Hannah nudged Ziporah and while Baruch and Zev helped Malka make her plans to look for a job, she and her daughter brought a fresh pot of tea and an apple kugel, still warm from the oven, to celebrate Malka’s arrival.
Through all of this talk, Zev had been itching to break his big news. Only today had all of the arrangements come together. He clapped his hands and rubbed them with enthusiasm as the mouth-watering smell of the kugel prompted happy murmurings at the table.
“A special treat for a special celebration,” he announced. “This is a day for big news. I, too, have something to tell. Malka, your arrival has brought us great luck. I wish to tell you that even if you live during the week in the house where you go to find work, you are, of course, going to be coming to us on your day off. I think it only right that you and Ziporah should have your own room, a proper room for sleeping, with two beds and a desk for study. Just as my sons should also have bedrooms with real beds instead of having every night to make up a place to sleep.”
“Zev!” Hannah snorted. “What nonsense are you talking about?”
“No,” he held up his hand to silence her. “I was going to wait to tell all of you the news, but with so much talk of dreaming and planning and such joy to have Malka here with us, I cannot wait to tell you.” He put his hands down on the table and looked into their expectant faces. This set off a boisterous chorus. Zev stood up to address them, holding his thumbs high in his suspenders as he had seen important men do when making speeches.
“Dear family, in a few months, we are going to move to a new house on Selkirk Avenue.”
A cheer went up. Then everyone talked at once demanding details.
“Did someone give to you a sack of gold for your handsome smile today?” Hannah flipped her hands to dismiss his comments, certain he was playing a game with them.
“It is no joke. Our little restaurant has done very well. And my business with the cart has also been good, very good, in the last two years and a few other things have been lucky for us as well,” he shrugged thinking of his windfall from the Franklin Syndicate investment. “Today, I had a talk with a contractor and gave a down payment for building our new house, a big house with lots of rooms for all of us.”
The questions flew at Zev, everyone laughing and talking over one another. He held out his hands to shush them and continued. “The house will be on Selkirk Avenue just near King Street. Construction will begin next month. Before winter comes we should be able to move over there.
“Where is Selkirk Avenue?” asked Malka.
“On the other side of the tracks, just a few blocks north of here,” answered Isaac.
“Who will come north across the tracks to have a meal? There are just farms up there.” Hannah was skeptical.
“There are more houses on Selkirk than you think. On Pritchard, too, even on Manitoba Avenue, there are some.” Zev’s hands flew with excitement as he spoke. “I have been watching. All along Main Street from Sutherland up past Selkirk Avenue will be many businesses. It will feel like a real shtetl, you will see. It will be full of houses and full of businesses in the years ahead. It is all the talk at the synagogue that the whole community is moving north of the tracks,” answered Zev. “It’s going to be a very important neighborhood. Everything will be new. You’ll see how quickly our friends will be coming north. And don’t forget all of the people still to come from the old country. We will have a very good business there.”
Hannah could see that her husband had been planning this for a long time and that his information was, as always, to be trusted. Zev never spoke before he knew what he was talking about.
“Oh, my, Zev. A new house?” She took his hand.
“It’s true. A big two-storey house, we will have, with a restaurant and a little grocery store together, facing out to Selkirk and lots of space upstairs for all of the bedrooms we need. Behind the store and the restaurant will be the kitchen and we will have also a real dining room, just for our family and even with a special cupboard I will build just for the dishes for Passover, Hannah.”
Everyone was laughing and shouting about the news. They had made it. They truly were alrightniks in the new country.
“You see,” said Zev, “It is not just for us that we will have our home and business.” He smiled at his family. “We have all of these fine young people coming up. All of you, one day, God willing, will be married. Like Malka says, you will find romance in the new country.”
She covered her face with her hands and everyone laughed. Zev enjoyed the moment, then broke in to finish his thought. “We will have a big table with lots of room for the little ones in the next generation that we will one day celebrate Shabbat and all of the other holidays with us. What do you say about that?”
