Maid to Match (7 page)

“His property goes on and on,” she said. “As far as the eye can see. Takes two whole days on horseback just to reach its edges.”

“
Shhhhh
. Listen.” His words were soft. Reverent. Barely audible.

She listened, and gloried in the quiet. It was as if there were no one on earth but her, him, and God Almighty.

The smell of blacking drifted on the breeze. Had he polished everyone’s boots already? She glanced up but couldn’t make out his silhouette. Concentrating, she tried to hear his breathing. Nothing. Was he holding his breath? Was he even still beside her?

Yes. The shoe polish. He was definitely beside her. And so very different from Earl. Earl never stood still. Never quit flirting. And never, ever, left his vest unbuttoned.

Resisting the temptation to stay and watch God light the sky – which would be hours yet – she took a step toward the control buttons.

He grasped her wrist. “One more minute.”

She barely squelched a yelp of surprise. How had he been able to find her wrist in the dark? It took her a moment just to calm herself. Finally, she tugged free and turned on the light.

He still faced the mountains. His back side was every bit as appealing as his front side. Which, of course, was why he’d been hired.

Picking up her workbox, she moved to the forest green drapes, which extended from ceiling to floor. The tapestry gallery was the longest room in the house. Three Flemish tapestries separated by fireplaces of equal proportion stretched along one wall. The opposite wall held a long line of windows and glass doors that looked out onto the terrace, and ultimately, Mt. Pisgah.

She drew the sash curtains open and raised the window shades, taking great care to keep their height uniform. Mack stood frozen in place. She wondered if he would intrude on her mornings from now on. She should have resented the possibility but found she didn’t. At least not yet.

After adjusting the final shade, she began to throw open the windows and doors. Fresh air with the bite of dawn rushed into the room, chasing away its stuffiness. When she reached the doors Mack had been standing between, he was gone.

She looked left and right, then heard a sound and turned around. He was moving all the heavy furniture to the center of the rugs in anticipation of her sweeping the room’s corners and sides. Usually, she had to wait until some footmen were preparing the breakfast room and, after a great deal of persuasion, could drag them away. Yet this new useful man did it without being prompted.

“Why does the furniture have wheels?” he asked.

She glanced down at the tiny black rollers beneath the green upholstered couch he pushed. “The Vanderbilts and their guests dance in here upon occasion. The wheels make it much easier to move everything out of the way.”

He stopped, his expression curious. “But it’s not as if Vanderbilt would be moving the furniture. His servants would do that for him. So what does he care how easy it is?”

She allowed herself a small smile. “He cares. You’ll discover that quickly enough. And thank you . . . for moving the furniture, I mean.”

He grunted, then put his back into the chore. Even on wheels, those couches were heavy. It usually took two men to do the task. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched, but the sofa did his bidding.

Turning to the windows, she removed a moist sponge from her box and began to wipe down the sills. Most maids were not in proximity of household men. A parlormaid was different, though. She not only worked around men, she worked
with
them.

As such, Tillie found it wise to regard them as useful spokes or cogwheels in the machinery of Mr. Vanderbilt’s home. Otherwise, her emotions might become engaged. And that, she reminded herself, was the kiss of death.

CHAPTER
Seven

Slipping a crowbar beneath the lid of a newly arrived express box, Mack jimmied his way around it until it opened. Wrapped in soft tissue and packed in pungent wheat were the makings of a table lamp. Piece by piece he placed base, burner, wick, tripod, chimney, and shade onto his table, wheat kernels spilling to the floor.

The first week he’d been there, he’d stayed up late and risen early in order to clean and organize his workroom. In the mountains, his entire family shared everything. At Battery Park nothing had ever been left where he put it. But here he had a sanctuary all his own, complete with lock and key.

Settling onto a hip stool, he threaded a wick through the burner channel, then dropped the loose end into a fancy blue and white lamp base. A high-pitched jangle from the wall made him jump and jostle the lamp. Grabbing it with both hands, he steadied it, then moved to the telephone and lifted the earpiece.

“Yes?” he said into the speaking tube. He was in equal parts fascinated and repelled by the contraption. If a house was so big you had to resort to telephones, then, in his mind, it was just too big.

