by Aya Ling
“Where’s Elle?” I demand.
“She’s upstairs, gettin’ Miss Bianca ready.” Martha sets the basket on the floor. “Shouldn’t you be changing as well?”
“For what?”
“You got an invitation to dinner.” Martha hands me a card. “I tried to tell you, miss, but you were in a hurry.”
I barely glance at the card. It’s from Lloyd, my one and only suitor. Still, I put the card back on the tray with a grimace.
“Tell him I have a cold, no, tell him I got a rash from a weird plant while attending the flower show. Anything, just tell him I can’t go.”
“Miss Katriona!” Martha says, shocked. “What’s gotten into your head now?”
But I’m already pounding up the stairs two at a time. I make a turn toward Bianca’s room; the door is ajar. I burst into the room without knocking.
I’ve seen Bianca’s room before, though I never really entered it. It’s enormous, with two wardrobes, a dresser twice the size of mine, and the assortment of bottles on her dressing table is enough to fill a cosmetics counter. With all the resources available, plus her natural beauty, is it any surprise she’s one of the most beautiful girls in the kingdom?
The air is humid and damp, the room warmer than normal. An unpleasant odor of something burning assaults my nostrils. A glance at a pair of iron tongs lying on the table tells me what Bianca went through. Curled hair has been the latest hairstyle, and woe befall Miss Perfect Bradshaw if she doesn’t keep up with the most recent fashions.
Now she’s sitting in front of her mirror—again, twice the size of mine—while Elle stands behind her, arranging her wavy hair into a large bun, though leaving a few long, feathery curls framing her face.
Both of them look surprised when I barge in.
“Elle, you’d better come with me now,” I say. “I just heard that Jimmy is dying.”
The hairbrush clatters on the floor, along with several combs and pins. A good chunk of Bianca’s hair, originally bound skillfully on top of her head, falls over her right shoulder.
“You clumsy dolt!” Bianca’s voice is laced with anger. “I’m already late for dinner and then you go and make things worse.”
Elle’s lip quivers; for a moment I think she’s going to cry. I stalk toward her and grab her wrist.
“Hurry. The duke says Jimmy is unlikely to last through the night. You’ve got to come before he breathes his last.”
Elle’s bright blue eyes fill up with tears, but she nods. “Excuse me, miss. I must be going home.”
“Not before you finish my hair,” Bianca says firmly. “I am not going to a dinner party with my hair half done.”
Elle trembles, but she stands firm. “I must go.”
Bianca rises, her eyes filled with fury. “How. Dare. You.,” she hisses. “You’re a servant, and you dare disobey your mistress?”
“Shut up, Bianca,” I snap. “Her brother’s dying, and all you care about is your hairstyle?”
I pick up the brush from the floor, grab Bianca’s hand, and slap the brush on her palm. “Here. You’ve got two perfectly functioning hands. So do it yourself.”
That flabbergasted expression on Bianca’s face is so priceless, I’ve never wished more for a camera. Behind the door there’s a choked noise, probably from Martha.
But there’s no time to waste. I drag Elle away with me, out of the door, down the stairs.
Outside, the duke’s carriage is still waiting, thank God. I push Elle into the carriage, get in myself, and order the coachman to drive to Mrs. Thatcher’s place. It’s only when the carriage starts moving that I look down at my hands, still shocked at myself.
Did I just tell Bianca to shut up? Man, once she gets over her shock, she’ll be furious.
Too late to worry about her temper now. Besides, few things are frightening since I poured wine down Andrew McVean’s shirt.
Henry’s coachman has obviously been to Elle’s place before, because we get there in remarkably little time. I recognize Edward’s carriage outside as well, a sleek black vehicle that doesn’t have any gilded trappings. Maybe he prefers a simple, minimalist style—or he doesn’t want to attract attention. I guess it’s both. A couple kids in rags hang around but scamper off when our carriage arrives.
Elle and I spring off and race up into the house. It’s incredibly crowded. Mrs. Thatcher is crying silently by the bed while Billy clings to her, looking lost and forlorn. Henry is torn between comforting them and checking on Jimmy, who’s so thin that he’s little better than a skeleton. Mr. Wellesley and Edward stand in a corner with grim expressions.
