The Conjured Woman

by Anne Groß

  Near the bottom of the steps, Adelaide stumbled. She clutched at the Minister to regain her balance, but he took a step away and let go of her arm. She tumbled down the rest of the stairs and sprawled into the foyer. Her maid, holding her broom like a weapon, flew from the kitchen hallway to see what the noise was all about.

  “Do not be alarmed, Agnes.” Adelaide knew her smile wasn’t convincing. She pulled herself back up to her feet. “There has been a misunderstanding. I’m sure it will work itself out. Please let my clients know I will return soon.”

  The little maid nodded slowly and lowered the broom, showing no confidence that anyone, even her powerful mistress, would be released quickly once taken. She turned to the Minister. “Is it true what they’re saying?”

  He replied with the practiced gasp that no gossip could resist. “I don’t know. Tell me: what is it that they are saying?” Adelaide hissed in pain as the Minister’s grip returned to tighten around her forearm.

  “You’ve not heard?” Agnes looked pleased. When the Minister shook his head with anticipation and leaned in towards her, she continued. “They say the Emperor has lost a beloved jewel! His missing mistress has skin kissed dark by the sands of Egypt, eyes like glittering emeralds, and auburn hair as soft as spun silk. Is it true?”

  His expression froze with the exception of his eyes, which rolled up to fix over the woman’s shoulder. “There is and was no mistress. The Emperor is forever loyal to his wife Josephine.”

  The maid huffed in disappointment to hear the Minister’s cold response. She turned to Adelaide. “And what of my future husband? Am I not to be married?”

  “Oh Agnes,” Adelaide breathed and reflexively clutched the cards still tucked in her pocket. “I saw him just last evening. He is no longer a shadow—you will meet him soon. Your days of being a simple maid are almost over.”

  Agnes smiled happily, as Adelaide was pushed out the front door.

  THE RELUCTANT MAID

  After Thomas dumped her unceremoniously from his arms onto her mattress, Elise rolled over and stared at the wall without saying goodnight. The room was so dark she had to reach out and touch the wall to convince herself it was still there. It was only when Mary finally entered with a candle that she stopped obsessively moving her fingertips over the bumps on its surface, hoping for a chink to press that would magically swing the wall around and send her back to the 21st Century.

  She listened to the quiet rustlings as her roommate undressed, slipped into bed, and blew out the candle. When Mary’s breathing grew steady, she turned over onto her back and stared into the darkness towards the ceiling. Sometime in the early morning Elise shifted her obsessive thinking from the unanswerable puzzle of her strange situation, to the unbearably stuffy air in the room. She climbed onto her feet and reached towards the little window suspended over her bed. Moving her hands in the dark around the window’s casing, she tried and failed to push the window open. It was only when Mary’s shoe hit the wall dangerously close to her head that she stopped banging on the stuck sash. The barmaid’s aim was surprisingly good, even in the black night. Knowing a second shoe might hit its target, Elise made a herculean effort to lift the window and it finally opened three inches with a horrible squeal that sent a tremor down her spine. A cold breeze laden with the smell of thick smoke, horse and human excrement, and various other rotting things Elise didn’t want to think about or identify smacked her in the face.

  “Close the damned window,” Mary groaned from her bed. The second shoe hit the wall near Elise’s shoulder. “You’ll kill us all.”

  Elise whipped both shoes back at Mary as hard as she could and took satisfaction from the resulting screech. Quickly she drew the protective curtain around her bed before all out war started. Then she slammed the window shut.

  When she woke, it took Elise a while to cut through her groggy fog and realize she wasn’t in Tucson anymore. She pulled the scratchy wool blanket up to her chin against the cold and wrinkled her nose at the smell. Again, she stared at the ceiling and was tempted to stay in bed all day. Metaphysics was supposed to be real only for people who lived in Sedona with their crystal pendants and scented candles, and even then it was only real in their own minds. There had to be tons of other people who would be overjoyed to fall into a wormhole, or whatever it was she fell into, why couldn’t they have done it instead of her? The injustice of it all put her in a black mood. Briefly, she considered what would happen if she refused to leave her bed. Either she’d rot slowly as she developed bedsores and starved, or everything would return to normal when fate got bored with her. She rolled back onto her side and wondered how long she would last on a lumpy mattress that crunched every time she moved. It felt strange to anthropomorphize fate, but it was easier than thinking her travel through time was the result of a random bit of unexplainable weather, like being struck by lightning. Who ever did this to her must really hate her. Why else would she get stuck in a time with no toilets?