“Wind’s fast and furious up here, Mack,” the voice at the other end said. “It’s sending the terrace furnishings and rugs everywhere. All hands on deck!”

“Be right there.”

Grabbing his cap off a hook, he locked the door, jogged to the stairs, then had to turn around. He’d forgotten to douse the Edison. He quickly extinguished the light, then took the stairs two at a time.

The scene on the terrace had even the high-muck-a-muck butler throwing off his coat to help take in the sail. When they finished, Mr. Sterling sent Mack to all corners of the house for a dozen different jobs.

Three hours later, he found his way back to his workroom. Resettling himself on the hip stool, he carefully screwed a burner onto the lamp base. With one hand on the base, he rocked the burner back and forth while pulling slightly upward. The threading held.

A high-pitched jangle sounded again. Jumping, he glared at the telephone, then rose and lifted the earpiece. “Yes?”

“The door to the Louis XV dressing room won’t open. Go unstick it.”

“Is anyone in it?”

“Don’t be impertinent. Of course not.”

He tightened his jaw. “Where’s the Louis XV dressing room?”

“Second floor. Southeast corner.”

Taking his boot-leg bag off the door, he tied it around his waist, double-checking the tools, nails, and screws inside each pocket. At the stairs, he turned around and went back to douse the Edison. Halfway up the stairs, he turned back to retrieve his cap.

Finally he reached the second floor and emerged into the servants’ hall next to Mrs. Vanderbilt’s room, coming face-to-face with Tillie. He’d only seen her in the mornings, when she wore a lavender calico the same color as her eyes and a plain white apron. Now she wore her afternoon uniform – a full black dress and starched bib apron with frilly shoulder straps. Atop mountains of hair, her small white cap had long, flowing streamers. He wondered if her hair would be that long when released from its pins.

“Hello,” she whispered. “Are you lost?”

“I’m looking for the Louis XV dressing room.” He lowered his tone to match hers.

“That way.” She pointed south. Her lashes were thick and dark like her hair.

He didn’t move.

She stepped to the side. “Well . . .”

“Are you one of the staff that has off tonight?” he asked, stalling her. “Are you going to the barn gathering?”

“I never miss it. My whole family will be there. Are you?”

He hadn’t planned on it. He only received one evening off each week and every second Sunday. The last thing he intended was to spend his few leisure hours with a bunch of people he didn’t know and didn’t particularly like.

“Maybe,” he said. “I might relax in my room, though. Do a little reading.”

She shook her head. “You don’t want to do that. If you’re on the premises, they’ll find you and put you to work. But you’ll be safe in the barn.”

He nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you there, then.”

“Wagon leaves at six o’clock sharp.” Something behind him caught her eye and she immediately scurried off.

He turned around. The housekeeper – or the
matron
, as the staff called her when out of earshot – bore down on him.

Her black dress had no apron and no shape, though that was more the fault of the wearer than the style of the dress.

“What are you lollygagging about for?” she demanded. “And roll those sleeves down. Button that vest. Get rid of that silly neckerchief.”

The temptation to refuse was great. Instead, he took a deep breath. “My sleeves are too short, the vest is too small, and the neckerchief keeps my shirt from being soiled.”

Her back went ramrod straight. “We have a dozen laundresses that will see to your shirt and a room full of livery in the carriage house. Go out there immediately and find clothing that fits.”

“I’ve been there already. And the only thing that fits is footman and coachman livery, which is of no good to me, unless you want your useful man dressed like a footman.”

“I don’t believe you. Surely there’s something appropriate.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t lie, madam.”

Without another word, he headed the direction Tillie had indicated. He heard a rustling behind him.

“Do you think I’ve made a mistake, Mrs. Winter, in bringing him here?”

“Oh no, Mrs. Vanderbilt. Don’t worry. I’ll whip him into shape.”

He wasn’t able to catch the mistress’s response, but he knew he must at least pretend to comply because he needed the job and the income it provided, if only for a while.