Elle staggers toward the bed and kneels beside her little brother.
“Jimmy,” she whispers. A big tear trickles down her cheek. “Oh Jimmy, can you hear me?”
Little Jimmy’s hand twitches, then raises ever so slightly. Elle wraps the bone-thin hand in hers.
“El…Elle,” comes a tiny voice, barely more than a squeak. “You’re here. No…no work today?”
More tears run down Elle’s cheek. “Yes, dearest. I had to see you, so of course I came.”
I can’t help it either; my vision is blurred and my chest feels hollow. Jimmy’s gaze turns toward me; there is a questioning look in his eyes.
“Lady…you found him?”
“Yes,” I say softly. I’ve got to say that even if Galen did tell me about Snyder’s death. “Yes, thanks to you. I couldn’t have found him if you hadn’t given me a clue.”
A smile blossoms from his lips, which are pale and cracked, almost white.
“Glad I’ve helped. I’m only…sorry…I can’t take care of Mamsie anymore…” Jimmy stretches out another hand to Billy. “You’re the man of the house now. You’ve got to watch over Mamsie and Elle.”
Billy nods, wiping his nose on his sleeve. It’s absurd, a five-year-old promising to shoulder the duty of being head of the family.
“Buy Mamsie a new pair of mittens…her hands are awfully chapped in winter.” Jimmy’s finger moves; he points to a corner in the room. “I…have a shilling buried under the basin…lift the board off the floor…that will start you off. Don’t cry…I don’t mind dying…working in the factory…is too hard. Will…will it be better…in heaven?”
“Of course,” Elle whispers, her voice cracking. “No pain exists in heaven.”
He smiles again, and suddenly he looks young, like the ten-year-old he is. When I first met him, I thought he looked like a little old man, with a haggard face and crooked posture. Now, relieved of his duties and with the prospect of a better world beyond, his youthfulness has returned.
“Then…I can die happy.”
Slowly he closes his eyes. It’s just like in the movies—his bony hand goes limp, his body becomes a stiff, unmoving object as the life force drains away.
But it’s not a movie. As far as I’m immersed in this world, it’s horribly real. My first brush with death.
An anguished cry rises from Mrs. Thatcher.
“My poor boy…oh, my poor Jimmy, how could you leave us…”
And she breaks into stormy, wailing sobs, her entire body shaking with grief, until Elle puts her arms around her and draws her mother into a comforting embrace.
I can’t take it anymore. I get up and step away, choosing to look outside the window instead. There’s a rhododendron bush growing just by the house—the one that was planted by Adam Snyder, I assume.
A hand covers mine—warm, comforting, reassuring. I don’t even need to look up to know it’s Edward. I tighten my fingers around his, as though it’ll bring me strength.
One thing I know for sure. Whatever Godfrey or Edward says, I’m not going to keep quiet and confine myself to lady activities. Before I return to the modern world, I’ve got to try my best to improve the horrible conditions of the labor class here. I can’t bear to see another young life snuffed out. I can’t imagine hundreds—maybe thousands—of other “little old men” and “little old women” out there, living constantly in fear fo
r their lives, while callous brutes like McVean strut around with full bellies, fussing over how much more money there’s to be made.
The only problem is…how?
TWENTY-FOUR
Surprisingly, Bianca does not lash out when I return. I had fully expected an explosion of rage when I told her to do her own hair. But no, she just shoots me an icy, unfriendly glare at breakfast. I guess that since Lady Bradshaw found out about my friendship with the duke, my “stock” has gone up. I wonder what she’d say if she knew Edward nearly kissed me in the duke’s house. Would she believe me? Would she pin her hopes on me instead of Bianca?
“How is your relationship with the duke now?” Lady Bradshaw asks, taking a sip of coffee. “He lent you his carriage yesterday.”
I don’t answer. I’m not in the mood to be interrogated, not when I just witnessed a child die in front of my eyes.
“Katriona.” Lady Bradshaw narrows her eyes. “I asked you a question.”
