It seemed the sun was shining extra-bright the next morning when I got up. I dressed quickly, and nearly ran down the hall to the kitchen. All the fighting for justice I’d done the day before left me not only exhausted but also nearly starving. All I could think about was the oatmeal-mush and toast waiting for me in that little corner with the old, ragged-cushioned chair.
I stumbled into the kitchen to the smell of fresh-baked bread and the spectacle of Miz Beauregard chasing little Ian around the room with a flour-drenched rolling pin. For a long moment I watched in stunned silence – at Ian, clean, dressed in rough but well-made clothes, at the huge grin on his face – my ears insisting to my brain that no one, especially not a boy, could make a noise that high-pitched.
“Okay!” I shouted, trying very hard not to laugh and giggling anyways. “Okay! Ian, give Miz Beauregard back her baguette this second!”
The two of them froze, Miz Beauregard red-faced but smiling, Ian looking the tiniest bit cowed but mostly mischievous. “Jus’ tryin’ to get something into this ole tummy of mine,” Ian said, slipping easily into the stance and expression of an indignant, entitled little prince. “How can you expect me to work if all I get for breakfast is a bite of apple and some silly little scraps of ham?” He waved his – or the cook’s, rather – baguette at me reprovingly, and I forced a scream of laughter back down my throat. I meant to save a little boy, not a clown, I thought, and shook my head at him.
“You won’t get anything more if you don’t give Miz Beauregard her bread back,” I said firmly. There was a moment of silence; Ian pursed his lips in thought.
“Oh all right, all right!” Ian shouted, and tossing the baguette in the general direction of the cook, went veering off out of the backdoor into the yard. I watched, half-bent over laughing and my eyes blurred with hysterical tears, as he ran around in the grass. His mouth was open wide, and though I couldn’t hear, I’d bet anything he was screaming all sorts of strange things.
“Quite a little joker you picked up,” Miz Beauregard said, when at last she’d caught her breath. She was still smiling, her cheeks tinged red. “That Mr. Abrams has something of a soft spot for you, does he?”
I turned a quick intake of breath into a cough, trying desperately to think of a reply to that one. Miz Beauregard grinned again, and rolled her eyes, leaning down to pick up the fallen baguette. “No need for the drama, dear,” she said, her back turned to me. “You know how it goes with chambermaids.”
“Oh Lord, now you’re turning all motherly on me,” I muttered, stomping over to get the bowl of oatmeal-mush and toast waiting for me on the far counter. “Mr. Abrams doesn’t like me any more than any of the other maids. Less, probably. Just because I don’t mind so much anymore the way I look doesn’t mean I like people rubbing it in my face.”
The cook glanced over her shoulder as she expertly sliced celery for the Abrams’s breakfast, still smiling. “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, girl. No offense, honest. I think perhaps he likes you for his sister’s sake. They’re very close, you know.”
“Huh, so I’ve heard,” I grumbled, collapsing into the rickety rag-chair, keeping one eye on the window as Ian continued his running. “Being a chambermaid is so much less interesting when you’re not pretty anymore.” Then, under my breath, “Not that I ever was.”
Five minutes passed, and I finished my breakfast, scrubbing the dishes clean in the sink. I was just going to ask Miz Beauregard if she needed any help, when the back door slammed open.
“Excuse me, Miss Darrow,” came Thorne’s voice, and I turned sharply, watching as he dragged little Ian inside by the collar of his shirt. “I do hate to interrupt your little gossip circle, but this…creature was making a terrible ruckus in the yard. Next time I expect you to be paying closer attention, or I will do so for you. Understood?” As he said the last bit, he shoved Ian towards me, and I wrapped my arms around him, pulling the boy close.
“Oh look,” I hissed, “Mr. Thorne’s taken a step down from intimidating chambermaids. We’re all so proud of you, sir.” Ian was shaking slightly, but when I spoke, he looked up at me, a watery smile starting on his pinched face.
“One more insubordinate word from you and I will fetch my horsewhip, wench,” he snarled. We stood there long moments, brown eyes and blue unwavering, both burning with something far beyond hate. “Is that what you want, then?” His voice was softer, and as the clock ticked through the silence, I very, very slowly shook my head.
“No…sir,” I said, squeezing Ian tight to me. “I most sincerely”—and here it felt like the words were being dragged out of my throat with a hook—“apologize for his behavior.” It hurt, hurt to let him win again. The sneer on his face as he turned for the back door once more felt like a knife in my chest, twisting hard.
“Good,” he said, because he always had to have the last word. “Good. Don’t let it happen again.”
The door was opened, he was stepping out. I knew I had to say something, anything, if only for Ian’s sake. “I won’t.” Then a slight pause, as he turned to look at me. His eyes were narrowed, the tiniest bit. Somewhere nearby, I registered vaguely, Miz Beauregard was breathing hard. “I don’t know what got into him. Little boys are usually so calm and reserved. It’s us chambermaids that are so feisty, crazy, isn’t it, Thorne? I suppose you would know best—”
“What are you insinuating, Miss Darrow?” he asked smoothly, but there was a catch in his voice. I smiled, barely. Gotcha.
“Funny, how Hannah’s always assigned work near your rooms, isn’t it, Mr. Thorne?” I said softly. “Y’know, just the other day I was walking past your study and Hannah came stumbling out. Her dress was all ruffled up, sir, and her hair all coming down from its pins. She didn’t seem very happy, Mr. Thorne. Do you know why?”
“That has nothing to do with—”
But I was on a roll by then, and couldn’t seem to get my mouth to shut. “Let’s just say,” I interrupted, “that if you ever threaten me with a whipping again, I can and will go to Mr. Abrams. And do you know, sir, I think I’ll have plenty to tell him.” The silence was stifling this time, heavy, and he glared at me, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
“This conversation is not over, Miss Darrow. Don’t imagine for a second that you have the upper hand.” And before anyone could say another word, he was out the door, the screen bouncing back into place behind him.
Ian sniffled. “Why was Hannah sad, Lav—Laven—Lav’der?” he asked, and for all I knew he’d been through, his sweet innocence hurt me worse than anything Thorne could say. Lord knows he won’t get to keep it long.
“I’m not sure,” I whispered, squeezing him tight and kissing the top of his silly head. “But I’m going to try and find out.”
He looked up at me, grinning, his eyes twinkling bright. “You’ll do it,” he said, with all the certainty in the world. “I know you will, Lav.” Miz Beauregard took him aside, said she was going to show him how to make fruit salad. As I left, I heard them giggling together, and felt my worries, my sorrow lift—if only for a little while.
Maybe Ian was right. Maybe I would do it, after all.
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No nitpicks please! And thanks for the advice--I really do appreciate everything, even if I don't have the time to thank all of you each time. =) And sorry about the italics...I'm lazy.
