to happen, Ophelia congratulated herself for not having given her real name that night.

  “You came with a little retinue, so I see,” remarked Archibald. He gallantly kissed the grandmother’s hand, as she blushed with pleasure, and then directed an obviously amused smile at Aunt Rosaline. So starchy and frosty was she in her black dress that she stuck out in the midst of the colorful ball. If only for that, Archibald seemed to find her fascinating.

  “My lady’s companion,” Berenilde casually introduced her. “I chose her less for the pleasure of her conversation than for her talents as a midwife.”

  Aunt Rosaline’s lips thinned, but she was determined not to react, confining herself to a polite nod of the head. When Archibald approached the luggage trolley, Ophelia forced herself not to recoil. As though on purpose, her stockings made her calves itch again, irrepressibly. She thought the ambassador was going to extend his inspection to Mime, but he merely patted the trunks. “We’re going to install your belongings in my apartments. Consider yourself at home there!”

  The butler Gustave came forward and opened a casket. From it Archibald took out a fine silver chain from which hung an exquisite little key, set with precious stones. Berenilde turned gracefully around so he could slip the chain around her neck. This strange ceremony was applauded half-heartedly by the crowd.

  “How about we dance a little?” Archibald suggested with a wink. “This ball is being held in your honor, after all!”

  “I mustn’t overdo it,” Berenilde reminded him, laying a protective hand on her stomach.

  “Just one or two waltzes. And you have my permission to tread on my toes!”

  Ophelia observed their little game with a certain fascination. Behind the facade of their lighthearted, almost childish, exchanges, the two of them silently seemed to be saying something else entirely. Archibald wasn’t the attentive escort he attempted to appear; Berenilde knew it and Archibald knew that Berenilde knew it. That being the case, what was the one really expecting from the other? Were they blindly obeying Farouk’s orders, or were they trying to make the most of the situation?

  Ophelia was wondering this certainly as much as they both were as they walked off, arm in arm. Her heartbeat slowly returned to normal. Archibald hadn’t even glanced at her! Much as Ophelia knew she was unrecognizable, it was a great relief to have passed this first test with flying colors.

  Fox

  Ophelia’s second test as a valet had just begun. What was she supposed to do with the trunks? Berenilde had gone off to dance without giving her the slightest instruction. The grandmother and Aunt Rosaline had got lost in the crowd. So Ophelia found herself alone beneath the stars, between two weeping willows, lumbered with her luggage trolley. Archibald had spoken of settling Berenilde into his personal apartments, but all the same, Ophelia wasn’t just going to go into the castle as if it were her home. And where exactly were they, these apartments? The drawback of being mute is that one can’t ask a single question.

  She cast a few hesitant glances at the servants serving refreshments in the gardens, hoping that they would understand her predicament, but they all turned away from her with a look of indifference.

  “Hey! You!” A valet wearing exactly the same uniform as Ophelia was coming towards her on the double. He was built like a kitchen dresser and had hair so red, it seemed to have caught fire on his head. Ophelia found him very striking.

  “So, dawdling are we? Soon as the masters’ backs are turned, think we can just stand and gape?” When he raised a hand as big as a carpet beater, Ophelia thought he was going to hit her with full force. Instead, he patted her good-naturedly on the back. “We’re going to get on, in that case. My name’s Fox and I’m the king of the skivers. So, never been here before? Looked so lost on your own, I felt sorry for you. Follow me, sonny!”

  The valet grabbed hold of the luggage trolley and pushed it in front of him as if it were a baby’s perambulator. “In fact, my real name is Foster,” he continued with gusto, “but everyone calls me Fox. I’m in the service of the master’s grandmother, and you, jammy little so-and-so, you’re Madam Berenilde’s flunky. I’d sell my innards to get near such a woman!”

  He kissed the tips of his fingers with ardor, and, smiling greedily, curled his lips back to reveal bright-white canines. As she went along the path with him, Ophelia studied him closely, totally captivated. This Fox made her think of a blazing fire in the hearth. He must have been close to forty, but he had the energy of a really young man.

  He looked down at Ophelia in surprise, with eyes the green of emeralds. “Not very chatty, are we! Is it the effect I have on you, or are you always so shy?”

  With her thumb, Ophelia drew a cross over her lips, looking helpless. “A mute?” smirked Fox. “Smart, that Berenilde—she knows to surround herself with discreet types! Not deaf as well, I hope. D’you get what I’m on about?”

  Ophelia nodded. He had an accent you could cut with a knife, but still not as thick as Pistache’s.

  Fox maneuvered the luggage trolley onto a small paved path, bordered by two rows of perfectly manicured hedges, in order to skirt around the castle and gardens. They went through a stone porch that opened onto a vast courtyard. There were no lamps here, but the illuminated ground-floor windows became golden rectangles in the night. They were all steamed up, as though it were infernally hot inside. Stovepipes spewed billowing smoke the length of the wall. “The kitchens,” explained Fox. “Lesson No. 1, my lad: never set foot in the Clairdelune kitchens. What they’re cooking up in there, it’s not for little fellows like you.”

