Maid to Match (8 page)

The footman dropped to the ground.

“Land o’ Goshen,” Harvey gasped. “You done laid him out flat.”

Mack didn’t even spare the fellow a glance. “You all right?”

“I am now.”

“This fellow been bothering you?”

The boy gave a noncommittal shrug.

“If he or anybody else gives you any more trouble, you let me know.” Mack scanned the gleaming floor, stepped over the footman, and picked up one of the boots for a closer look. “You used floor polish?”

Harvey bristled. “So?”

“Pretty industrious, I’d say.”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “I ain’t neither. I’m smart. Ever’body says so.”

Mack suppressed a smile. “Nevertheless, you better get going. I’ll make sure this fellow is taken care of.”

With a quick nod and a thanks, the boy grabbed the boots and shot across the hall toward the servants’ corridor.

Bending over, Mack tapped the footman’s cheek. Still out cold.

Mack rolled his eyes. He’d barely touched him, but he doubted Mr. Sterling would believe that. Even so, he’d been taught to defend the afflicted. He just hoped it wouldn’t cost him his job.

Returning to the Louis XV room, he pushed
Butler’s Pantry
, then headed to the servants’ area. Help would arrive soon enough for the bully he’d left behind.

Back in his workroom, he hung up his boot-leg bag and settled on the hip stool. Picking up the lampshade holder, he slipped the ring portion inside the burner tines and squeezed the edges.

A high-pitched jangle sounded in the room. He didn’t jump this time, nor did he answer its call.

It sounded again. He placed both hands flat on the table. It sounded again.

Lurching to his feet, he grabbed the earpiece. “What!”

A pause. “Mr. Sterling wants to see you in his office.”

“I’m busy.” He slammed down the receiver and returned to his project, resolutely ignoring the rings which followed. Finally, they ceased.

He’d finished all assembly other than the actual shade when footsteps sounded in the corridor. Reaching over, he swung his door shut.

Seconds later, someone knocked, then opened the door without waiting for permission.

Allan Reese surveyed the room. “Looks great in here. How’d you manage to get it in order so quickly?”

Mack picked up the white globe that would serve as the lamp’s shade.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, Allan leaned against the doorframe. “Mr. Sterling is second only to Mrs. Winter, who is second only to the Vanderbilts. When any one of them ring, you’re expected to jump to do their bidding.”

“I don’t jump to do anyone’s bidding.”

“You do now.”

Mack allowed the chimney to pass through the middle of the shade, making sure the edge of the globe rode down to the fitter.

“You also need to keep your fists to yourself. Mr. Sterling wants to cut you loose, but Mrs. Winter said no. Says she’s willing to make an allowance – just this once – for your backwoods roots. Personally, I think it’s more likely she’s keeping you on because you have a twin. A tall, fair-of-face identical twin she thinks would look nice standing next to you in the banquet hall, assuming you can be brought up to snuff. But one more day like today, and twin or no, they’ll send you packing.”

Mack scrutinized the completed lamp. It should’ve taken him twenty or thirty minutes to assemble. Instead, it had taken all day.

It made him want to quit. To go back to the beloved mountains where he’d grown up. All he ever wanted was to build himself a workshop in the mountains, fashion some furniture, sell it to Asheville’s mercantile, and live in peace.

He’d just begun to build a nest egg when Pa had died, leaving the responsibility of the family’s welfare on Mack’s shoulders. Everything he’d saved had slowly eroded until it was finally gone.

And after Ma’s death, he was in even worse shape. So he’d farmed the boys out and put Ora Lou in the orphanage. Things settled down for a while – until the rumors about Sloop began to reach his ears.

Once he’d confirmed them, there was no question of leaving Ora Lou there. But that would mean finding a place for her to live in town.

He’d looked around for rooms to rent, but the ones he could afford were completely unsuitable for a thirteen-year-old girl. So he’d best do what he needed to keep his job here until he could afford a place for his sister.

Stepping into the room, Allan picked up the lid of the express box and leaned it against the wall. “They’ve put you in my charge.”

Mack looked up. “Why?”

Allan straightened. “Because nobody else wants to deal with you.”

“But you do?”