  Finally, she decided she had two choices: find a way to get back or accept her situation and conform to the new rules. If she had landed with more resources—money, for instance—she might have tried hiring a carriage and making for the sea. Wealthy people didn’t need to worry about conforming to society. They could be as odd and off-kilter as they wanted as long as they were generous. But she didn’t have money and, as a result, she would have to learn to fit in. The one thing the pub did afford her was a small sense of normalcy. At the pub, conforming to new rules would be easy since they were relatively the same as any bar in any time: play nice and you could continue to drink. With her eyes closed and a mug of beer in her fist, Elise could fool herself into thinking she was still in Tucson, which was a small luxury necessary for her continued sanity. She would stay, make the pub home-base, and learn how to maneuver in this new world until she could figure something else out.

  Elise crooked a finger around the bed curtain and peeked into the room. Mary’s bed was empty, which gave her the courage to pull the curtain all the way back for a better view. The heavy wooden cross had been returned to its hook next to the door. The white enameled basin was back on the rickety wooden table and a large matching urn rested on the floor next to it—her bath, Elise realized. She didn’t hold much hope that the water would still be warm. On the chair was a pile of neatly folded clothes.

  Although she itched to wash the yuck off her body and unfold the gowns to examine their style, she rolled over to face the wall, still stuck on the idea that if she ignored it all, it would all go away. She squeezed her eyes shut. Then the pressure in her bladder made her sit up. Biology always trumps metaphysics, she thought as she pulled out the bedpan.

  It was late when Elise finally made her way downstairs and walked through the dining hall. The few men still seated in the room had already pushed back their breakfast plates. Self consciously, Elise smoothed her dress over her torso when they nodded at her from their tables and followed her with their eyes. It had taken some time to figure out how to put her new clothes on, and she still wasn’t confident that she’d dressed correctly.

  The Quiet Woman felt differently than it had the night before—the fire in the great fireplace was smaller and no longer flashed orange and blue; the smell from the kitchen was more sour milk and thin porridge and less beef stew. Elise walked around to the other side of the bar and ducked through the door. Unluckily, Mrs. Postlethwaite was just as large and animated as she had been the night before. “Where have you been?” she asked loudly as Elise stepped into the kitchen and began to look around. “Mary’s done all your chores and her own too, and is gone already for the water.”

  Elise gave a shrug of apology. The effort of attempting a more sincere response didn’t seem necessary, given the circumstances. It was all a mirage. Soon she’d be back in Tucson.

  Mrs. Postlethwaite carefully set down the butcher’s knife that always seemed to be in her hand. The gesture didn’t look like a sign of goodwill and the kitchen was heavy with silence while
the cook sized Elise up with a squint-eyed, head to toe glare. “Cat’s got your tongue?”

  “I’ve been sick,” Elise said sullenly. “But I’m here now.”

  Mrs. Postlethwaite glared a little longer before trying to smile. “Well then. Never mind. Get yourself some breakfast.” She pointed to a large jar resting on the top of a lidded barrel. Inside the jar, eggs and beets floated like medical specimens in cloudy pink brine. Elise breathed a sigh of relief and her stomach rumbled with the anticipated pleasure.

  As Elise sucked on a pickled egg, she watched Mrs. Postlethwaite sink one hand into a large hunk of meat sitting directly on the wooden table in front of her to grasp what Elise guessed was a femur. Her other hand reached for the knife and flicked it skillfully around the bone. The heavy kitchen table rocked slightly on its uneven legs while Mrs. Postlethwaite’s strong arms pulled and sliced, butterflying the thigh.

