Maid to Match (17 page)
The panic in her brother’s voice had her instinctively following his orders. Lifting her skirts, she raced up the stairs.
Tillie strode down the kitchen corridor freshly scrubbed and turned out in black alpaca, white lace, and a large frilly apron. With each step the streamers from her cap flitted behind her like kite tails.
Delectable smells filled the basement. Roasted turkey from the Rotisserie Kitchen. Almond cake from the Pastry Kitchen. And a conglomeration of masterpieces from the Main Kitchen.
She peeked inside, trying to determine which delicacy the artists of the saucepan had chosen for tonight’s main course. Chefs flew about in white caps, jackets, and aprons, their faces set, their eyes keen. Kitchen maids scurried to do their bidding, the intense heat flushing their cheeks.
An electric signal from abovestairs rang.
“Send the first course up!” the head chef shouted, followed by a string of French orders. And though no one understood the language, all were aware of what he required.
Mrs. Winter caught sight of Tillie and handed her fresh hand linens. “Quick, two more bottles of champagne.”
“Where are they?”
“In the Brown Laundry.” She hastened Tillie with a flutter of the hands.
Tillie rushed down the hall and around the corner to a small room where fine hand-washables were laundered on wooden washboards. In four of the six brown porcelain tubs cooled several bottles of champagne on ice.
The laundresses, now forced to complete mountains of delicate wash in just two sinks, eyed her with displeasure, as if she were the one who’d usurped their domain.
“I’m terribly sorry about this, girls.” She lifted two bottles, dried and wrapped them in linen, then scurried up the stairs to the butler’s pantry to have them opened.
A footman intercepted her at the door. “I’ll take care of these. You get across the hall.”
Halting in front of a massive oak door, she collected herself, raised her chin, and noiselessly entered the largest room of the house.
Seven stories high and every bit that long, the Banquet Hall always made her feel as if she were stepping back in time and had entered the Great Hall of a medieval castle, complete with armor, flags, and gilt-trimmed thrones. Footmen had painstakingly placed sixty-four padded chairs around the elongated table, then decorated it with fine linen, flowers, and twelve large porcelain figures. Each depicted one of Christ’s apostles.
Tillie had cleaned and dusted every one of them more times than she could count. And with each dusting, she wondered what it would have been like to have physically walked side by side with the One and Only, the way the apostles had.
Mr. Sterling stepped down a line of footmen like a general inspecting his troops. One row of liveried servants stood at the far end of the room. Perpendicular to them, the second line stood behind the table. Tillie joined their ranks, resting her gaze on an enormous tapestried Venus, who made eyes at her lover, Mars.
The butler stopped in front of the footman to Tillie’s left, then clicked his heels and thrust out his chest. The footman immediately straightened his spine.
Taking a giant step, Mr. Sterling stood before her. She focused on a winged cherubim in the tapestry who hovered above the celestial lovers.
The butler tapped her chin up and lifted his own. Finally, he finished his assessment and gave the table one last glance. The first course of
consommé Julienne
, covered with shiny domes, waited in readiness at each place setting. Clearing his throat, he removed to the salon to announce dinner.
Moments later Mr. Vanderbilt crossed into the Banquet Hall at the head of a procession, a favored guest on his arm. His willowy build, thin mustache, and thick black hair reminded Tillie of Dumas’s
Count of Monte Cristo
.
To receive the glamorous party, two bearskin rugs had been positioned on either side of the double-arched entrance, their jaws frozen in a growl.
“This way, everyone,” Vanderbilt said, stretching his hand toward the sparkling table.
Along with the other servants in line, Tillie stood rigidly as the party approached. Merry voices and soft laughter accompanied the parade of women in exquisite gowns and flashing jewels. Their escorts, in immaculate cutaway coats, seated them with great aplomb. Tillie wondered what figure would be tallied if she added the accumulation of wealth among the guests.
“You are simply radiant this evening,” one of the men murmured to the woman in his charge. She smiled, the diamonds in her hair winking under the massive chandeliers.
A few seats down, another woman gestured demurely to a fortune in jewels studding her corsage. “A token from the Prince of Wales upon my last visit.”
Miss DePriest tapped her fan against the gentleman ushering her in, a tilt of her head drawing attention to the lustrous pearls around her neck. Still another woman passed under Tillie’s nose, a gemmed girdle encircling her waist. The spectacle dazzled her. So much beauty. So much excess.
Last of all, Mrs. Vanderbilt entered on the arm of another special guest, her
peau de soie
gown with spangled chiffon complementing her long, slender form. Tillie’s heart swelled with pride. Her mistress hadn’t draped herself with diamonds and gems, but wore only an exquisite bracelet with small emeralds and pearls set in platinum.
Rather than taking the traditional seats at the head and foot of the table, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt always sat side by side in the middle. Her escort guided her to her husband and pulled out the chair. Mr. Vanderbilt gave her a slight smile, his eyes lighting with pleasure.
Once everyone had settled, the footmen at the far end of the room moved to stand along the length of the table opposite Tillie. She advanced with the other servants, removing the soup covers and quietly placing them on dinner trays, which were whisked away by liveried footboys waiting in the wings.
She returned to her station, a few feet behind the guests in her charge and slightly to the left.
Raising her gaze to stare unseeing at the footmen directly across from her, she sucked in her breath. Mack and Earl stood side by side, resplendent in their livery. She knew immediately which was Mack. She’d know him anywhere, and not just because he was stiff and uncomfortable in his livery.
The last she’d seen him he’d been unshaven, filthy, and covered in sweat. To have him unexpectedly appear stunning and magnificent in braided coat, gold buttons, burgundy knee breeches, silk stockings, and white gloves, she had to remind herself to breathe.
