Diary of a Wildflower (15 page)

“Just
like English royalty,” I say.

“Exactly,”
Tootsie says.  “And their blue blood is considered more royal than new
blood, just like their old money is considered more royal than new money.”

“You
know what, Tootsie?  I wouldn’t care if my money was old or new as long as
I had me some of it.”

“Me
neither!” And we have a laugh.  “Do you like my bob?” she says then, as
she pats one side of her head.

“Your...oh,
your hair cut?  Yes, I like it very much.”

She
giggles.  “I just had it done on Saturday.  My hair was as long as
yours, but I got it bobbed for my boyfriend.  He’s real modern.”

“Oh,
you have a boyfriend?”

She
giggles again.  “Oh, yeah.  He’s ducky.”

“What’s
his name?” I ask.

“Can’t
say,” she whispers.  “It’s a secret.”

“I
see.  He’s not married, I hope?”

“Lord
no!”

“Sorry,”
I apologize.  “That was rude of me.”

She
grins and says, “Don’t give it a thought.”  Then she jumps to her
feet.  “Gotta get back to work now.  Toodle-loo.”

And
Tootsie is gone as suddenly as she arrived.

I
pull the armchair up to the tray on the dresser.  The food is scrumptious.

After
I’m stuffed, I stand by the window and stare at the main house.  On the
upper floors of the original building I can make out shadowy figures moving
around behind the lighted windows.  I try to imagine who they are.  I
wonder if those are family bedrooms.

Darkness
has fallen completely.  I should get a bath and go to bed.  I grab
the robe and a towel and slip out the door.  Outside there are electric
lights burning at each end of the porch.  The bathroom is the same size as
my room, and has a fireplace at the same spot on the wall.  Otherwise it’s
very modern.  I find soap on a shelf, turn on the taps and step in. 
What luxury to have hot water running right through the pipes into your
tub.  I can do this every night without having to heat up a single pan of water. 
I sink into the warmth and relax.  But the other maids will no doubt be
coming in soon to get ready for bed.  I should make myself scarce before
they get here.

When
I step out onto the porch in my robe, I see a medium-sized black and white dog
at the foot of the steps nearest me, and there is something familiar about
her.  She wags her tail when she sees me.

“Dixie!”
I call, for she does look for all the world like that sweet dog I lost those
years ago.  She comes bounding up the steps toward me with a grin on her
face, as if I have called her by her real name.  I get down on my knees
beside her.  “Just look at my Dixie girl!  You haven’t changed a
bit.”

I
put my arms around her as I used to do.  My hair falls over her, and she
begins to wiggle like she’s as tickled as I am.  I cup her pretty face
between my two hands and look into her eyes.  “Sweet Dixie, I’ve missed
you so.”

At
that moment I catch a movement from the ground.  Someone is down there in
the shadows – someone who appears to be watching me.  I go back into
number three, and when I peep out the door again, both the dog and the person
are gone.

Later,
in a fresh petticoat, I lie in bed and listen to the sounds in the night. 
I can hear the other maids going in and out of their rooms and the
bathroom.  I hear them talking and laughing together, but I can’t tell
what they’re saying.  After a while all is quiet, except for muffled
sounds from the main house, the whinny of a horse, the call of a night bird,
and the lonely whistle of a distant train.

In
spite of myself, I think of home.  It’s my first night ever sleeping
anywhere except in the loft of the log house on Starr Mountain, and I imagine
Jewel lying in her bed looking out at the stars.  It’s her first night
ever sleeping in the loft by herself.  I hope Samuel is with Caroline
tonight.  They are all so far away.

A
great wave of loneliness sweeps over me.  So this is homesickness. 

Monday, June 3
^rd
, 1929

A
vague ringing wakes me.  I roll over and open my eyes.  It’s barely
daylight.  The ringing comes again, and I realize it’s emanating from the
wall above my head.  I look up and see a small silver bell moving ever so
gently.  It must be the wake-up alarm, but it’s not at all alarming. 
It’s really quite melodic.  I spring from bed, dip some water into the
wash bowl, splash my face in it, then dress quickly in my yellow dress, and
brush my hair vigorously.

Just
as I turn toward the door there comes a knock.  I open up to find Tootsie
standing there grinning at me.  Behind her are two other girls dressed in
the same green and white checked uniform.  They appear to be a few years
older than Tootsie.

“This
is Jenny and Ellie,” Tootsie tells me.  “It’s Marie’s day off.  She’s
sleeping in.”

And
so begins my first day.  We enter the main house through a side entrance
into the servants’ hall behind the kitchen.  This is a large room with a
long table in the center, where I’m told the servants gather to eat their meals
or take a break on  a slow day.  One wall has cubby holes for
mailboxes.  Somebody has already printed LORIE on one of them.

“Come
along,” Tootsie says to me, “Mrs. Myles wants you in the library.”

Wow! 
They have a library?

We
breeze through the kitchen where Jenny and Ellie are pitching in to help cook
breakfast.  We go through an enormous dining room, then turn down a narrow
hallway, which is dark and feels damp.

“We’re
in the old part of the house now,” Tootsie tells me.

