The Moon Master's Ball

by Clara Diane Thompson

  “Mrs. Gregson! Please, dear lady. You’ll quite like her, I’m sure of it. Come upstairs for me. Please.”

  After more muttering from Mrs. Gregson, which they couldn’t quite make out, Tilly heard the approaching footsteps of Lord Hollingberry and his cook.

  “You’ll have to pardon Mrs. Gregson. She wasn’t feeling quite up to meeting anyone today, but I convinced her to come.” The kind old man patted Mrs. Gregson’s shoulder before she walked over and stood grumpily beside Tilly.

  “Mrs. Carlisle, I would like to introduce you to Daphne, Florence, Laura, Ellen, Tilly, and Mrs. Gregson, our cook. Girls, meet Mrs. Carlisle, the new housekeeper, and her daughter, Drosselyn. That is . . . correct, isn’t it?” Lord Hollingberry put a finger to his chin as he turned questioningly to Mrs. Carlisle’s daughter.

  “Yes sir, that’s right.” Drosselyn answered sweetly and smiled at the maids before her. “I do hope we’ll all get to be good friends.”

  Mrs. Gregson snorted and clenched the spatula in her hand as though she might challenge the newcomers to a duel at any moment.

  “Well, well.” Lord Hollingberry looked fondly at his maids and then turned to Mrs. Carlisle. “I suppose I’ll leave you all to start your new routine.” He chuckled slowly the way old men do, and turned, creaking sluggishly upstairs to his study.

  “Well!” Mrs. Carlisle clapped her hands briskly and smiled. “I certainly am excited to get to know you all. But first, let me inform you that this house is to be run on a strict schedule. I shall tolerate no tardiness whatsoever.” She looked pointedly at Tilly and Mrs. Gregson. “I shall not allow any of you to be lazy, and you will have no male callers here at the manor.” Mrs. Carlisle was certainly adept at making up rules. She turned to the rest of the girls. “Now get to work!”

  She clapped her hands again as though this would spur them on to do her bidding. Slowly the girls went about their usual tasks. Tilly caught Mrs. Gregson’s eye, and the two shared an exasperated look before Tilly headed upstairs.

  “Mrs. Gregson?” Mrs. Carlisle stopped the cook as she was making her way to her kitchen. “My daughter and I require tea, if you please. We’ll take it in the parlor.” With that, she turned and ushered her daughter into the room, closing the door softly behind them.

  Mrs. Gregson looked up at Tilly, who had watched this exchange over the banister; then she gave a grunt and stomped off to make a pot of tea. With a shrug, Tilly hurried on up to join the other maids.

  She found them huddled in the upstairs hallway, muttering. “. . . and did you see her daughter? Standin’ there, lookin’ at us like she was so much better!” At Tilly’s approach they looked guilty for a moment but relaxed upon seeing their fellow maid.

  “Tilly! What do you think about them?” Ellen asked, and all four girls turned to hear Tilly’s opinion.

  “They’ll take some getting used to.” Tilly swiped absent-mindedly with her feather duster at a painting of Lord Hollingberry’s late wife.

  Daphne, an attractive brunette, snorted. “That’s not an answer. I can tell you don’t like them either. And where is her daughter now? I was under the impression she would be a maid alongside us.” She picked up her bucket, dunked her rag, and swirled it angrily in the water before wiping off a stained-glass window at the end of the hall.

  Tilly frowned and answered her friend without looking at her. “They’re having tea in the parlor. Those women are marching around here like they’ve lived in Winslow all their lives!” She couldn’t suppress her feelings even though she knew it was wrong to be talking in such a way to the rest of the girls. But if Lord Hollingberry had wanted a housekeeper other than herself, he should have chosen Daphne! She was twenty-one, smart, and had been working at Winslow Manor longer than anyone else save Mrs. Gregson.

  “I’m sorry.” Tilly brushed her duster violently over Lady Hollingberry’s face, nearly knocking the painting off the wall. “This just doesn’t seem right.”

  A door suddenly opened, revealing Lord Hollingberry’s hunched frame, and the girls froze like rabbits caught in a trap. All of them had forgotten they were working just outside his study.

