by Ann Self
There was a jaunty knock at her door.
“Just a minute!” she yelled, spritzing on a little lavender.
Dylan was standing there when she yanked the door open.
“Travis the Toad is down in Sam’s office. Wants to see you.” Dylan looked her over carefully. “Wow...you look hot! Date with Mr. Toad maybe?”
“Yeah, right!” Jane stepped by Dylan, and he followed her to the iron stairs, inhaling the scent of perfume.
“What did you do now, to cause yourself to be summoned by Mr. Toad?” he inquired mildly.
“I irritated Gladys.”
“Irritated Gladys? Ha!” he snorted. “Done that, been there, got the tee-shirt!” he boasted as they wound down the staircase, reverberating the metal in a symphony of boot heels.
Jane found Travis in front of Sam’s office, and she marched up and looked him square in his beady eyes and asked him what he wanted, in the most imperious tone she could muster. He was the first beneficiary of her hot anger and it gave Travis slight pause; he expected a certain amount of groveling and humbleness in the face of his holding the lofty job of being Gladys’s footman. In his mind it was only one step down from the Secret Service.
“Mrs. Barrett would like to see you at the house office right away,” he instructed haughtily.
“Right this minute?” She pretended surprise.
“Yes.” Travis cleared his throat, “And Gladys, ah, Mrs. Barrett, doesn’t want you to bring that junk car of yours on the mansion grounds.”
“What!?” Dylan roared. Sam crossed his arms and leaned in his doorway, as he announced: “You can just give her a lift in that van.”
“But I wasn’t supposed to...”
“You are now. Better get going my man, and wait outside for her and drive her back here, or I’ll personally break your neck into several little tiny pieces.” Sam shot him a smile with no warmth behind it. “Understood?”
Jane squelched a smirk and strode haughtily out to the blue mini-van. Travis’ already ugly face turned flaming red, his freckles standing out like lily pads on a pond. Even his scalp was red under the buzz-cut. He stomped out the door, and Dylan and Sam slapped a high five.
An angry Toad drove like a maniac, lurching in a sharp turn onto the mansion drive. The statue-dogs peered down at Jane, and again she felt a chill as she looked up at them in the pine shadows; their stone gazes always seemed to catch and hold her for a second as she passed. Toad accelerated, racing down to the cobbled courtyard. She made him stop in front of the mansion portico.
“You’re supposed to go around to the back door...”
“Not in this lifetime!” Jane jumped out and slammed the van door hard enough to rattle Toad’s teeth, then walked up on the slate portico and rang the bell. William, the Whitbeck’s imported English butler, answered the imported, arched double doors and looked her over surprised.
“Mrs. Barrett asked to see me,” she informed him, with an imperious tone.
“Oh...ah, yes...she’s in the Whitbeck’s office.” He stepped back a little indecisively and widened one of the two carved mahogany doors the Whitbecks had schlepped back from some exotic trip. She guessed William either lacked the nerve or was just not predisposed to actually tell her to use the back door. Especially not dressed as she was. She saw him glance at her boots, but they were brand new and still clean.
“Thank you,” Jane said, and he nodded politely as she strode into the half acre marble foyer that soared up three stories and boasted a flying double-wide staircase. Her tall dress-boots made a loud staccato tap on the marble, and each step pumped up her blood and made her cheeks high with color. Jane’s sleek black hair swung around her shoulders, as it reflected a sheen from the million-faceted crystal chandelier cascading from a barrel ceiling. She was bathed in elegance, from the original Renoirs and European period antiques to the magnificent mirrors. The fineness and elegance of the entrance hall performed a little magic on her tattered soul, and as she passed through it she felt changed, almost whole again and her eyes sparkled with a new life-force. When she stepped through the doorway of the Whitbeck home office she was all boots and attitude.
Gladys was seated behind an impressive teak desk, arranging her printed lavender scarf and her own attitude. She was not prepared for what stood in the doorway. Her last imprinted memory of Jane was as a dusty spectacle at Lucinda’s party. The old woman’s eyes traveled across the fawn carpet and then did a slow double-take. Jane’s commanding presence and almost military bearing invaded Gladys’s turf and caught her off guard. It was light years from what she had expected and it rattled the old woman’s cage. Cold, shrewd eyes, magnified now by thick glasses, raked over Jane from head to toe.