Hannah was beside herself with happiness.
“Zev, don’t be thinking I am spoiled being in the new country, but might I ask one question?”
He nodded and stroked her cheek. “Ask many. It is your house you are moving to, my dear one. We will ourselves be the owners of this house. No more renting.”
She played with her fingers and asked shyly, “Do you think in all of those rooms we might somewhere have a water closet?”
“Yes. A water closet you will have.”
“With flushing?”
“Yes, with flushing,” Zev announced loudly, to much approval. “It might take some time for the city to connect it to the water supply, but I guarantee you, that we’ll be ready for the modern world!
Chapter Twenty-Two
The New Maid
July 22, 1900
Malka was almost walking on air as she followed the energetic Mrs. Butterfield. She had just been accepted as the new maid at Ravenscraig Hall. Now all she had to do was remember to answer to the name Maisie, and everything would be fine. She hadn’t counted on such difficulty in assuming her new identity.
By the time they were on the second floor and halfway through the tour of the mansion, she knew she was going to adore working with the no-nonsense housekeeper. Mrs. Butterfield was kind, accommodating and very thorough in her comments and instructions.
“Miss Emma’s room is at the end of the hall on the left. Her parents’ rooms are opposite hers. I’m sure you will find her an agreeable child, but you must be careful not to spoil her.” Mrs. Butterfield turned and peered over her spectacles. “She will test you, I can assure you, Maisie.”
“She seems very bright, Mrs. Butterfield.”
“Oh, indeed, that she is. The term strong willed comes to mind as well. But, she truly is a fine little girl, and I think the two of you will get on very well.” She bustled down the hallway, stopping to inspect an ornate side table to be sure that the housemaids had done a proper job in dusting it. Satisfied, she pulled out a key and worked the lock on door. It opened into a brightly decorated room with a beautiful view of the river. “The guestrooms are all on the second floor,” Mrs. Butterfield explained. “Mrs. Willows thought it too much to have her company climb any higher.”
Maisie fought to avoid gawking at the rooms as she followed Mrs. Butterfield. Surely, Kensington Palace in London could not be finer than Ravenscraig Hall’s lush interior. She would have quite a story to tell her family. Imagine! She had a job! The interview with Mr. Chadwick had been quite unnerving at the outset, for his manner was so formal, but she quickly realized what he wanted to hear. Everything she had learned during her time with the Babcocks would help her at Ravenscraig. At the end of the interview, he had offered warm words of encouragement and told her that he was very comfortable recommending that she be hired. She almost hopped with joy.
“Only two rooms on the third floor are in regular use,” the housekeeper said, eyeing the stairs and lifting her skirts to make the climb. “Mr. Elliot and Mr. James both have their suites up here. Very nice accommodations they are, with full water closets in each. There are also some storage rooms for linens and household supplies, and a few rooms that are locked and never in use on the north side of the thir
d floor. Too many bloody rooms,” she whispered. “Not worth heating in the winter.”
Mrs. Butterfield stopped for a moment to catch her breath at the top of the stairs. “Mr. James attends the University of Manitoba and it is his father’s desire that he have as few distractions as possible so that he is able to study.”
Mrs. Butterfield turned, frowning, to face Malka. “Maisie, tell me again, how old are you?”
“Seventeen, mum,” she answered with more haste than she intended.
“I see.”
Maisie flushed under the searching gaze. Had she stretched her story beyond believability by adding three years to her age?