She’d seen Earl in his dinner attire countless times. Always handsome and attractive. But in spite of his identical appearance, he’d never frozen her in place. Never made her heart race.
A guest with a perfect part down the center of his head lifted a glass. “I’ve acquired one of Edison’s phonographs.” He shook his head. “Amazing devices, but the cylinders only last two minutes.”
The man across from him finished his soup and relaxed in his chair. “I saw George Gaskin last month. He said he had to sing the same song two hundred times in order to record enough cylinders for Edison’s company to sell.”
“Oh, I love George Gaskin.” A woman tapped the corners of her mouth with a napkin elaborately embroidered with the golden
V
monogram. “Such a wonderfully tinny voice.”
Mack captured Tillie’s gaze. He looked horrified. At the table conversation, she wondered? Or because he was wearing the livery? Or perhaps he was petrified of making a mistake.
Picking up a hand-waiter, she gave him a “just watch me” glance, then placed the tray in her right hand. Mack moved his to his right hand.
She removed a spoon from an empty soup bowl and placed it on the waiter. A moment behind her, Mack did the same.
She remembered her first time serving. How she’d trembled and fumbled. How she’d had an unconquerable desire to laugh at a joke Mr. Vanderbilt had told at the table. How difficult it had been to project a deliberate, ineffable calm while underneath she was a bundle of nerves.
She tried to reassure Mack with her eyes, but the truth was, she wasn’t certain he’d be able to accomplish the task. He watched her and Earl without being obvious. They both sent him subtle signals of what to do next or how to correct a wrong before it occurred, then breathed a sigh of relief when he managed it.
After many courses had come and gone, after the wine and champagne began to flow, after olives and salads and pure white celery hearts had been placed before the guests, her admiration for him flowered.
He never missed a step. Never spilled a drop.
“I understand there are to be parlor games in the gallery later this evening.” The gentleman with the center part leaned close to the lady beside him. “I hope I shall have an opportunity to partner with you in one of them.”
She peeked at him from beneath her lashes. “And what games are we to play?”
“The Wolf and the Lambs,” he replied, his voice dropping.
The woman blushed and nearly knocked her wineglass over. Mack lurched, then caught himself before making a spectacle. The guest recovered her drink without incident.
Mack and Tillie exchanged a glance. Never had she been so in tune with another. So aware of his every move.
Finally, the last of the dessert cake, cooling ices, and tropical fruit were eaten. Mrs. Vanderbilt rose. The men immediately stood, assisting their neighboring ladies to their feet. The women followed Mrs. Vanderbilt to the salon, leaving the men to their cigars, wine, and after-dinner talk.
Tillie, too, needed to leave. Over the heads of the gentlemen, she sent Mack a silent congratulations. And to her absolute horror, he winked.
During the following two weeks, Tillie only saw Mack from afar. She never knew from one moment to the next if he would be hobnobbing with the coal heavers in his workaday clothes or standing gorgeous in livery amidst the flower-scented wealthy and fashionable set.
Mrs. Winter had an alternate shirtwaist and tweed skirt delivered to Tillie’s room, allowing her to wear one while the other was laundered. Today she wore her navy serge and silk-waist while following Miss DePriest to the basement for a game of bowling.
She’d never had access to this portion of the basement, nor even seen a bowling alley. Anticipation swelled as she stepped into the long, crowded room. Excited chatter interspersed with cheers bounced off the two-story ceiling.
Young men in plaid shirts and striped jackets congregated at the foot of two maple lanes which stretched an impossibly long way toward dark fireplace-like alcoves. But instead of burning wood, each held a grouping of white pins.
All quieted as one of the men picked up a heavy black ball with two holes, took four long steps down the lane, then released the ball with a spin. Unable to see without being obvious, Tillie listened to its rumbling roll and culminating crash. One set of men roared, the other set groaned. Several women
oohed
and clapped their gloved hands.
A group of young girls hailed Miss DePriest, offering her an available chair. Tillie immediately stationed herself against the wall behind them and became “invisible.”
Miss DePriest’s companion whipped open her fan. “Look there at Mr. Huffman and Miss Lowery. She had to pay him a kissing forfeit last night after Pinch Without Laughing. He’s been following her around like a besotted pup ever since.”
Tillie looked across the way but was unable to ascertain exactly who the ladies were gossiping about. What she did see, though, was Lucy Lewers standing calm and collected behind her lady. The advanced years of her charge surprised Tillie.
At first, a spurt of pride raced through her at how much lovelier Miss DePriest was than Lucy’s lady. But it only took a moment to ascertain Lucy’s woman comported herself with genuine grace and was clearly a favorite of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s.
Footmen wove through the throng, blocking her view as they offered silver trays of dainties and refreshments from the kitchen. Mack was not among the men.
Miss DePriest grabbed the elbow of the woman beside her. “Look! It’s
them
.”
The girl craned her neck just as a liveried footman stepped from behind a wooden barrier at the far end of the bowling alley. He quickly set the pins to rights, then rolled the ball back to the players via a long wooden gutter.
When he straightened, Tillie caught her breath. Mack. She glanced at the other alley and saw Earl standing behind its barrier.
The girl and Miss DePriest dipped their heads together, giggling and murmuring. “Aren’t they just the most divine things you’ve ever seen?”
“And here we thought bowling was going to be the main attraction!”
They broke apart in nervous sniggers.
Tillie stiffened.
“Let’s sign up to play,” Miss DePriest whispered.
“Are we allowed?”
“Yes, of course, see there?”
Mrs. Vanderbilt in a white serge gown with tubular braids stepped up to Earl’s alley. With a much smaller, more delicate ball, she took four steps and sent the sphere whirling down the lane.
All but two of the pins skittered across the highly polished wood. Her team roared, and a footman at a chalkboard made a notation.