“You wanted to see me?” Jane inquired crisply.
Gladys stood up in defense, not liking her own insubstantial height compared to Jane’s. Her jittery fingers smoothed at cotton-candy hair as her thin-lipped jaw made a couple of useless swings before it got a handle on speech. “Did you come in the front door?” she demanded. “I heard the chimes...”
“I most certainly came in the front door.”
“The front door is only for our guests! Delivery people and the help do not use that entrance under any circumstances. I told Travis and William to instruct you...”
Jane strode crisply over the fawn carpet to the desk. “I do not use back doors! I have never entered anyone’s home by the back door in my life, and I don’t intend to start such a shabby practice.” Jane stood tall and defiant, literally looking down her nose at Gladys. Her long hair hung in a glossy sheen, flowing from the gold and diamond clasp.
“You...you are...” Gladys was poleaxed for a moment, and at a loss for words. She wiped the surprise from her face and replaced it with a hard, obdurate expression; folding back into herself to regroup. She smoothed the pleats of her expensive lilac dress, fingered an amethyst brooch that tacked the scarf to her shoulder and seated herself back behind Elliot’s desk, patting again at the back of her French twist. She squared the desk blotter neatly. Two tiny sterling-silver dogs watched Jane from the corner of the desk.
All was in order, so Gladys readied herself for a bolder attack, to put this upstart stablegirl right back in her place. She had been caught off guard—but only for a moment. She looked up to begin the process of hacking the recalcitrant employee down to size, but Jane had turned away and was striding to the windows with her hands casually behind her back, her gleaming boots leaving prints in the deep pile as if it was snow. Gladys again was derailed and her mouth hung half-open.
Jane turned abruptly on her heel and faced her again. “What is it you wanted, Mrs. Barrett?” She spoke with the tone of a busy person with little time for frivolities.
Gladys stiffened and glared, wondering exactly when and how she had lost the upper hand. She began to tremble from outrage. Years of her father Edward’s guidance in managing help were failing her. “Would you take a seat please!” It was an autocratic command. Gladys jabbed a bony finger at a straight-back chair that she had placed in a subservient position to the desk. Jane glanced at it, then looked back at a comfortable wing chair near the window and chose it instead. She sat gracefully in the plush, satiny fabric as if she were the Queen at tea. Slowly, she crossed her long booted legs, and bobbed one foot impatiently, sunlight winking off a metal spur. Gladys’s gaze was drawn to the insolent boot, and it elevated her rage.
“Now, then,” Jane asked, lacing her fingers with deliberation, “what are we actually here to discuss?”
Gladys was gagging with bile. She grabbed the arms of her chair and spit her old body out of it like an erupting volcano. She was determined to regain control and charged across the carpet to hover over Jane, her lilac pleats askew. “I am not pleased,” she screeched, “with the insubordinate way you talk back to me—or to Lucinda! When she tells you to do something, you are not to question it! You keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told!”
Gladys’s fists were clenching at her s
ides, and her face purpled, making it clash with dyed-yellow hair, but almost matching the outfit.
Jane stood up, putting Gladys at eye-level with her gold stock pin. Again, Gladys tried to stand tall, her spine stiff and erect; but there was no way to avoid looking up at the help. “Let’s understand something,” Jane spoke with a savage coolness, staring down at the old woman’s outraged face, bug-eyed behind thick lenses. “I am an employee of Mr. Whitbeck, not a servant to Lucinda...” Gladys worked her mouth, trying to form a sharp retort to blast the girl down to size, but Jane cut her off. “You should also understand that I will not be muzzled or gagged by you or ordered around by Lucinda. I will not walk to this house, and I am about as likely to enter people’s homes by the back door as you are. Now, if that is all you dragged me up here for, then this conversation is over!”