She had. Mrs. Butterfield saw a girl not a day over fifteen, a lass who might even be as young as thirteen. The child was well-trained though, knowledgeable and most important, respectful. The housekeeper found herself immediately liking the capable girl with the intelligent look in her eyes. If she had been lucky enough to have a daughter herself, she would have been proud to have one like this Maisie girl. She was not one of those know-it-all missies, who bounce their empty heads up and down like little birds but can’t accomplish the simplest task without supervision. Maisie seemed most anxious to have the job and to prove that she would do well at it. It was also apparent from her tardy response to her name that Maisie was something she had made up. No matter. A chosen name for a new beginning. Well, she’d done it herself, hadn’t she? Rescued from a Chicago brothel by Mr. Butterfield, she was. He had put her on the train for Winnipeg himself with a purse filled with enough money to give her a new start. No one had to know she really wasn’t his widow and that he was in good health with the real Mrs. Butterfield at home. All these years later, she missed him, still.
“Do you have any questions, Maisie?” Mrs. Butterfield brought her hands together in front of her apron and smiled.
Malka had many, but didn’t want to ask any for fear of jeopardizing her new job. She would stick with the essentials.
“Just one, Mrs. Butterfield. The uniform is very fine and I do believe it will take me some time to have enough money to pay for one. Do you think I might borrow a uniform in the meantime?”
Mrs. Butterfield was taken aback. “Dear girl. You are not to concern yourself with that. Mr. Willows is very particular about appearances, as you will learn. Your uniforms will be provided to you at no cost. You will need both housekeeping and parlor uniforms, as Mr. Chadwick wishes to train you for dining room service. Now, listen to me, Maisie. It is of the utmost importance that you take scrupulously good care of your uniforms and never allow yourself to appear improperly groomed or dressed. Mr. Willows is exceptionally sensitive about these things. Any offence in this area, I can tell you, will get you sacked on the spot.”
Mrs. Butterfield peeked over Maisie to be sure they were alone in the hallway. Raising her hand to keep Maisie quiet, she spoke barely above a whisper. “I can also tell you that you will hear and see a good deal at Ravenscraig that you might find offensive or even shocking. Mr. Willows has a temper. You are to pay no mind to his eruptions. If he should set off in your presence, just do your duties and slip away as quickly as possible. There is a clear divide between upstairs and downstairs in Ravenscraig and as long as you keep that in mind you will be fine. If you have any questions, you come directly to me. And never discuss what you might have overheard from the family with the other servants.”
She stopped and listened intently for a moment, then cupped her hands around her mouth as she mouthed the words, “Especially not with Mr. Chadwick!”
“Yes, mum.” Maisie drew back and felt her skin prickle.
Mrs. Butterfield smiled slowly as she patted the girl on the shoulder.
“Come along then,” she said, loudly enough to be heard if Mr. Chadwick was in earshot, as she suspected. “At the south end of the hall is the service stairway, which goes directly from the attic down to the kitchen. In the attic there is storage space and additional quarters for some of the household staff. It’s a bit of a climb, but you’ll get used to it. You’re taking Lizzie’s place up there and she will be moving downstairs next to the kitchen. I’ll show you where the cleaning supply cupboard is on this floor and then we’ll go up to see your room.”
Mrs. Butterfield swung the door open and Maisie caught her breath. It was a narrow room with a round window at the end. A little cot with a pretty green coverlet and large feather pillow sat on one side of the window. On the opposite wall were a small writing table, a lamp and chair. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed and a row of neatly arranged clothing hooks adorned the wall adjacent to the door. A thickly woven wool rug was centered in the tiny room. Maisie could hardly believe her luck. Having slept on chairs in the kitchen with the Babcock family, she had dared to hope for a bed here at Ravenscraig, but it never occurred to her that she might be given her own room!
“It’s a bit cold in here in winter, I must tell you,” Mrs. Butterfield told her. “But I have some big quilts to keep you from freezing to death. Summer afternoons can be quite hot up in this attic, but the window does open and you will find you get a nice breeze off the river. That’s about all that I can think of to tell you. I trust you will find the bed comfortable enough.”
As Maisie’s gaze traveled the room in obvious appreciation, Mrs. Butterfield knew this was the right girl for Ravenscraig.
“Do you have any questions, Maisie?”