At
the end of the hallway, she knocks on a wooden door.

“Enter.”

Tootsie
leads me into a room with shelves packed full of books on every wall. 
Maybe I will be allowed to borrow some of them.

In
the center of the room is a massive wooden desk.  An attractive
dark-haired, middle-aged woman is sitting there wearing glasses and flipping
through some papers.  On a couch nearby, two young men dressed in casual
summer trousers and shirts, are seated.  One light and one dark. 
Must be the university boys, Brody and Roman – rather
Mr
. Brody and
Mr
.
Roman.  And Chris was right – they are handsome rascals.

“Lorie
is here, ma’am,” Tootsie says.

Mrs.
Myles stands up immediately, drops her glasses to dangle from a chain around
her neck, and smiles at me.  “Lorelei!” she says with enthusiasm.  “I
am so glad to meet you, my dear.”

“Thank
you ma’am,” I say.  “I’m glad to be here.”

“You
may go, Tootsie,” Mrs. Myles says.  She has a slight accent that I can’t
identify.

Tootsie
leaves me alone with the lady of the house and the two young men.  Mrs.
Myles comes around her desk, and stands peering down at me with beautiful, dark
brown eyes.

“Dr.
Wayne has such nice things to say about you.”

I
smile.  “He has been very kind to me.  Mrs. Wayne wanted me to tell
you that she misses your parties.”

“That
charming girl,” Mrs. Myles says.  “And we miss her and Dr. Wayne
too.  Such lovely people.  You know Dr. Wayne was very concerned for
your welfare there in your mountain home.  I understand that your father
was…well, shall we say negligent in his familial duties?”

I
have never discussed family problems with anybody outside the family, and I am
somewhat embarrassed that Dr. Wayne has passed this information to Mrs. Myles,
or that she would bring up the subject now.  I glance at Brody and
Roman.  Both of them are staring at me intently.

“My
father doesn’t know any other way of doing things, Mrs. Myles,” I say. 
“It may be that he has done his best.”

There
is silence in the room.  Mrs. Myles is studying my face.

“At
any rate,” I go on, “that chapter is closed.  I am here to begin a new
life, and I am grateful for this opportunity.”

I
hope I have dismissed the subject without being dismissive.

“Doesn’t
she speak well?” Mrs. Myles says, turning to her sons for confirmation of her
opinion.

“Indeed
she does,” one of them replies.

“No
hillbilly twang at all,” Mrs. Myles comments.  “How do you manage it?”

I
am beginning to feel like a curious Appalachian specimen under a microscope.

“I
work at it,” I say.

With
one hand I nervously push my hair away from my eyes.  Mrs. Myles uses this
opportunity to seize that hand, then the other one, and pull them toward her
for inspection.

“Oh,
my dear.  How did you get these terrible callouses?” she says.

I
want to sink through the floor.  “Doing laundry,” I mumble, “and working
in the garden.”

“Laundry?”
she says.

“Yes
ma’am.  We – my sisters and I – had to wash everything on a scrub board
with harsh soap.  Are you familiar with scrub boards, ma’am?”

Again
there is silence in the room as they all stare at me.

“No,
my child,” Mrs. Myles says kindly.  “I don’t know what a scrub board is,
but I can imagine.  Here you will do laundry with a modern washing
machine.”

“That’s
good news,” I say, and try to smile.

“I
want you to know, Lorie,” she goes on, “that we are a household that believes
in equality.  Everyone is treated as an equal here.”

She
goes back to her desk, and I quickly stash my hands behind my back, then glance
at the sons again.  The blond, blue-eyed one is still eyeing me.  He
gives me a slight smile.  The dark, brown-eyed one appears to have gone
into a sullen funk.  His arms are crossed, and he seems to be glaring at a
small sculpture of a milk maid which is nestled among the books on a shelf in
front of him.

“You
will get a day off for every five you work,” Mrs. Myles says.  “I find
these frequent breaks help my girls cope with mundane duties.  You will
get your pay from Louise on your day off.  You will also get your orders
from her.”

She
puts her glasses back on and studies an oversized calendar on her desk, where
the household schedule is obviously penciled in.  “To work your way into
the five/one rotation, you will begin with only three days on, then take a day
off.”  She folds her glasses and looks at me again.  “You should go
for your uniform fitting now before breakfast.  And Lorie, about your
hair...”

“Yes,
ma’am?”

“It’s
quite lovely, but have you ever considered having it bobbed?”

“No!”
comes from one of the sons, before I can even react.

I
turn to see who has spoken.  It’s the dark one.  He has risen from
his seat.

“I
mean..,” he says, “What I mean is...”

He
is now the focus of attention instead of me, for which I am grateful, but he
appears to have lost his train of thought.

“What
do
you mean, Brody?” Mrs. Myles asks.

“It
doesn’t seem fair to ask her to cut her hair,” he says.

“I
concur,” the blond one says.

Mrs.
Myles hesitates, studies her sons thoughtfully, then concedes.  “Of course
you’re right.  It isn’t fair.”  She turns back to me.  “Please
ask Louise for a hair net, Lorie, to contain your locks while you’re on duty.”