I sigh. “Look, I don’t think it’s a good time now. He just failed to save a child’s life. He looked terrible when I left Elle’s place last night.”
“So he didn’t mention anything about the prince?” Bianca says.
Urgh. How could she mention Edward at a time like this?
“No.”
“Let us wait for a while,” Lady Bradshaw says. “Although we’ve lost our spy, Lady Mansfield tells me that the royal family should be announcing the ball soon. All they need is approval from the prince.”
“The ball?” I say. “It’s going to be held at last?”
“It could have been held earlier, if only the prince hadn’t been so occupied recently. He’s busy working on changing a law, I believe,” Lady Bradshaw says, looking annoyed. “By the way, where’s Elle? Hasn’t she returned yet?”
“She’s preparing for the funeral,” I say, my tone frigid. “Her brother just died.”
“How unfortunate,” Lady Bradshaw says, though she doesn’t look sympathetic at all. “I suppose, Bianca, you’ll have to use Martha instead.”
Bianca narrows her eyes. “This is the third time this month that she’s been absent when I needed her. Really, I can’t fathom why we should tolerate her behavior anymore. It’s inexcusable.”
“Third time this month?” Lady Bradshaw presses her lips together. “I must have a word with her.”
I don’t feel like going out today, so I tell Lady Bradshaw I’ll stay in my room and practice embroidery. That seems to please her so she lets me shut myself in my room. Of course I do nothing of the sort; I take up a newly released Gothic mystery and start to read.
Halfway through my book, there’s a poof and a cloud of smoke. Krev appears on the mantelpiece.
“So how’s it going between you and Eddie?”
I turn to the next page, pointedly ignoring him.
Krev spreads his wings and flies to my bed, landing on top of my book.
“I was planning to help you with the duke,” he says defensively. “But who knew that Eddie would show up instead? And I didn’t push you down the stairs, you lost your balance yourself. All I did was trip you when you tried to get up.”
In my mind flashes a scene of last evening, when I was sprawled on top of Edward, his chest warm and comforting. Even when my goal was to seduce the duke, I can’t help feeling relieved that it was Edward I crashed into. When he held me, his touch sending heat through me and his voice low and thrilling, I can’t deny that I enjoyed it.
“Whatever,” I grumble.
“The king was most impressed when I reported your latest…progress,” Krev says, giving me a wink. “But Morag threatened to kill me.”
“Why?”
“Because you pushed Eddie away when you saw me! Morag was furious that she missed a show. Next time I’ll just conceal myself behind the furniture.”
“There won’t be a next time,” I say, glaring.
Krev wags a finger. “Tsk, tsk, Miss Katriona. Your sister would have given an arm and leg to be in your shoes yesterday. Oh, and so would every girl in the kingdom.”
Yeah, I can’t deny that either. It’s such a weird and novel concept, me being able to attract a guy without even trying. And not just any guy—the most eligible bachelor in a kingdom. But then, maybe it isn’t that surprising. Because I am from the modern world, it’s natural that I’m not like other girls. It’s second nature to me that children shouldn’t work at all, that women should be allowed freedom to do anything they want. It isn’t because I’m special.
Not that it matters, anyway. Even though I’m gratified that I can attract a prince’s attention, it’s futile.
“Well, I suppose you’ll have to wait a long time,” I say, drawing my knees up to my chin. “Elle’s little brother is dead. Neither the prince nor his cousin will be interested in dating for now.”
Krev’s eyes bulge. “The kid died?”
I tell him briefly about yesterday evening. Krev chuckles when he learns I told Bianca to shut up and brush her own hair.
“Got to report this to the king as well,” he smirks. “There’s a thing you have in the twenty-first century—a video recorder made as small as your thumb? By the law of Barthelius, I sure wish I had one.”
I snort. “It wouldn’t work. First, I’d throw it out the window. Second, it would run out of batteries and there are no batteries here. Third, I doubt your king has a video player or even knows how to use one.”
Krev throws his head back and his laughter fills the room.
“Are you sure only I can hear you?” I say. “I swear the walls are vibrating.”
“Absolutely. The king put a strict binding spell on me. I can do a little magic, like helping you push the maid in the river and tripping you up when you knocked Eddie over, but he won’t allow the storybook characters to know I exist.”