Jane did a boot-heel stomp away from Gladys, who now stood open-mouthed with spittle drizzling down her chin. Jane flew through the front door, slamming it hard enough to vibrate the crystal chandelier. The following guttural cry of outrage from Gladys was enough to send William scurrying to his quarters in the basement. Jane was prepared to walk back to the barn, to burn off the adrenaline spurting through her body, but Travis the Toad suddenly scuttled out of the shadows in his van, and insisted on driving her back. Not out of courtesy, but out of fear-of-Sam.
Back in Sam’s office, Jane paced off the nervous energy and anger. Dylan and Sam watched her intently from two chairs pulled up in front of the computer. “The nerve of that woman!” Jane ranted. “She thinks I’m some kind of indentured servant!”
“Gladys? That comes natural to her. She thinks we’re all servants,” Sam stated as he adjusted the monitor to a better position on his desk. “She has Dylan on the carpet at least twice a month.”
Dylan nodded, agreeing.
“Me...” Sam continued as he pecked at the keyboard as if it was attached to a spacecraft, “I usually escape with twice a year.”
“Yes, but...this is the first time I’ve really had my nosed rubbed in it. That woman is a...a...”
“Beast?” Dylan offered, as he inserted a disk into the tower next to the computer. “Troll...snob...?”
“Snob doesn’t even begin to cover it!”
“How about Old Battle Axe. That’s what Reggie calls her,” Dylan teased.
Sam frowned at Dylan and flicked a glance at the empty doorway. “I keep telling you...this barn has ears.” Then he looked up at Jane with a worried expression. “Just exactly what was said?” he asked, as Jane hovered over them with hands on her hips.
She was still in rant mode and shot back: “She wanted me to come in the back door. Can you believe that? The back door! She thinks I’m being impertinent to Lucinda. Ha! How is that possible?” She resumed her pacing.
“So...what did you say to her?”
“I gave her a piece of my mind. Told her I wouldn’t walk to the mansion or use back doors and I stormed out and slammed the front door.”
Dylan dragged air through his teeth and hunched his shoulders in mock-fear. “Yikes.”
“Flirting with danger there,” Sam said.
“Oh she already tried to get me canned. When I went to bring the show schedule to Elliot I overheard Gladys prodding Elliot to get rid of me so I wouldn’t ruffle Lucinda’s feathers.”
Sam had now lost all interest in the computer and looked at her sharply. “So that’s why you ran by me looking like thunder. What did Elliot say?”
Jane flopped in Old Ugly and waved her hand with a flourish. “Elliot told Gladys he needs me to make his horses more valuable, and Brian Canaday insists on me giving his daughter riding lessons.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “The Brian Canaday?”
“Yep.”
Dylan stopped tinkering with the computer and started to look nosy. Sam changed the subject abruptly. “So, your job’s safe because you’re so damn useful?”
“That about covers it.”
Tuesday morning, Jane was up at first light, schooling General in the indoor ring. Her mind was eased when the large bay Thoroughbred seemed relaxed and responsive to her signals. Owen hadn’t done any lasting damage; but Jane was sure only Owen’s fear of Elliot kept him from full-blown maliciousness. General was definitely losgelassen, as Lars would say when describing a horse that was supple and loose throughout the body, and he took to Jane’s schooling with eager enthusiasm.
Her heart lifted, and she was overjoyed that they would be showing at last on Saturday and Sunday in a big USEF/USDF show. General was going to be ready for his fifth level tests, and if they raked in enough high scores, she could be certified for the Regional Championship show in the fall.
Jane practiced pirouettes until they were almost perfect, but always being sure to move on before the horse lost interest. She gave General talent he was never born with, polishing him with the skill of her hands and legs until he moved with grace and lightness. The passage itself was impressive, had anyone cared to watch. The horse’s diagonal pairs of legs sprang from the ground in even rhythmic bounds, prancing down the center line in a slow accentuated trot—looking as though he was floating. Jane rose and fell with his back as if suspended on a carrousel horse.
She realized, with some sadness, that for General, a fifth-level test was probably at the outer reaches of his ability. It was a stretch for him, but with her guidance he usually performed well. General was never going to be a superstar, but they were precise, accurate, and in harmony as a team.
