Crimson Snow (2 page)

And Patrick…Hilda sighed again. Patrick wanted to marry Hilda. She wanted it, too, in a way. But it would mean leaving her job, leaving this house. She sat back on her heels and looked at the bathroom she was cleaning, the spotless tiled floor, the marble wash basin with the gold-plated faucets, the huge, elegant porcelain tub with its mahogany surround, the modern, sanitary water closet. The servants' bathroom wasn't as grand, but it had simpler versions of the same equipment.

She thought about her brother's house, with its pump in the backyard. Baths were taken in a tin hip bath, every drop of water having to be heated on the stove. Faces were washed in a basin, in cold water. Sanitary needs were dealt with in the backyard, too, in the shed with the half moon cut in the door.

She and Patrick wouldn't be able to afford even as nice a house as Sven's. She would have to find a job somewhere, doing something far more menial than her duties in this house. And when the babies came along, what then? Take in washing, like so many women in her position? Become a dressmaker, she who hated mending her petticoats and aprons?

She finished the bathrooms mechanically, not really seeing what she was doing, and chivvied Janecska out of the last bedroom. The family was coming upstairs from breakfast. Hilda's and Janecska's skirts disappeared around the bend of the back stairs just in time.

Hilda sent Janecska upstairs to deal with the servants' bedrooms. She herself went down to the ground floor to clean the servants' sitting room. Mr. Williams was very particular indeed about how that room was done.

She stopped in the kitchen on her way. Mrs. Sullivan was stirring a pot of soup and scolding Elsie, the scullery maid. “And if you'd done as I told you and soaked that porridge pot in
cold
water, you'd not have to waste time scrubbing it now. How many times—and what do
you
want?” she said, rounding to direct her wrath toward Hilda.

Hilda smiled sweetly. “The cinnamon buns you made for breakfast, they were so good, and I am hungry. Are there any left?”

“There are, and I'm saving them for our tea.” Mrs. Sullivan scowled fiercely, and then relented as Hilda continued to look deferential. “Ah, well, one won't be missed, I reckon. You didn't eat much earlier.”

“No. I could not,” said Hilda briefly.

“You don't want to mind him, child.” The cook reached for the basket of leftover buns and handed it to Hilda. “He has his moods. Like as not he'll have forgotten all about it by dinner time.”

Hilda didn't reply. She took a roll, carefully smoothed the napkin over the rest, and nodded her thanks to the cook as she left the kitchen. She didn't want to discuss the brouhaha, at least not with the cook. Mr. Williams might forget his threats. She, Hilda, would not.

The servants' room, where their meals were served and they relaxed in their rare times for relaxation, was right across the hall from the kitchen, but Hilda took her time getting there. She stopped in the alcove by the back door to eat her bun. Mr. Williams frowned on eating between meals, and at this time of day he would be in his pantry, right next to the servants' room.

She had taken only a bite when she was startled by a knock at the door. It wasn't loud, but Hilda, engaged as she was in an illicit snack, jumped. She thrust the bun into the capacious pocket of her petticoat, peered around the door jamb, and then opened the door with a suddenness that surprised the child standing outside. “Erik! What is wrong? Why are you here? Why are you not in school?”

“Let me in, Hilda. I'm cold!”

A burst of frigid air entered with Erik. Hilda had not yet been outside and hadn't realized, in the centrally heated mansion, how bitter was the cold on this January day.

“You cannot stay here. This is not a time I can visit. And why are you not in school?”

“That's what I came to tell you!” His voice was loud, and cracking with strain.

“Hush! If Mr. Williams hears you he will…I do not know what he will do. So tell me, and be quick about it, but softly.”

Erik lowered his voice, but the strain remained. “Miss Jacobs isn't there! She never let anyone know she wasn't coming, but she didn't come, and today is the examination in mathematics, and I'm ready, but the principal is taking the class, and she doesn't know where the test paper is, so the class isn't doing anything, so I left—”

“Erik! You ran away from school?” She didn't shout it, but she wanted to.