“No. Thank you, Mrs. Butterfield. It’s absolutely splendid and I shall be very comfortable here, I am sure.”
“Well, then. I just have one question for you.” The housekeeper brought her hands together and looked straight into Maisie’s eyes. “Are you a church-going girl?”
Maisie was struck with terror; certain Mrs. Butterfield had caught her in her lie.
“I, well, I … yes, that is … I used to be, that is when I was in England,” she stammered, “and I, well, I haven’t as yet, joined or found a church here, not the right church that is, so, no I suppose I am not, at this particular moment, a church-going girl.” She snapped her mouth shut to prevent further damage, suddenly aware that she must sound like a complete idiot.
“Good!” said Mrs. Butterfield. Seeing the look on Maisie’s face she hastened to add, “Oh dear, I didn’t mean to upset you. It matters not at all whether you attend church. No one in this house will judge you on that. My question is entirely of a practical nature as, you see, there is the matter of scheduling your day off. I, myself, go to church only once in a while, but I like my Sundays off. Most of the others do as well, and that sometimes leaves us a problem with who will work on Sundays.”
“Oh, my goodness, Mrs. Butterfield. I am so very happy to have this job. I would be pleased to work Sundays. All Sundays, if you wish.”
“Well, that’s very good of you. It would make things easier. Very well then, you will be off on Friday evenings and if you choose to leave the house, you will have to be back on Saturday night.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Butterfield.” Maisie couldn’t believe her good fortune. It was as if God had taken her by the hand and led her to Ravenscraig. That she would have this job and also time off that would allow her to join her family on the Sabbath was a spectacular gift.
Maisie’s first few weeks at Ravenscraig Hall flew by as she worked to learn everything she could about the proper care and smooth management of the house. True to her word, Mrs. Butterfield had taken care to school her in every aspect of the household work that she needed to learn. This guidance helped to make a seamless transition for Maisie with the Willows family and she quickly learned their habits and how to best serve their needs. She found the family to be a little pretentious, as the English often were, but it was not anything she was unaccustomed to seeing.
She was ever alert for signs that her secret might be seen, but not once had anyone hinted that she was anything but a proper English girl. Her cousins had been so right about the benefit of her accent. She talked to Lizzie about London and the Babcocks but said not a word about th
e Zigmans of Patrick Street. No one seemed interested in learning more. She assumed they were busy with their own lives and protecting their own secrets. Lizzie was an expert. She simply refused to talk of her past. Maisie learned from her example and adopted the same behavior. They all lived a lie, in one way or another. It was the only way any of them would get ahead.
She was a little wary of Mr. Chadwick, who clearly ran the house, but found Mrs. Butterfield easy to accommodate. Things went smoothly as long as everything was done precisely her way.
Just when Maisie had found a comfortable rhythm, Mrs. Willows threw the house into complete chaos with the packing for the Grand Tour. Lizzie bore the brunt of the work, as well as Mrs. Willows’ frequent fits of frustration, so Maisie was left to take on Lizzie’s usual housework. Maisie was greatly impressed by Lizzie, who had a knack for calming the mistress’s nerves. Lizzie was also a helpful friend and ally and Maisie was saddened when she winked and cheerily waved good-bye as they embarked on their journey. They would be gone for ten to twelve weeks, and Maisie wondered if she would die of boredom in the house.
Then came the day when the books rained down on her head. It was a particularly quiet day and Maisie was in the kitchen scraping carrots, when providence came calling.
“Do you know anything of gardening, Maisie?” Mrs. Butterfield stood on her toes and peeked out the kitchen window. The groundskeepers were almost finished with tidying the perennial gardens for winter and would soon be heading to her kitchen garden.
“I know a little,” answered Maisie.
“Well, dear girl, we are about to lose the last of the treasures in our little herb garden. Would you mind going about with a basket to see what you might find to save before those men get in there and destroy what’s left?”
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