  “My! Does it take so many maids to clean one hallway?” He laughed quietly and rubbed his sagging chin with his fingertips. “I know you are all upset about Mrs. Carlisle. I do believe I would be upset if I were you, too!” He clasped his hands behind his back. “But I have my reasons for bringing her here. Let her do what she wants. But for now, why don’t you all spread out a bit, hmm?”

  The girls muttered, “Yes sir,” and Tilly began to leave with them. But Lord Hollingberry put out a staying hand. “Not you, Tilly. Come into my study. Come in, come in.”

  Tilly looked quickly at the painting she had nearly knocked down and wondered if Lord Hollingberry somehow knew she’d been rough with it. Meekly she stepped into his study, waiting for some kind of rebuke.

  “Ah, yes!” he said suddenly. “You’re a bright girl, Tilly. Very bright. That’s something I’ve always admired about you.” And he returned to the hall, lifted the portrait off the wall, and carried it past her into his study. Had she somehow damaged it?

  But he said only, “If you would please close the door, my dear . . .”

  She hurried to obey. He didn’t seem upset. Perhaps he wasn’t planning on scolding her.

  When she turned back to the room, Lord Hollingberry stood gazing down at the painting of his wife. He suddenly seemed not quite so crooked and bent, not so wrinkled as before. He glanced at Tilly. “Aminia would have enjoyed your company, of this I am sure.” Then, to Tilly’s surprise, he slipped the portrait into a cupboard, shut it away, and turned back, brushing off his hands.

  “I don’t like Mrs. Carlisle. In fact, I quite despise the woman. But there are greater things taking place here, Tilly.” His expression was grave.

  “I . . .” Tilly was at a loss for words.

  The old man continued as though oblivious to her discomfort. “There are greater things taking place.” He said this to himself, as though remembering something he had long ago thought forgotten.

  “Would you like me to go, sir?” Tilly inched towards the door, not understanding exactly why he wanted to speak to her.

  “Do you recall, Tilly, the time you asked if my wife and I ever had a child?”

  She stopped moving and thought carefully. She seemed to recall an instance when she had asked Lord Hollingberry this. “Y—yes sir.”

  “And what did I tell you?”

  She bit her lip. “You told me that you and your wife lost your child.”

  He sighed and looked at her with a faraway expression. “That wasn’t entirely true. We never had a baby of our own. I was . . . a godfather of sorts. But what is true is that we lost him. Are you going this year?”

  The question startled Tilly. “Going?” She played nervously with her feather duster and avoided his eyes.

  “Yes, are you going?”

  She didn’t need to ask him where. He could only mean one thing. “I had a . . . bad experience when I was a child. You know I never . . . go.” Tilly felt pressure welling up inside her.

  In her mind’s eye she saw the wispy shadow, yellow teeth dripping with saliva, and glowing red eyes. All at once Tilly wanted to scream, to run away from Winslow Manor and Mrs. Carlisle and Bromley Meadow. But Lord Hollingberry’s earnest eyes kept her feet planted on the soft rug in his study, and she realized he was grasping her small hand in his large knobby one.

  “Things are about to change. As I said, there is something greater at work here. I need you to be here. You are special, Tilly; I know it. And I’m going to need you to go this year. For me. And . . . for someone else. Can you do this for me? For Winslow?”

  Tilly wanted to say no, to shake her head and tell him he wasn’t acting like himself. But she felt her head nodding up and down in spite of what her heart was telling her to do, and she heard her voice whisper, “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, my dear.”


  And then Lord Hollingberry was once more hunched over and frail, pulling his fob watch from his vest with shaking hands that had been strong a moment ago.

  “Goodness me! Look at the time. You have work to do, and I’ve kept you too long. Too long.” He opened the door and ushered her out of the room. “Goodbye! Work hard, dear.” The old man started to close the door behind her but then quickly opened it again. “And don’t tell any of the other girls this.” He tapped the side of his nose as if they were both children sharing a secret. “We want things to work out properly, you know.”

  His eyes began to water, and he dabbed at them with his kerchief while closing the door, leaving a terribly bewildered Tilly standing in the corridor, holding her feather duster limply at her side.