  Ophelia took him at his word. As they went past the misted up windows, screams and insults reached them, along with a smell of grilled fish. She risked a quick peek through a pane the steam had missed, and saw a staggering ballet of silver tureens, bread baskets, tiered cakes, and swordfish stretching across vast platters.

  “Over here!” Fox called to her. He was pushing the luggage trolley down the passage of a tradesman’s entrance, a bit further on. When Ophelia caught up with him, she found herself in an ancient lobby, freezing cold and poorly lit. No doubt about it, she was in the servants’ quarters. Steam was escaping from the kitchen through a double door to the right, filling the lobby with a spice-infused haze. Waiters were forever pushing the doors back and forth, carrying out steaming platters or bringing back trolleys loaded with dishes for washing.

  “I’ll wait for you here with the trolley,” said Fox. “You have to go and register with Papier-Mâché to get your key.” With his thumb he indicated a glass door to the left, with a sign saying “Steward” above it. Ophelia hesitated. What key could she possibly need? Berenilde had put her in charge of the trunks, so the thought of leaving them with this stranger didn’t feel right.

  “Come on, hurry up and get your key,” Fox urged.

  Ophelia knocked on the door and went in. At first she didn’t see the man seated behind the writing desk, quill in hand. His dark suit, grayish comple
xion, and total stillness made him almost invisible against the wood-paneled wall. “You are?” the steward asked, stiffly. His skin was more wrinkled than that of an old man. Papier-Mâché? The nickname suited him down to the ground. “You are?” he insisted. Ophelia rummaged in her pockets, searching for the letter of recommendation that Berenilde had written specially for Mime. She handed it to the steward, who put on a monocle and skimmed through it with a glum expression. Without ceremony, he pulled a register out of his desk, dipped his quill in the inkwell, scrawled a few words, and handed it to Ophelia.

  “Sign.” Under a long list of names, dates and signatures, he pointed to a new one: Mime, service of Lady Berenilde. Ophelia improvised a clumsy signature.

  The steward got up, walked round his desk, and went over to some labeled drawers: Head Waiters; Chefs; Kitchen Boys; Housekeepers; Lady’s Maids; Nannies; Linen Maids; Grooms; Chauffeur-Mechanics; Gardeners; Farmhands. He opened the drawer labeled “Valets” and randomly picked a small key, which he passed to Ophelia. On its tag she saw a stamp of what she supposed was the Clairdelune coat of arms. On the other side, a simple address: 6, Baths Road.

  “Your room,” said the steward. “You are required to leave it as you find it; to have no women visitors in it; and especially not to eat in it—we’ve just rid that corner of rats. Keep this key on you at all times: it’s proof of your temporary status at Clairdelune. We carry out regular identity checks to maintain the security of the master’s guests. You have to show this key each time; if you don’t, you’ll be thrown into the dungeons. Welcome to Clairdelune,” he concluded, in the same monotonous voice.

  Ophelia left the steward’s office, somewhat baffled. To her relief, Fox was still waiting for her with the luggage trolley. She felt less reassured, however, once she realized that he was busy rowing with a female cook glistening with sweat.

  “Slob!”

  “Sauce-splitter!”

  “Bloated old fox!”

  “It’s all muscle! I’ll give you a taste whenever you fancy, you pest.”

  Ophelia put a hand on Fox’s arm to calm him down. She had no desire to see her only guide fighting with a woman.

  “Go on then, flex them muscles,” jibed the cook. “It’s only your little pets you’ll impress.” She pushed open the double door with a theatrical flourish, and disappeared into the steam of the saucepans.

  Ophelia felt embarrassed to have witnessed this exchange, but Fox stunned her by bursting into laughter. “Don’t look so glum, kid. She’s an old friend! We always needle each other a bit.”

  Ophelia suddenly understood why this man evoked a strange sense of familiarity. He reminded her of her great-uncle, only younger. She really mustn’t make such associations. If the head butler at Clairdelune was corrupt, why should this valet be any more trustworthy?

  “Got your key?” asked Fox.

  Feeling awkward, Ophelia shyly nodded.

  “Perfect. We’ll do our delivery, then I’ll talk to you.”

  Fox pushed the trolley into a spacious wrought-iron goods lift and pulled a lever. He only jammed the brake on when the lift reached the castle’s top floor. They went through a service room reserved for the maids, then along a lengthy corridor with around a dozen doors. On each one there was a golden label: Dulcie; Joy; Relish; Melody; Clarimond; Grace; Patience.

  “Here,” whispered Fox, indicating the label Clothilde, “are my mistress’s apartments—the master’s grandmother. She’s having a siesta, so not a sound. Don’t fancy starting my service too early.”

  Ophelia frowned. It would soon be midnight, strange time for a siesta. Archibald had warned her that day and night meant nothing at the Pole’s court. She noticed a very grand lift, right in the middle of the corridor; it must be reserved for the family. Further along, she saw a door whose label had been covered with a black scarf. Having followed her gaze, Fox leant towards her ear. “The conjugal bedroom of the late master and mistress, parents of the young master. They died years ago, but it’s never been erased.”