He shrugged. “You’ve accomplished more this week alone than Kirk did in a month, and that lightens everyone’s load, including mine.”

“Who’s Kirk?”

“Our previous useful man.” He ran a hand across his mouth. “He also happens to be the fellow you clocked on the second floor.”

Mack lifted a brow. “He was bullying a child.”

Allan drew his lips into a tight line. “Yes. Kirk’s been needing a setdown for a while now.”

Crossing his arms, Mack leaned back against the table. “What happens if I catch him doing the same thing again?”

“You keep your hands to yourself. If you don’t, you’ll not only lose your job, you’ll take me down with you.” Allan clapped him on the shoulder. “And that, my friend, isn’t going to happen. Now, let’s close it up in here, go to the carriage house, find you some clothes that fit, and then catch a wagon to the barn.”

“There are no work clothes that fit. Only the fancy stuff Earl wears.”

“Then we’ll find us a seamstress. Now, come on. I get the evening off and I don’t want to miss even a minute of it.”

CHAPTER
Eight

Singing “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay” as loudly as he could, Aaron James galloped across the barn’s wooden floor, his arm tight about Tillie’s waist. The footman had a big smile and a handsome set of shoulders, but was a little on the short side.

Laughing, she allowed him to spin her until she was dizzy. When the song ended, she clung to his arm in an effort to steady her course. No sooner had he deposited her at the table with her family than he swept up the next girl passing by.

Though this barn no longer housed animals, evidence of their habitation touched the hay-scented air. Drinking deeply of apple cider, she tried to hear Allan and Pa over the noise.

“Are you sure it was wise to take on a contrary, unlettered yokel like that, son?” Pa asked him.

“I’ll admit, he’s rougher around the edges than Earl.” Allan looked toward the corner of the building.

Tillie followed his gaze. Mack stood in the shadows watching the dancers, but had yet to participate himself.

“Underneath, though,” Allan continued, “he’s not your typical backwoods mountain man. He’s well-spoken and educated and better read than you and me put together.”

“How do you know?”

“When we polish silver we debate everything from Socrates to Oscar Wilde’s new aesthetic views about art. And try as I might, I can never stump him.”

Tillie looked again at Mack and caught him studying her. She quickly turned away.

“Strange that Earl’s not like that,” Pa said.

Allan nodded. “I think it’s likely Earl has the intellect, but he’s just more interested in other things.”

Dixie Brown sank down beside Tillie, blond tendrils escaping her Gibson Girl hairstyle. “He’s such a
dream
!”

Tillie smiled. The two of them had spent many a candlelit evening dressing each other’s hair. Tonight Tillie had done both of them up in the soft, wide pompadours she’d seen in a Charles Gibson illustration. “Who’s the dream this time?”

“Mack Danver. Who do you think?”

She stilled. “Mack? I thought it was Earl you had your eye on.”

The two of them quickly located Earl. He’d backed one of the scullery maids against a bale of hay. She didn’t seem to be putting up much of a fight.

“Every girl on the estate has her eye on Earl,” Dixie said. “But to think, all this time, he had a
twin
!”

Dixie moved her gaze toward the corner of the room.

Tillie grabbed her wrist. “Don’t look!”

But it was too late. Not only did Dixie look, she grabbed Tillie back, her eyes widening. “He’s coming and he’s looking right at . . . at
you
!”

Tillie lurched to her feet. “I have to go.”

Dixie yanked her back down into the chair. “Introduce him to me first.”

“I can’t. I have to go.”

She squeezed Tillie’s arm with surprising strength. “Please.”

“No. Now, let – ”

“Evening, Allan. Tillie.” His voice poured out like warm molasses. Sweet, thick, and rich.

“Pull up a chair, Mack,” Allan said. “This is my pa, Herbert Reese. My ma was here earlier, but she had to take the youngsters home. The rest of the family is around, though. Somewhere.”

Pa stood and shook hands. “Mack.”

“Mr. Reese.”

“Call me Herbert.”

Instead of joining them, Mack singled Tillie out. “Would you like to dance?”

No.
“Have you met my friend Dixie? She’s a third-floor chambermaid.”