He skirted Mr. Vanderbilt’s room, then paused. There was no way to reach the Louis XV suite without entering into the area reserved for family and guests. He yanked his vest together and fastened the lower two buttons, but that was all that would reach. The sleeves of his shirt were hopeless. With nothing left to do, he entered the guest area.

Even if there’d been no change in wall color, he’d have known immediately he’d left the servants’ area. Richly upholstered furniture offered places for guests to congregate in the Second Floor Living Hall. A housemaid dusted an elaborate writing desk while another polished a table with a box of Chinese dominoes at its center.

He cut across to a narrow hallway and passed a collection of bedrooms before finally reaching the southeast corner of the house. A bit secluded from the rest, this wing was graced with carved moldings, stained wainscoting, gleaming wooden stairs, and oriental runners.

Brass plaque holders on each of the doors indicated the name of the room and the visitor residing within. The occupant’s name was ostensibly for the staff’s use, but Mack had heard they also served overnight guests wishing to make midnight assignations.

At the moment, though, no guests were in residence. He read each plaque.
Damask Room
.
Claude Room
.
Tyrolean
Chimney
. And finally,
Louis XV
.

He knocked and waited. No sound. Opening the door, he stepped inside. The entire room had been spun in gold. Golden draperies. Golden furniture. Golden walls stamped with dark velvet.

An upholstered chair shaped like a small sleigh sat in front of glass balcony doors offering a spectacular view of his mountains. The bed looked small within the vast room, yet it would hold two people plus a few children. To its side were two buttons. Both were white and had letters engraved onto them.

Edging closer, he bent over.
Butler’s Pantry. Maid
.

He shook his head. He’d seen the giant annunciator box in the butler’s pantry with arrows which pointed to the name of the room that was calling, but he’d not realized they were activated by the mere push of a button.

On either side of the bed were heavily molded doors. He assumed one led to the dressing room. He tried the one on the left, the tools in his boot-leg bag jingling. It opened with ease. Inside the white-tiled room stood a pitcher and basin, a commode chair with a flush handle, a tub with faucets that released heated water at the mere turn of a knob, and a bureau with soft, fluffy towels.

Beside the tub were two more call buttons.
Butler’s Pantry.
Scrub Back
.

Lifting his brows, he thought of his little brothers living in homes smaller than the bedroom he stood beside. Of Ora Lou in the orphanage. The water they heated over the fire. The tin hip-tub they bathed in. Yet here was a home with two hundred fifty rooms and forty-three bathrooms. All unoccupied, except for the master’s, the mistress’s, and the servants’.

A knot of resentment tightened his stomach. Whirling around, he left the bathroom and clomped to the opposite door. It stuck along the latch side. With several firm jerks, he managed to open it. Behind it was a lavish dressing area.

Digging in his boot-leg bag, he found a couple of screws a tad larger than the ones currently in the hinge plate, then used them to replace the loose ones. After testing the door several times, he cleaned up his mess and started to slam out of the bedroom when raised voices made him pause.

It couldn’t be guests. There weren’t any in attendance. Was it the Vanderbilts? He had no idea. Easing the door open just a crack, he listened.

“Floor polish? You’re using
floor
polish to clean my boots?”

“I been running from pillar to post all day and still ain’t close to finishin’.” The youthful voice cracked, jumping an octave before returning back to normal. “I was just thinkin’ to save a little elbow grease, is all.”

Mack slowly widened the door and peered out. A liveried footman he’d seen during meals but had never met hovered over a tweenie by the name of Harvey.

The footman held up a pair of reddish brown boots. “They’re ruined.
Ruined
. What am I to tell the head footman?”

“I don’t care whatcha tell him.” Harvey’s cheeks had turned as red as his hair. “I ain’t supposed to be polishin’ yer boots anyways.”

The footman shoved Harvey, pressing him against the wall with his forearm.

Mack didn’t even remember moving, yet suddenly he was lifting the footman in the air and tossing him backward.

The boy’s eyes widened.

“You all right?” Mack asked.

“Look out!” He pointed.

Whirling, Mack thrust one arm up in protection, blocking the footman’s attempt to strike him from behind with the boots. With his other arm, Mack fisted his hand and made a solid connection with the man’s jaw.