After schooling General, Jane bathed him and turned him out in a paddock, making it much harder for Owen to select him for a mount. The basically lazy Owen would not want to bother catching his ride. On her way back to the barn, she ran into Dylan.
“Ah...hi,” he greeted.
“Yes?”
He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I always seem to be summoning you for the higher-ups.”
“What now?”
“Elliot wants to see you in his front office.”
“Okay.” She switched direction and fell into step with him, going towards the north wing.
Dylan looked at her. “Think you’re being called on the carpet for jumping-ugly on old prune face?” he asked.
“Could be.” She felt tension ratcheting up. “Is there a tee-shirt for this too?”
He laughed. “Don’t know. I haven’t had the pleasure yet of being dragged in by The Grand Pooh Bah himself. Probably leaves us stablehands to Gladys.” Dylan looked at her again. “Maybe it’s Toady. Maybe we shouldn’t have threatened to break his neck.”
“Ha!” she laughed as she smoothed her hair, and ran a thumb around her waistband. “That would be worth it.”
“Have a seat, Jane!” Elliot waved a hand, as he talked on the phone while standing behind his desk, looking out the barred window behind it. Jane noticed her hands trembled slightly as she approached the two swiveling tub chairs of chocolate leather, placed in front of Elliot’s imposing desk. She wasn’t sure if the trembling was caused by anger or fear. She chose the seat that didn’t have Elliot’s suitcoat draped over it, the plump cushion making a delicate whoosh sound as it accepted her weight. The strong smell of cured and dyed leather assaulted her nose as she sank into the chair.
Jane idly took in the manly horses-wood-leather theme as she sat, turning the chair slightly to peruse the office. Pickled-pine walls held spectacular paintings of race horses and some seventeenth-century equestrian schooling engravings. More space was taken up by silver framed photographs of Lucinda at various ages with various horses, from ponies on up to Charmante; and these were mingled strategically with some of the best silver bowls, trophies and blue ribbons; giving the impression that Lucinda might’ve actually won them.
Jane swiveled back to Elliot’s direction. A bronze Remington statue was placed on the deep windowsill behind his black leather executive chair. Iron bars protected the window from would-be burglars. His desk was acres of burled and varnished wood and tricked-out with every
electronic convenience available. Anyone seeing him at this throne would be convinced of rock-solid financial stability and brilliant business acumen.
As Elliot continued his phone call, jingling change as usual and still looking out the barred window, Jane practiced breathing evenly to calm her nerves. Her eyes wandered to the two dogs curled up on the thick salmon carpet by a door leading to an adjoining office. It was the office usually occupied by Elliot’s now vacationing secretary, and judging by the clicking of keys, shuffling papers and drawers opening and closing, she guessed Cecily must be in there busy with something.
The dogs’ smooth gray heads shot up alertly as Cecily dashed out of the office, shoving chunks of papers and pamphlets into a soft leather briefcase and wrestling to keep a purse strap over her shoulder. She looked up, surprised to see Jane, her expression harried and preoccupied, but then a smile spread over her face.
“Oh, hello Jane.”
Jane swiveled her chair towards Cecily, feeling some of her anxiety drain away like a condemned prisoner getting a reprieve. “Hello Mrs. Whitbeck. Looks like you’re up to your neck in work.”
“I’m buried alive in it! Trying to organize our big July Dressage show—this’ll be our third season.” Cecily dumped everything on a designer wood and glass coffee table as she spoke. “Every year the damn thing gets bigger and more complicated, and there’s so much to do beforehand. So much paperwork!”
“Paperwork’s the killer,” Jane agreed.
Cecily nodded and sighed, “we’re going to be an FEI sanctioned show this year and have classes all the way up to Grand Prix level, which makes it even tougher. The logistics and red tape for an FEI show are a nightmare...” She plopped herself down in a grouping of club chairs arranged around the coffee table, and began neatly stacking the Dressage rule books and pamphlets that were spilling out of her briefcase.