“I did
not
run away! Listen to me! I went to find Miss Jacobs, because nobody else was doing anything and I wanted to take the examination before I forgot everything, but she isn't at her rooming house and she wasn't there last night and nobody knows where she is and I think something bad has happened to her!” He stopped, out of breath, and despite his best efforts to repress them, two fat tears rolled down his cheek. His lip quivered.

Erik was sure he was too old to cry, so Hilda ignored his tears and tried to think what to do. Whatever it was, it had to be done quickly and Erik sent on his way.

But sent where? No one would be at home. Mama, Erik, and the two youngest girls had moved out of Sven's house into a tiny home of their own, but Mama and Elsa were working at Wilson's Shirt Factory, and Birgit was in school.

School, that was where he belonged. At least his sister could

keep an eye on him. “Erik, your teacher has probably gone home to her parents,” she said in a low, hurried voice. “She is from Elkhart, is she not? Her mother or father must be ill, or there is some other emergency, so that she did not have time to tell the principal. She will send word soon. You must not worry. Go back to school now, and tell the principal why you left. I think she will understand. Do not tell her you came here; she would not like that. And here.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out the cinnamon bun. “One bite only I have taken. Eat it on your way back to school.” She gave him a little push toward the door.

Erik stayed where he was, rock solid. “I don't want to go back to school. I want you to help me find my teacher.”

“Erik, I cannot leave here! You know that!” Her voice was rising. She took a deep breath. “I know you like your teacher, and that is good. But it is not good that you leave school without permission. You will get into trouble if you do not go back
now.
And so will I have trouble if you do not leave here. Mr. Williams does not allow me to have visitors except in my time off.”

“I'm not a visitor! I'm your brother, and I want you to find my teacher.”

Hilda rolled her eyes. Erik had inherited just as much Swedish stubbornness as she had herself, perhaps even more. “And how do you think I could find your teacher?”

“You're good at finding out things. You solved all those crimes, when the police didn't do anything. You're smart.”

Hilda was not swayed. “It is different now. Mr. Williams watches me all the time. And it is not a crime that your teacher is missing.”

Erik opened his mouth. Hilda forestalled him. “Look, little one, it is Wednesday, my half day. So this afternoon when you are at the firehouse, after school, I will come to see you and we can talk. Now go!”

Erik glowered at her, but he went, finally. Hilda breathed a sigh of relief and trudged off, still hungry, to clean the servants' room.

That most knowing of persons—gossip.

—Seneca, 8
B.C.–A.D
65

 

 

 

2

H
ER RELIEF WAS PREMATURE. As she rounded the corner, she saw Mr. Williams standing in the doorway of his pantry. His face reminded Hilda of a prune. An angry prune.

“And dare I ask, Miss Johansson, to whom you were speaking just now? Or do you consider yourself too valuable an employee to be expected to follow the rules of this household?”

She held fast to her temper. When the butler called her
Miss Johansson
he was dangerously angry. “It was my little brother, sir. He—he came on an urgent errand. I sent him away as soon as I could. Now I must go and clean—”

“You will stay here and answer my questions. Why was your brother not in school? Or is he as ready to flout rules as you appear to be?”

Hilda clenched her jaw. “The matter was urgent, sir. He has gone back to school.” She knew Mr. Williams would be even more incensed by the details of Erik's tale.

“I'm not at all satisfied, Hilda. You have not explained why he came here. What are you hiding from me? Is it that your caller was not your brother at all?”

If Mrs. George hadn't come into the servants' quarters just then, Hilda might have said a great many regrettable things.

“Oh, good morning, Hilda, Williams.”

“Good morning, madam. Is there something you wish?” His manner was stiff. Not only did he hate being interrupted when he was dressing down a subordinate, but he did not approve of the mistress of the house venturing into the backstairs regions.

“No, no, I'm just going to show Mrs. Sullivan how to make a new soup I want to serve for dinner on Saturday.”

“Very good, madam.” His manner continued to show just what he thought of the idea. Mrs. Sullivan did not appreciate being shown anything, especially not by a member of the family, all of whom were supposed to have the sense to stay out of the kitchen.