  Lord Hollingberry stood a moment before shuffling over to his desk. He groaned as he sat down in his plush, paisley chair, but then thought about Tilly and smiled. Sweet girl, that. Poor dear had no idea what she would have to do in the upcoming days. Was she ready?

  The old man frowned at the question in his mind.

  No matter if she was or wasn’t, he told himself. It had to happen now.

  Muttering quietly in agreement with himself, Lord Hollingberry leaned forward and lifted a sheet of thick ivory paper from his desk. Dabbing the nib of his pen in the inkwell, he began to write in smooth, long strokes. After folding the paper up, he stamped the Hollingberry seal on it. His wrinkled hands flipped the letter over and addressed it to:

  The Moon Master.

  3

  Tilly remained quiet the rest of the day, mulling the strange conversation she had shared with Lord Hollingberry over in her mind and preparing what she would say to him when he asked her to go.

  “No, Lord Hollingberry, I’m afraid I can’t go . . .” She sighed heavily while sweeping out the mud tracked into the foyer by the new arrivals. “Oh, that’s no good.” Frowning, she leaned on her broom, trying to think of another way to phrase the sentence. “Lord Hollingberry—”

  “Tilly!” Ellen rushed into the foyer. “Tilly, there’s only one room left for us to clean! And we figured you were the best one to tidy up the parlor.” She grabbed the broom from Tilly. “I’ll finish this.”

  Tilly chuckled at her friend. “None of you wanted to brave the dangerous Mrs. Carlisle and her daughter?” She shook her head. “I can’t believe they’re still in there. They’ve been sitting in that room all day!” Tilly looked out the windows framing the front door and saw that the sun was setting. “Fine. I’ll finish up. You all owe me.”

  “Yes, we do!” Ellen replied happily as Tilly headed off to the parlor.

  Approaching the parlor door, Tilly slowed then stopped, uncertain. Should she knock? Common courtesy dictated that she should, so only after thumping her knuckles against the thick wooden door and hearing a soft “Enter” did she walk into the room.

  The parlor’s walls were painted a soft blue that looked like the sky was just preparing to display its stars. A long window in the center of the room offered a perfect view of Bromley Meadow. Two settees graced the room, and three chairs, the cushions of which had been stitched delicately by Genevieve, the village’s most renowned seamstress.

  The room’s prettiness was darkened, however, by the two silhouettes lounging in those lovely settees and chairs.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Carlisle turned her head slightly when Tilly entered; then she smiled. “Ah, Tilly the Tardy! Come to clean the parlor, have you?” She chortled.

  Tilly gritted her teeth. “Yes ma’am. It won’t take long. I’ve only got to dust.” She entered the room and began to do just that, hoping some dirt fluffed into Mrs. Carlisle’s lungs and made her miserable.

  “You missed a spot.”

  It was Drosselyn who spoke this time. Tilly didn’t acknowledge that she had said anything.

  “I said you’ve missed a spot. Right there.”

  Tilly turned to see Drosselyn pointing languidly from her seat, her luxuriant hair framing her face like the dark petals of a flower.

  Tilly brushed over that spot vigorously.

  “You seem to be a smart girl, Tilly,” Mrs. Carlisle stated.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Tilly continued to dust, eager to leave the room and go to Apple Tree Inn with the rest of the girls.

  “There has been much talk of something exciting happening soon. If you could enlighten us to what this special occasion is, we would be most eager to hear.”

  Tilly clenched her hands and moved to the other side of the room, turning her back to Mrs. Carlisle. “I can’t say that I could, ma’am.” She didn’t want to talk about it. Not to them.

  “How disappointing! It seems as though everyone here knows what’s going to happen except us. Isn’t that right, daughter of mine?”

  “Yes, Mother.” Drosselyn responded in monotone as though she spoke the words every minute of every day.

  “I’m sure you could tell us something,” Mrs. Carlisle continued, fixing her small, staring eyes upon Tilly.

  “Yes ma’am. I could.” Tilly turned around to face the two reclining ladies. “But it’s not a pretty story and not something I wish to tell. All I can say is that you’ll know what this ‘special occasion’ is when you see it. Look for it in Bromley Meadow.”

