Maid to Match (15 page)

Picking up the hairbrush, Tillie bit her cheek. She felt as if she were in the midst of Mr. Southey’s story of the three bears and Miss DePriest was the grown woman who found fault with everything. Perhaps if Tillie left the window open, Miss DePriest would jump out and break her neck the way the impudent woman in the story had.

It was an uncharitable thought and she knew she shouldn’t have it, but there it was. She wasn’t ready to say her prayers and repent over it, either.

Twenty minutes later, hair finally dressed, Miss DePriest tugged on her gloves. “I shall want warm milk before I retire. And see to it that I have a proper receptacle. I don’t trust that . . .
chair
in the bathing room.”

“Of course, miss.”

“And do air out the room, Tillie. It has a bit of an odor to it.”

“Yes, miss.”

“But make sure you close everything up in time to build the fire. I deplore a frigid room.”

“I’ll make sure, miss.”

She paused at the door. “But not too hot, mind you.”

“No, miss.” Tillie bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll make sure everything is
just
right.”

Miss DePriest studied Tillie as if she sensed she’d somehow been maligned but couldn’t quite ascertain how. Finally, she nodded, snapping the door shut behind her.

Tillie allowed her shoulders to slump, then glanced about the room. A disaster.

Throwing open the windows, she took in a deep breath of fresh air and looked out upon God’s unblemished creation. Five miles to the west and obscured by trees and hills was the French Broad River. She remembered floating along it on a raft her brothers had built, looking at puffy white clouds and building air castles. Never in all her imaginings did she dream she’d be working for one of the wealthiest families in America in a chateau that could swallow up two or three palaces in Britain. Or so she’d been told.

Sighing, she turned around and started collecting the articles strewn about the room. Over the course of the next several hours, she scoured the bathtub and bathroom, dusted every table and chair, wiped the dressing glass, cleaned the hairbrushes, emptied the pitcher, filled it with fresh water, ironed the top sheet of bedding, turned back the covers, placed a gold-rimmed chamber pot beneath the bed, wound the clock, brought fresh flowers to the room, built a fire, and closed the windows.

She dreaded going to the Paris Gown-Room to fetch Miss DePriest’s nightdress and cap. She hadn’t been up there since she’d left it in such disarray. Word would surely have spread to Mrs. Winter. No telling what the housekeeper had done when she saw the condition of the room and the state of the hallway. And it would be hours yet before Tillie could finish unpacking the trunks and have everything in its proper place.

Hugging a handful of soiled garments to her chest, she trudged up the stairs to the south wing of the fourth floor. The corridor was spotless. Her stomach dropped.
Where
are the trunks?

Scrambling to the Paris Gown-Room, she opened the door and pulled up short. Not one trunk nor sheet of tissue littered the polished hardwood floor. Instead, the space was completely clear. Along the walls, Lucy’s garments had been replaced with tier after tier of Miss DePriest’s elaborate skirts for every occasion imaginable.

Dropping the laundry by the door, Tillie moved to the adjoining room and turned on the light. Rows of fashionable hats perched atop individual wire stands. More shoes than she’d ever seen in her life lay amongst them.

She opened the chiffonier. The green shirtwaist Mack had unpacked lay carefully inside, still stuffed with tissue. Beside it, a navy shirtwaist. Every drawer and chest had been filled but one. Inside it were the sachets of flower petals she’d labored over all week.

Who had done this? Surely not Mrs. Winter. Definitely not Lucy. Perhaps Dixie? But no. A harassed Dixie had stuck her head into Miss DePriest’s room halfway through her rounds to ask if the bedding needed to be freshened or the fire stoked.

But by that time Tillie had already taken care of it.

Who, then?

Turning around, she saw a single trunk shoved into one corner. Frowning, she raised its lid and found undergarments and unmentionables inside. A fleeting thought, so preposterous Tillie dismissed it before it had fully formed, came back and took root.

Had Mack and Earl done this? But they couldn’t have. Earl had been in full livery and would be attending to the functions on the main floor. Mack would be chopping ice, getting up wood, carrying garbage to the outside cans, and storing trunks.

She looked again at the hats and shoes. Noticed that though they had been placed on the shelf, they hadn’t been arranged in a meticulous fashion as any woman would have done. No, they’d been tossed up in any order. At any angle.

She opened a drawer. Noted a sleeve on a shirtwaist had been trapped underneath the body of the garment. She rearranged it.

Going into the Paris Gown-Room, she looked at the skirts. Several hung off-center. Implausible as it seemed, there was no other explanation. Who other than Mack would retrieve the trunks? Who other than he knew about Lucy’s garments and the missing sachets? And why would all of Miss DePriest’s articles be stowed away
except
the intimates?

Shaking her head, she tried to picture that big man with his big hands grappling over loops and buttons and tiny ribbon closures. Handling hats with ostrich plumes and birds’ wings. Being confronted with every variety of women’s underclothing from stockings to corset to drawers. And where on earth had he found all those skirt-supporters? Had he juggled the padded hangers, with ribbons and ornaments jangling, up four flights of stairs?

He must have. No one else knew she needed them. No one else had the freedom to disappear to any corner of the house. Her heart filled. With gratitude. And pleasure. And something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

The dances in the dark, she could defend against. The quiet moments in the mornings, she could defend against. The kisses, she could somewhat defend against. But this. There was no defending against this. And now that she’d had a taste of what a lady’s maid position required, did she even want to?

She quickly found a silk nightdress and nightcap with matching sacque. She’d lay out her lady’s nightclothes, get the milk ready to warm, and then she’d track down Mack.

She hadn’t been able to find him. No doubt he’d headed to bed as soon as possible. In the morning he’d have more than his share of boots to polish, logs to carry, and errands to run.