  Erase a room? Much as Ophelia questioned Fox with her eyes, he didn’t explain. He rolled the trolley up to a door at the end of the corridor, on which were engraved letters spelling Archibald. Ophelia followed him into an antechamber that alone was twice the size of Berenilde’s sitting room at the manor. A huge pink-marble fireplace, windows up to the ceiling, full-length portraits, bookcases on every wall, two crystal chandeliers, furniture fashioned like works of art . . . This family certainly had delusions of grandeur. A gramophone, which someone must be continually winding up, was churning out some whining opera.

  With a bit of a shock, Ophelia caught sight of her own reflection in a large wall mirror. A moon face perched on a body as flat as a board. Even with a man’s features, she didn’t cut much of a dash. Black hair, white face, black livery, white hose: she looked like an old photograph.

  “Mr. Ambassador’s room,” announced Fox, indicating a closed door. “For your service, it’ll always be through here.” He opened a sky-blue door, at the other end of the antechamber, which led to an exquisite lady’s boudoir. It was a large, light room, without excessive decoration. Heating vents, freestanding bath, wall-mounted telephone—all the modern conveniences were there to assure Berenilde’s comfort. Archibald hadn’t duped his guest: her accommodation was fit for a queen.

  Ophelia was, however, shocked not to see a single window. “Originally, it was just a walk-in wardrobe,” explained Fox, seizing a trunk, “but the master had it specially extended for this occasion.”

  Ophelia made a mental note: at Clairdelune, rooms were erased, and new ones created to order. She helped Fox to unload the trolley: trunks full of dresses, cases of shoes, caskets of jewelry . . . “Well, you’re not the handiest of fellows!” Fox sniggered when Ophelia knocked over a pile of boxes for the second time.

  They piled up all the luggage in the room, beside the folding screen. Ophelia hadn’t yet grasped all the subtleties of domestic service, but she did know that, as a valet, she wasn’t allowed to touch her mistress’s clothes. It would be the maids’ job to put them away in the cupboards.

  “Give me a closer look at your key,” Fox asked when they had finished. “We’re going to regulate your mistress’s time-piece to match yours.”

  Ophelia was getting used to not understanding a thing; she didn’t balk at giving him her key.

  “Baths Road,” he said, reading the tag. “Poor kid—Papier-­Mâché has shoved you right next to the latrines! Everyone does anything not to end up over there.”

  Fox went over to the fine mantelpiece clock, and Ophelia followed. She noticed that it displayed words instead of times: “zigzag”; “barely rises”; “ricochet”; “wide-angle” . . . Fox moved the long hand round to “baths.” A second smaller dial comprised a series of numbers; he set the hand at six. “Done! Now, seeing as I’m a nice chap, I’m going to show you your room.”

  Ophelia was starting to suspect that this big redhead wasn’t helping her merely out of the goodness of his heart. He expected something in return; you could tell by the way he smiled. She had nothing to give him—how could she make him understand that?

  They went back along the corridor, and back down in the goods lift, this time to the castle’s basement. First, Fox stopped off at the laundry and gave Ophelia a set of sheets for her room; he took the opportunity to pick up a clean shirt and stockings. Next, they went through a communal washhouse, storerooms, a strong room, and a vast servants’ hall. Ophelia felt totally lost when they ventured into the sleeping quarters. There was an endless sequence of numbers right along the winding corridors, all of which had the names of roads. Doors opened and shut on servants, some exhausted after their service, others just emerging from sleep, as though it were at once morning and evening. They all seemed highly irritable, getting annoyed over a slammed door, an aloof greeting, or a funny look. The sound of bells ringing came from all
directions.

  Dazed by the surrounding hubbub and laden with her sheets, Ophelia was struggling to hear Fox as he walked with long strides ahead of her. “The sleeping quarters are divided into sections,” he explained. “Cooks with cooks, gardeners with gardeners, maids with maids, valets with valets. Speed up, boy!” he exclaimed abruptly while checking his pocket watch. “Festivities will soon be starting up there, and my mistress wouldn’t want to miss them for anything in the world.”

  As he closed the cover with a quick flick of the thumb, Ophelia suddenly had a vision of Thorn again, fob watch in his hand, too big for his chair. That was but a few hours ago, and already it seemed like days to her. Why was she suddenly thinking about it?

  Ophelia was jolted from her thoughts by the vicious look a woman threw at her, as she turned a corner in the corridor. A half-look, in fact: a black monocle eclipsed her left eye. She was examining Ophelia from top to bottom, without a word, without a smile, and with such intensity that it was embarrassing.

  Fox bowed low before her. “Greetings, my lovely! Where’ve you been sticking those little hands now?”

  Ophelia was wondering the same thing. The woman was covered, from head to toe, in soot. She wore a mechanic’s uniform, and her curls, dark as night and cropped very short, escaped as fierce spikes on her cheeks.

  “I’ve come from the main stove, which has gone and done it again,” she replied, glumly. “And who’s that?”

  She had indicated Ophelia with a hard look from an electric-­blue eye. This small woman wasn’t much older than her, but she exuded surprising charisma.