  Mrs. Carlisle’s face didn’t change. She did, however, click her teeth together in a thoughtful manner. The sound repulsed Tilly.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Carlisle said, her head twitching oddly.

  Tilly finished dusting the last table and left the room in a whirl, her face flushed with anger. She marched down the back stairs to her room, grabbed her coat and scarf, and rushed out of the house as quickly as possible.

  Those women! Disgusting, detestable, prying, rude, snobbish—

  “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  For the second night in a row Rodger startled Tilly half to death. She spun about, letting out a gasp. Rodger leaned against the back wall of the manor as though he was about to fall asleep.

  “Scared you good, didn’t I? And I wasn’t even meaning to!” He laughed and walked towards Tilly, his presence like a breath of fresh air. “Ellen said you were staying to finish up, and I thought I’d escort you to the inn, since I’m such a dashing, protective man.”

  “Thank you, Rodger.” Tilly’s voice caught when she said his name, and his quirky smile suddenly vanished.

  “Was today really that bad?” All joviality left his face, leaving nothing but concern in its place.

  She nodded numbly and sniffled when he put his arm around her.

  “You need to be ’round people who love you tonight. Come on. Let’s get to the inn. What happened?”

  Tilly let out an exhausted sigh. “It’s . . . Everyone wants to know if I’m going. And I don’t want to. It scares me, Rodger! I know that everyone else here loves it, but I saw something different than the rest of you!”

  “You don’t have to go, Tilly. It’s all right. You can stay home all week when they come, bundled up in your blankets and drinking hot tea with honey.” He smiled one of his most infectious smiles and patted her shoulder.

  Tilly nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s been quite a long day.”

  “That’s all right. Perhaps we’ll toast some bread with cheese over Caroline’s fire tonight. And we can have some fresh cranberry sauce with it as well! Eggs sound good to me, but I know you’re more for the bread and cheese . . .” He continued talking as they headed to the inn, lifting her spirits with every word.

  But in spite of Rodger’s assurances, she huddled beneath his arm, feeling the need of some protection against the sightless stare of Bromley Meadow looming behind them.

  4

  The next day Tilly scrubbed the kitchen floor while listening to Mrs. Gregson rant about Mrs. Carlisle and her daughter. “They didn’t leave ’til past dark! If they ever did leave. I never saw ’em go.”

  “Wait.” Tilly sat back on her heels and looked up at Mrs. Gregson. “They’re not eve
n here yet. It’s half past seven.”

  Tilly the Tardy indeed!

  “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Gregson.” Tilly dropped her scrub brush and nearly overturned her soap-filled bucket in her haste to scramble up. Ignoring Mrs. Gregson’s questioning shout, she dashed upstairs and into the parlor and began cleaning furiously before the new housekeeper could set up camp in the room. “Daphne! Ellen! Could you come help—”

  Then she glanced out the parlor’s large window and staggered backwards, bumping into a table and sending a vase full of flowers crashing to the floor. Tilly gripped the table with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut. Calm down. It’s not as though you’ve never seen it.

  But, in truth, she could never get used to the sight. Every autumn for ever-so-many years, she had seen this phenomenon occur. One minute there was nothing but dandelions atop Bromley Meadow, and the next minute . . .

  It had arrived.

  Tilly could hear the excited shouts of other villagers as they saw it too, but she wasn’t listening. The memories of that terrifying moment of many years ago flashed through her mind, and she felt bile rising in her throat.

  “Tilly! It’s here! Lord Hollingberry has given us the whole week off!”

  The other maids rushed about the house, never stopping to notice Tilly’s terrified state. Already she saw families hurrying out to Bromley Meadow to have a grand time. Shops closed and children were let out of school . . .

  . . . For there, reaching up to the sky, was a massive tent painted in the most magnificent colors. Emerald-green stripes, deep-burgundy stripes, gold stripes, and even peacock-blue stripes adorned the tall tent; and scattered around it were little, aged wagons of pastel colors and booths with vendors awaiting their first customers.

  A slight fog still clung rebelliously to the meadow’s rolling hills and, as the sun shone down, the grass twinkled with dew. It was a beautiful sight to the people of Winslow and, while they rushed to get ready for the day, the thought of it danced about in their minds. For a week there would be nothing but fun in the village.