He nodded. “Evening, Dixie. I’m still trying to learn who’s who.” He turned back to Tillie. “Would you like to dance?”

She hesitated. Her mama had been right. She shouldn’t have come. She should stay away from the barn gatherings until her position was secure.

Allan shoved back his chair and gave Dixie a broad wink. “How about you and me doing some twistificatin’?”

An adorable dimple bloomed on Dixie’s left cheek. “I’m not sure you’re quite the man your father is out there on the floor.”

“Oh yeah?” Tweaking her nose, he hooked an arm around her waist and swept her to the center of the room.

Pa offered an arm to Tillie’s little sister Gussie, who’d come to claim the final dance of the evening. Tillie and Mack were the only ones left at the table. Refusing him would be unthinkably rude. She slowly rose.

Without a word, he grasped her hand, pulling her behind him. She resisted. Surely he knew he should be guiding her by the elbow.

Yet Allan wasn’t guiding Dixie by the elbow, and Earl wasn’t guiding his scullery maid by the elbow. But that didn’t mean Tillie had to put up with such familiarity.

She yanked back.

He looked over his shoulder, grasp firm and unyielding. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t like being dragged along like so much baggage.”

He quirked a brow, a teasing spark in his eyes. “At home we toss our women over a shoulder.”

And that was that, though he did slow his pace a bit. Still, his legs were long and his strides deep.

Heat filled her cheeks. The moment he let go, she would leave him partnerless in the middle of the floor. She savored the moment.

But when they reached the dancers, he never let go. Simply swung her around and swept her up into his arms. The song was a favorite, and the tables had emptied as everyone not only joined the dancing, but sang along with improvised words to “Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder.”

“When Mrs. Winter dished the chowder out,
she fainted on the spot;

She found a pair of overalls at the bottom
of the pot.

Mr. Sterling, he got ripping mad, his eyes
were bulging out,

He jumped on the piano and loudly he did
shout . . .”

Mack whisked her across the floor, his steps sure, his lead strong.

“Who threw the overalls in Mistress Vandy’s
chowder?

No-body spoke, so he shouted all the
louder.

It’s an Irish trick that’s true, but I can
lick the Mick that threw,

The o-ver-alls innnnnn Mistress Vandy’s
chowder!”

Mack quickly caught on to the lyric substitutions and sang in harmony, of all things. She refused to look at him. Refused to smile. Refused to sing along.

He didn’t miss a beat. Round and round they went through every single verse and two more choruses. When the song finally ended, he retained his hold. The other dancers emptied the floor, stranding her with him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Let me go.”

“You mad about me pulling you out here by the hand?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, next time I’ll sling you across my shoulder. Bet you won’t object to being escorted by the hand after that.” The corner of his mouth twitched with a hint of amusement.

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you.”

He shook his head. “You’re so serious all the time.”

She released a huff of air. “This from the man who uses his fists at the slightest provocation yet cowers in the corner until the last dance.”

The smile he’d been withholding fully formed. Straight white teeth. Two deep dimples. Crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “You’ve been watching me.”

“I certainly have not.”

“Then how did you know I hadn’t danced with anyone yet?”

She could think of no plausible reply.

His smile deepened. “This was the last dance?”

“ ‘Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder’ is always the last dance.”

“But it’s so early.”

“Parlor games are next.”

“Ah.”

They still stood on the dance floor. Alone. He had one hand on her back, the other beneath her hand, as if they were waiting for the next song to begin. Except there was no next song.

She jumped back, breaking contact. “I have to . . . I need to . . .”

Whirling around, she rushed to the women placing chairs in a large circle while the men stored the tables. It wasn’t until all was arranged that she realized she’d chattered without ceasing during the task, laughing too often and too loud. Picking a seat, she pressed her hands onto her lap. Hopefully no one had noticed.

Dixie dropped down beside her. “What has you in such a dither all of a sudden?”

Tillie slid her eyes closed. “I’m not in a dither.”

The older set with their families in tow headed out, leaving the parlor games to the twenty unmarried members of the house staff who had the night off.

Mack sat down directly across from her. His eyes connected with hers. Fifteen feet of nothingness separated them.

He released the top two buttons of his white shirt, then stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. No vest. No neckerchief. No collar.