“Yes,
ma’am,” I say.

“Oh,
by the bye, Lorie,” the blond son speaks up again.  “I’m afraid Mother
forgot to introduce us.  I am Roman Myles.  It’s swell to meet you.”

“And
you, Mr. Roman,” I say.

I
glance at the other one.

“I’m
Brody,” he says, then walks forward to shake my hand.  “Welcome, Lorelei.”

Mrs.
Myles says, “My husband has business with his broker in New York.  You
will  meet him when he returns.  You may go now.”

I
find my way back along the dark corridor toward the servants’ hall, feeling
somehow deflated.  It did not feel like a good interview.  Nothing
about it felt right.  And I didn’t give another thought to borrowing a
book.  It seemed inappropriate.

Louise,
the housekeeper and maids’ supervisor, is a soft-spoken woman in her
forties.  She is married to Zack, the head gardener, and they live in
their own house in town with two teen children.  She sizes me for a
uniform and manages to find a net large enough to bundle up my unruly
hair.  I like the way the dress fits me.  It’s ducky, as Tootsie
would say, and the white pleated cap sits on top of my head like a little
crown.

The
rest of the morning goes by in a blur as Tootsie and I grab breakfast on the
run.  Then she teaches me how to set a proper table, how to fold a napkin,
how to operate the washing machine, how to wash the crystal and polish the
silver, and a dozen other things.

After
the family has lunch in the dining room, Tootsie and I eat with the other maids
in the servants’ hall.  Bridget the cook is also there.  She is a
widow who lives in town with her daughter.  Louise, Chris and the three
gardeners, Jeff, Brett and Zack, eat with us as well.  I learn that Chris
lives in number eleven at the slave quarters, Jeff in ten and Brett in
nine.  Jeff and Brett are brothers, probably in their fifties, and both
are very shy.

I
spend the afternoon learning the kitchen, which is a huge, complicated room
with a thousand new-fangled gadgets.  By five o’clock I feel my energy
dribbling away, not from hard work, because I’m used to that, but from the
stress of learning so many new tasks and new people, and trying to remember
everything I’m told.  Louise notices that I’m flagging.

“That’s
enough for the first day, Lorie,” she says kindly.  “Grab a bite to eat,
and go on to your room.”

“Am
I not needed to help with supper?” I ask.

“No.
 It’s just the missus tonight.  The boys are going out.  That
makes it easy.  And do check your mailbox.  There’s something in it
from Mrs. Myles.”

I
get food from Bridget and carry it back to the servants’ hall.  In my
mailbox I find a jar with
Temple’s Hand Cream
printed on the label. 
Below that –
For
skin that’s soft and white, use Temple’s every night
. 
On the back side of the jar I read Temple’s Cosmetics Co., Richmond,
Virginia.  So the Temples of Richmond have obviously made their fortune in
cosmetics. 

I
walk back to the slave quarters, with so many new things flying through my
head, I can hardly sort them out.  I release my hair from the net and feel
a great relief as it cascades freely down my back again.  And there is my
sweet Dixie girl waiting for me at the foot of the steps.  I sit down to
pet her.

“It’s
been quite the day, Dixie,” I say.  “I could have used you to help me
through it, but you probably are not allowed in the house.”

She
grins up at me, then pushes her head under my hand, to remind me to go on
petting.

“There
you are,” someone says, and I look up to see Brody walking toward us.

Dixie
wags her tail at the sound of his voice.

“Why
did you run away from me?” he asks the dog as he pets her.

“Is
she your dog?” I ask.

“She
belonged to my grandfather.  He died a year ago.”

“And
I assume that would be Broderick Lynch Myles V?” I emphasize each part of the
name, in an attempt at ribbing him a bit regarding his family’s long line of
Brodericks.

Brody,
however, remains solemn.  “That’s right,” he says.  “Since he died,
the dog hasn’t been special to anyone.  I give her all the attention I
can, but I think she feels lost.”

He
leans against the wooden railing beside me.  His sleeves are rolled up
above his biceps so that I can see how brown and muscular he is, with his hair
and eyes as dark as his mother’s.  I comment to him that he has his
mother’s coloring.

“Yeah,
I got the Italian blood, and Roman got the English.”

“So
she’s Italian?  Is that the accent I heard?”

“Yes. 
Very Italian.  Her family – the Romanos – owns a legendary vineyard in
Italy.”

“I
think your mother is the first Italian I’ve ever met,” I say.

“Well,
let me take this opportunity to apologize for her behavior toward you this
morning,” he says.

“What
do you mean?”

“First
of all, she didn’t even bother to introduce me and Roman to you, which in her
own eyes, is an unforgivable breach of etiquette.”  I sense anger beneath
his words.  “Then she

seemed to delight in picking on you,” he goes on, “like
using the word hillbilly, for example, and talking about your father, your
hands, your hair.  It didn’t occur to her that you might be uncomfortable
discussing those matters with strangers.”

There. 
Brody has made clear to me what was wrong with the interview.  And I’m
glad to learn it wasn’t my fault.  But why is
he
so angry?

“If
you were not a servant, she would not treat you that way,” he goes on.