“But what if…hypothetically speaking…what if I tell them about you?”
To my surprise, he grins. “Good luck making them believe you.”
Damn, he’s right.
In the evening I wait for Elle to bring the jug of water for my nightly rinse and wash. She usually is punctual, entering my room around half-past eight. But after the clock on the mantelpiece strikes nine and still no sign of the maid, I fling a wrap over my long silken nightgown and open the door.
Downstairs in the parlor, Lady Bradshaw’s stern voice can be heard.
“Here’s the wages up to this month. Now get out of my sight.”
Elle is hunched over two well-worn bags, dressed in a coat and boots.
“Mayn’t I bid goodbye to Miss Katriona?”
“She isn’t your friend, she is your mistress. Was your mistress. There’s no need for you to talk to her.”
“But I wanted to thank her for—”
“Haven’t you brought enough trouble for us? Van, remove her from my house this instant.”
“Stop!” I call, hurrying downstairs. Coldness stabs my feet as I tread on the stone floor. “Why are you firing her? What has she done?”
Lady Bradshaw folds her arms. “Katriona, return to your room this instant! You should never appear in your nightgown downstairs.”
I don’t move. “What has Elle done? She’s always been kind and obedient.”
“Obedient?” Lady Bradshaw hisses. For a moment, I can see how much Bianca resembles her in flesh and spirit. I wonder how much Katriona Bradshaw resembled her before I came to inhabit her body. “She abandoned your sister right in the middle of dressing her hair, when she was clearly aware there was an important dinner party to attend. Such willful disobedience is not to be tolerated.”
“She disobeyed Bianca because I told her to,” I say. “Because her brother was dying. You can’t be that heartless, to deprive her of the last chance to see her brother alive.”
For a second Lady Bradshaw looks taken aback. Then she snarls, “If it had been just that one time, I could have overlooked it. But she sneaked back to her family on several accounts. She had the nerve to ride in our carr
iage—a servant! Lords above, if any of our acquaintances knew, I would die of mortification. I cannot allow this to continue. She must leave.”
I am about to argue that I was the one who allowed her to cross the boundaries, when Elle shakes her head. “It’s all right, miss,” she says quietly. “I was prepared to leave. I’ve neglected my duties too much.”
“But none of this is your fault,” I argue. Seriously, isn’t there a law that protects the working rights of a servant? I can foresee Edward having to introduce another new law as soon as he passes the one for child labor.
“Since Jimmy died, I’d rather go home and stay with Mamsie for a bit,” Elle says. “Billy is with Mr. Wellesley, so I only need to take care of Mamsie.”
“But without a job, how are you going take care of your mother?”
“I’ll look for another job soon. There’s always a shortage of hired help,” Elle says. “Don’t worry, miss. We’ll manage.”
She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. There’s a steely resolve in her eyes that tells me it’s no use stopping her.
Elle curtsies to Lady Bradshaw. “I thank you, Madam, for taking me into your service when I was still a child. I wish you and Miss Bianca all the best.”
On an impulse, I step forward and give her a hug. Lady Bradshaw lets out a gasp of shock.
“Katriona! How could you!”
I ignore her. “Good luck, Elle. I’ll miss having you around.”
Her arms tighten around me. “Thank you, miss. You’ve been most generous and kind, and I’m sure your kindness will lead you to a brilliant match.”
Elle steps away and picks up her bags. She smiles and gives me a wave. She just lost her job, yet she doesn’t look crushed in the slightest. She looks strong and resilient and beautiful—totally different from the meek little servant girl I’m used to. If only Henry—I mean, Edward, could see her now.
“Goodbye.”
TWENTY-FIVE
I don’t speak to Bianca for the next few days. Every morning Martha comes to my room to help me dress and do my hair, but apart from lacing up the corset, which my clumsy fingers still fail to accomplish, I do everything else on my own. Martha is kind in a gruff way, but I still miss Elle. I also note with satisfaction that the new maid Lady Bradshaw employed isn’t half as competent. Now Bianca spends about twice her usual time getting dressed, which is saying something.