  Even though the day had hardly begun, the kitchen was already unbearably hot from the fire that roared in the open hearth. Mrs. Postlethwaite’s cheeks were pink from the heat, and her sleeves were damp and rolled up high on her strong biceps. A crumb of pink flesh, as big as an earlobe, seemed to eject itself into the air. Elise ducked and cringed. Mrs. Postlethwaite didn’t seem to notice.

  “Are you preparing something special?” Elise asked, not knowing what else to say. She felt stupid just standing there, but deliberately didn’t ask how she could help.

  The cook smiled but didn’t look up from her work. “Folks do like the Missus’s stuffed ham,” she replied.

  “That’s a ham?”

  The knife paused in the air for just a moment, hardly long enough to lose prep time, but long enough for Mrs. Postlethwaite to shoot Elise another look, obviously making judgments about her worth but politely remaining mute on the subject. She started to explain the recipe. “First I take out the bone and then I fill the hole with chopped apples, onions, chopped sage, and a cup of chopped parsley. Then I add two big hands full of bread rubbed small,” she stopped again, this time long enough to rub her palms together to ostensibly demonstrate making bread crumbs and used the moment to roll her shoulders back in a quick stretch. “And salt and pepper,” she returned to hacking at the femur. “Then I beat six eggs to frothiness and throw that over all and mix well and put the whole mess into the ham hole. It’s then tied in a cloth and boiled all day.” The cook beamed at Elise, her first sincere smile, demonstrating her pride in the cleverness of the recipe. “I’ve already done the one, the rest of the beast is over there waiting.” She pointed to the other end of the kitchen through an open door that led to a courtyard. A huge mound was hanging under a bloody shroud. Flies were circling. “I’ll be salting it later today,” Mrs. Postlethwaite said. “You can save a good deal of money by doing your own butchering.”

  “That’s good to know,” Elise drawled. The day was already getting worse. Elise didn’t know much about the culinary arts, but detected something odd about the recipe and was grumpy enough to allow her disbelief to be heard in her voice. “So, you’re really going to boil that?” She nodded at the thigh.

  “Yes. Boil. The cloth will be tied up tight so the stuffing don’t fall out,” Mrs. Postlethwaite repeated, her smile disappearing. “The stuffing cuts out of the meat very nicely after it’s cold from the cellar. You’ll see.” She straightened up and placed her hands on her hips effectively ending the tutorial.

  The idea of eating gelatinized cold ham stuffing later that evening caused Elise’s eyes to dart around the kitchen for possible alternatives. She saw nothing but tools of the trade. Pewter plates, scrubbed shiny, were lined neatly on shelves. Ironware in various forms—cauldrons, hooks, pointy things, things for fireplaces, things for frying—were all organized and in their designated places. Linens were folded and stacked next to white enameled basins. Barrels with lids lined one wall; a ladle was hooked to the lip of an open barrel containing water. There were no boxes of mac and cheese anywhere to be seen, thought Elise with disappointment.

  Two cats slipped into the kitchen from the open courtyard door and walked brazenly towards the table to rub their heads on Mrs. Postlethwaite’s ankles. She absently shook her leg and they swatted at her skirts before skidding away sideways across the wooden floorboards. Mrs. Postlethwaite pulled out a basket from behind the larder door. “Can you peel apples?” she asked by way of an order and placed the basket on the wide kitchen table in front of Elise. Without waiting for an answer, the older woman went back to the larder to pull out two onions and added them to the basket of apples. “You can chop these too.”

  There was nothing worse than chopping onions, Elise thought, and noted the ones in the basket looked especially fat and juicy. She thought fondly of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before reaching despondently towards the apples. “The paring knife is in that drawer,” Mrs. Postlethwaite waved again carelessly with the butcher knife. “I’ll need four peeled and chopped with both those onions.”

  The fatty beef she’d eaten the night before had practically made her eyes roll back with joy when she’d first spooned it into her mouth. Now the memory of it was revolting. Tonight she’d have gelatinous ham; tomorrow it could be anything—tongue, tripe, maybe even pigeon. Elise shuddered and dragged herself back to the table with the paring knife, making sure to stand as far away as possible from the cook so as to avoid any flying bits. She had to find a way to Tucson soon before she starved to death, she thought.