She toyed with the idea of joining him on the terrace as was their custom, but Miss DePriest had only just retired. If Tillie wanted to meet with Mack, she’d have to rise in two short hours.

A night breeze drifting through the windows of the corridor cooled the back of her neck. Her candle threw shifting shadows along the succession of sharp-pointed arches leading to her bedroom.

Stopping at the second to last door, she turned the handle, anxious to fall into bed. She wondered what the visiting domestics thought after seeing the rooms they shared tonight with Biltmore’s staff. She knew many worked in wealthy homes which offered nothing but dismal unheated attic rooms with bare floorboards, lumpy flock mattresses, and ill-assorted furniture discarded by the family. That they slept two, three, and sometimes four to a room. That in the thick of winter they woke up shivering while ice crusted their water jugs.

She lifted the chimney of her lantern, touching the candle’s flame to it. At Biltmore, Mr. Vanderbilt had purchased brand-new furnishings specifically for his staff. Each had a wrought-iron bed, a rush-seated rocker, oak wardrobes and dressers along with all the requisite linens. They had a bathing room down the hall with indoor plumbing and heat piped through the walls.

Blowing out the candle, she replaced the chimney. Though the room had an Edison bulb, she still preferred lantern light. Turning around, she took a sharp breath.

Across her bed lay a navy serge skirt and lovely white shirtwaist. Mrs. Winter must have decided that while Tillie was acting as lady’s maid, she should hang up her apron and cap in order to don clothes befitting her temporary station.

She turned on the Edison for a better look, then crept to the edge of the bed and grazed the hem of the blouse. Silk. Not a shirtwaist, after all, but a
silk
-waist.

The weariness of the day, the petulance of Miss DePriest, and the late hour all evaporated. A resurgence of energy winged through her. She wanted desperately to pick up the clothing, hold it against her, see how it would look. But she wouldn’t think of touching it without washing first.

Grabbing her pitcher, she flew down the hall to fill it. Never in her life had she readied herself for bed so quickly. Within minutes she was lifting the silk-waist and pressing its sides against her, resting its arms atop hers.

She’d never worn a silk shirt before. Moving to her chest of drawers, she cleared off its surface, placing pencil tablet, brush and comb, tooth powder, buttermilk soap, and her copy of
Rob Roy
on the floor. Then she carefully laid her silk-waist on the bureau, smoothing it.

Next she folded the navy serge skirt over the back of her rocking chair. Clasping her hands together, she brought knuckles to lips, stared at the clothing, and thanked God for her good fortune.

Reluctantly, she turned off the Edison and extinguished the lantern. Crawling into bed, she closed her eyes to thank the Lord again but fell asleep before she reached the amen.

What seemed like moments later, someone shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Miss Tillie. The call button in the South Tower rang. Y’ best hurry.”

Layers of black weighed against her eyes. She tried to peel them away but couldn’t.

More shoulder shakes. “Come on, now. Wake up.”

Light flooded the room. She covered her eyes with her arm.

“Yer lady’s ringing, miss.”

Cool air touched her skin and someone tugged at her arm.

She opened her eyes.

The night step-girl had turned on the light, thrown back the bedsheet, and was pulling Tillie’s arm.

She shook the sleep from her brain. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“The South Tower Room rang fer ya.”

“What time is it?”

“Three-thirty.”

Three-thirty? She’d only been in bed for little more than an hour. What could Miss DePriest possibly need at three-thirty in the morning?

Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she stuffed on her shoes without stockings and grabbed pins from her bedside table. “All right. I’ll check on her. Thank you for waking me.”

Twisting her hair into a coil, she jammed hairpins into it while hurrying down the dark corridor to the maid’s closet. Freshly laundered uniforms, aprons, caps, and collars hung from pegs lining the four walls of the barren, oversized closet.

Poking her arms through the sleeves of a calico, she wriggled as the body of the dress cascaded over her nightdress. No corset. No drawers.

She grabbed a starched apron and cap off a peg and put them on as she made her way down the stairs. At the entrance to Miss DePriest’s room she paused, smoothed her apron, then knocked and entered. Electric light from the hallway spilled into the darkened room.

“Miss DePriest?” she whispered. “Did you ring for me?”

“It certainly took you long enough.” Her voice was clipped, wide awake, and very displeased.

“I’m sorry, miss. Is there something I can do?”

“The ticking of this infernal clock is keeping me from my sleep. Take it away immediately.”

“Yes, miss.”

She was so used to the Edisons, she hadn’t thought to bring a candle. Feeling her way around the edge of the bed, she found the offending clock and tucked it under her arm.

“Will there be anything else?”

Miss DePriest flopped over to lie on her other side. “Not right now, but if I summon you again, I expect you to respond in a more timely matter. Is that understood?”

“Yes, miss.”

Backing toward the light, Tillie slipped into the hall and softly closed the door. She looked at the clock, not sure of what to do with it. For now, she’d put it in the Paris Gown-Room.

It was four-fifteen before she returned to her bed. She wondered briefly if Mack was on the terrace listening to the silence. Forty-five minutes later, she was awakened. The South Tower Room’s call button had been pushed.

Tillie would not find her way back to bed for eighteen more hours.

CHAPTER
Fourteen

“We’re going to the indoor pool after breakfast,” Miss DePriest exclaimed, bouncing onto the vanity stool in chemise, corset, and petticoat. “Mrs. Vanderbilt said it’s heated and that they have electric lights under the water. Can you imagine?”

They’d just returned from watching the sunrise, and tired as Tillie was, she’d been only too happy to accompany Miss DePriest. They’d walked outside down the esplanade, both wearing shirtwaist and serge. Not a cap or apron in sight. Had anyone happened to glance out a window, the only indication of Tillie being a servant would have been the few steps she kept between herself and her mistress.