Hilda, however, was profoundly grateful. Mr. Williams would have to accompany Mrs. George, in an attempt to keep the peace, and she, Hilda, could escape.

She went about her work the rest of the morning with great care to avoid the butler. Fortunately, he had extra work to do in preparation for Saturday's dinner party, a large affair for Colonel George's professional and political associates. Mrs. George wanted the big silver punchbowl polished, along with the punch cups, all six dozen of them, and Mr. Williams would trust no one else to do the work—not that anyone else wanted to.

Thus it was that, when the front doorbell rang at about ten-thirty, Hilda was sent to answer it. She knew the caller, an elderly attorney named Barrett who was a close associate of Colonel George. “Good morning, sir,” she said with a curtsey.

“Good morning, Hilda.” He handed her his coat and hat. “Is the colonel in?”

“Yes, sir.” With most visitors she would have used the standard formula about not being sure, but Mr. Barrett was always admitted.

“Good. Would you tell him, please, that I apologize for calling without notice, but I would be very glad to see him for a few minutes, if I'm not interrupting.”

“Of course, sir. Will you come and sit down?” She led him to the small reception room off the big hall. She walked slowly, because Mr. Barrett had a game leg. His limp was pronounced today, probably because of the cold. Hilda took a moment to stir up the fire. Mr. Barrett was shivering. “Excuse me, sir, but you look cold. Sit here by the fire and warm yourself. And would you like a cup of coffee, or tea? You look cold,” she repeated.

In fact, he looked terrible. His hands shook, and his face looked as though he hadn't slept for days.

“Thank you, my dear, that's very kind of you, but I'll be fine. I am a little cold, but that's a splendid fire.” Stiffly, he folded himself into a chair, crossed his long legs, and nodded a dismissal. Hilda went to find Colonel George. She did hope Mr. Barrett wasn't ill. He was a nice man. She wondered what his urgent business was. Probably something political. This was an election year, after all, although January was very early to begin thinking about such things.

Once she had delivered the guest to Colonel George's office, Hilda's next task was the fireplaces. There were twenty of them, and they were all Hilda's responsibility. Those in the bedrooms had been done earlier, of course, but the reception rooms, the dining rooms, Colonel George's office, all these had to be cleaned and new fires laid in the morning, when there were few callers and the servants would not be seen about their duties. It made, in Hilda's opinion, a lot of needless work. The big coal furnace in the cellar kept the house warm enough, at least for someone raised on a Swedish farm. And the fires in the rooms created soot that had to be dusted away, every single day, from tables and carpets and windowsills and ornaments and draperies and lamps.

Hilda didn't actually do all the work, of course. There weren't enough hours in the morning. She supervised Janecska and the other daily maids, with Anton, the footman, carrying the heavy coal bucket from room to room.

This morning the dailies seemed even slower than usual. Having looked over the drawing room and grudgingly approved what had been done, Hilda whisked into the library, to find Janecska and the two other maids huddled in a corner, whispering.

“And why are you not doing your work?” Hilda demanded.

“Haven't you heard the news?” asked Sarah, the oldest and sauciest of the three. “I'd've thought you'd know all about it, being so much smarter than the rest of us.”

Hilda tapped her foot. “I do not know what you are talking about, and I do not care. The ashes will not clean themselves out of that fireplace.”

“Don't you even care that a girl about your age is missing, maybe dead? Or no, beg pardon, a little younger than you, I guess. Miss Jacobs is only twenty-two.”

Hilda was quite sensitive about her age, and Sarah knew it. Twenty-three was getting well up into old-maid status, and marriage seemed a remote possibility unless several miracles occurred. Today, however, she didn't respond to the insult. “Miss Jacobs! What do you know about Miss Jacobs?”

“Only what everyone's saying. She's a teacher at Colfax School, and—”

“Of course I know that!” said Hilda, interrupting. “She teaches my brother Erik.”

“Ooh! Then what do you know about her?”

“I know only that she is a very good teacher, and she did not come to school this morning. I think her parents needed her help. They live in Elkhart. Now you must—”