  They worked silently together until Mrs. Postlethwaite asked suddenly, “What shall I call you then?”

  “Elise,” Elise responded.

  “What’s your family name, Elise?

  “Dubois.”

  “Elise Duboys? That’s sounds very French.” After a long silence, Mrs. Postlethwaite huffed. “Thomas did say you had a strange way about your speech. I don’t know as how he noticed, seeing as you’re so conversational. But maybe you don’t speak much English. We don’t get French people at the Quiet Woman. You’ll be hard pressed to find a place for yourself if you’re looking to find other frogs around here.”

  Elise shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not French,” she said.

  “Not French? Then what are you? You’re not one of us, that’s sure. How do you come to be here?”

  “I don’t remember,” Elise said. “I think it’ll come back to me, but I just need some time.” She hoped that claiming loss of memory wouldn’t get her a visit to a nineteenth century home for the insane, but she figured it was a safer explanation than time travel.

  Luckily, the opportunity for Mrs. Postlethwaite to pepper Elise with more questions ended when Mary came in through the courtyard door with two full buckets sloshing at her sides. “So the Queen decided to get out of bed?” Mary asked rhetorically. “She kept me up half the night banging on the window.” She poured the buckets into the water barrel. “Won’t the Missus be wanting to send her back soon?”

  “Send her back where? She says she can’t remember where home is. Besides, you know how Mr. Ferrington feels about strays.” To emphasize her point she shooed a cat off the table.

  “Well, doesn’t everyone seem lively this morning?” Richard said as he headed towards the larder. He had come through into the kitchen from a side door Elise hadn’t noticed before. Mrs. Postlethwaite threw her hand over her mouth in surprise and Mary blushed deeply. All three women studied Richard, but he seemed unfazed by Mrs. Postlethwaite’s criticism, if he had heard it at all. “I’m so pleased to see how well you’re adjusting this morning, Elise,” Richard called from the larder. His voice was muffled by whatever he had managed to find for his breakfast. “Mrs. P?” Richard asked turning back towards the cook with a hunk of bread in one hand and another hunk stuffed in the pocket of his cheek. Mary closed the larder door that he’d left wide open. “Could you manage a cup of tea?”

  “Of course, Mr. Ferrington,” she replied. She motioned for Mary to start steeping the tea, and the young woman pushed roughly past Elise to retrieve the kettle from
its place over the fire.

  As Mrs. Postlethwaite went back to preparing the ham, Mrs. Ferrington walked in, yawning and rubbing her eyes. “My dear girl, what ever are you doing?” she asked Elise.

  “Peeling apples.” Elise dared a glance at the dining room door for an opportunity to escape what was becoming a crowded kitchen.

  “How very strangely you go about it,” replied Mrs. Ferrington, looking absently at the button-sized peels that had scattered across the table. Then her son caught her attention. “Why must you hide your chin in those awful cravats? You have such a nice, strong jaw, Richard. It’s a pity to hide it in your collar.” She reached over and started plucking at Richard’s neck.

  “Mother...” Richard cut his sentence short and waved a hunk of his bread defensively in the air while he ducked his chin further into billowy silk.

  “Tea, Mrs. Ferrington?” called out Mrs. Postlethwaite helpfully.

  “Oh yes, please,” replied the older woman taking her tea from Mary without turning away from her son. “You must make sure those barrels are delivered today. Have you spoken with Thomas about the delivery?”

  “No Mother, I haven’t even had my breakfast yet.”

  “Just remember those barrels. And speak with Thomas.” Mrs. Ferrington paused to look at Richard like she was studying a work of art, with her head tilted and her eyes narrowed. “Might you let your hair grow just a little? That way you could pull it off your forehead and into a queue. Have you begun to go bald, dear? Is that why you’re combing your hair forward like that? I think Mrs. Aldren has a hair tonic, although I’m afraid it’s much too late for her husband, may he rest in peace. Would you like me to get some for you?” she took a sip of tea. “Oh! This is much too strong,” Mrs. Ferrington exclaimed, and turned towards Mrs. Postlethwaite.