Maid to Match (13 page)

Tillie always saved the library for the last room of the morning. It was the one she’d miss the most if she was promoted to lady’s maid.

As it was, she’d not be able to clean it the entire time the guests were in residence. She and Lucy had each been assigned a different woman. As a test. And much was riding on it.

Climbing a walnut library step stool, she stretched to run her cloth against a row of spines on an upper shelf and marveled anew at the thousands of books in the two-story room. Wall to wall, ceiling to floor, more books than a person could possibly read in a lifetime.

Still, she knew Mr. Vanderbilt spent many an hour with a book in hand, as did the new Mrs. Vanderbilt. She wondered where in this vast room
The Prince and the Pauper
sat. Wondered what had happened to the characters when they switched places. Wondered what it would be like if she and Mrs. Vanderbilt switched places. Wondered what it would be like to have a husband of her own.

Her hand stilled as images of Mack filled her vision. Moving the furniture. Playing parlor games. Trapping her against a storage shelf with his eyes.

“Tillie?”

She spun around, knocking a book loose and dropping her rag in order to grab for support. Mack’s gaze skimmed over her and she became aware of her arched back and strained bodice as she clutched the shelf behind her.

Her throat clogged. “You scared me to death. How long have you been standing there?”

“A while. What were you thinking?”

She opened and closed her mouth, scrambling for something to say. And then she saw it. The shirt. He was wearing the shirt she’d made him. But his hands were so full, she couldn’t make out the fit.

Slowly, she righted herself on the stool. “What do you want?”

Even to her own ears her voice was sharp. But she’d gone to such lengths to ensure they were never alone, she couldn’t help but be frustrated.

“These lamps. Where do I put them?”

Tapping the book back in place, she climbed down the steps. “I didn’t know they’d arrived. Let me see.”

She took one from his arms, admiring the blue-and-white mosaic design on the base. “Oooh. It’s beautiful.”

“Yes.” His voice was deep. Hushed.

She didn’t dare look up and instead surveyed the room. They’d look smart on the mantel but not very practical. The fireplace was large enough for Mack to walk into standing up and to lie down in any direction without touching the sides. Mr. Vanderbilt would have to climb a stool just to raise or lower the wick.

That left the twin, two-tiered reading tables sitting on opposite ends of the oriental rug and bracketed by matching armchairs. Handing the lantern back to Mack, she removed a couple of books from one of the tables and laid them on the lower tier.

“We’ll put one here and the other over there.”

When all was arranged, he carefully lifted the shade.

“What are you doing?”

“Filling them with oil.”

“You were supposed to have done that already. What if you spill it? All cleaning, trimming, and filling is done in the lamp room belowstairs.”

“I won’t spill it.” Setting down the shade, he lifted the chimney.

She ran to retrieve her dropped cleaning cloth. “Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t soil the shades with oily fingers and don’t spill a drop.”

He filled the base, his large hands steady and true. The trickle of oil sounded loud in the quiet room. She blinked against the kerosene’s pungent odor, then replaced the chimney and shade.

When he’d topped off the other, he straightened. “I’ll take the lamps in the other rooms downstairs. You want to hold the shades for me while I fill them?”

Shaking her head, she replaced the second chimney and shade. “I can’t. It’d put me too far behind.”

He sighed. “What about tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow, either. I’m using every spare minute to make perfumed sachets for the drawers my mistress will be using when she arrives.”

“When should we do the lamps, then?”

“I’ll have Alice help you on Friday.”

Neither moved. The air between them hummed with feelings he didn’t bother to hide and which she took pains to suppress.

“Thank you for the shirt,” he said.

She braved a look. “Does it fit?”

“Perfectly.” He stepped back, holding his hands slightly away from his body, and turned in a slow circle. His boot-leg bag hung low on his hips like a gunslinger’s belt.

She followed the inverted triangle of his torso, which led to shoulders as wide as the icebox in Chef’s pantry and arms that might have been long in inches but were in perfect proportion to the rest of his body. She remembered cutting the fabric for his shirt and double-checking her measurements to be sure they were accurate. Beholding him now, she realized they’d been dead-on.

When he came full circle, she slowly raised her gaze. It wasn’t desire she saw in his, but some indefinable emotion she couldn’t quite place.

He ran a hand down the front placket. “I’ve never had a shirt so fine in my entire life. Nor one that fit me so well. I’ll take good care of it.”

She tried to swallow and couldn’t. Tried to tell him she’d already started on a second and couldn’t. Tried to tell him she’d relished every stitch and couldn’t.

“Well, I’ll see you this afternoon for my lessons?”

She nodded.

“This afternoon, then.” He turned and walked out, leaving the scent of kerosene in his wake.

She slid her eyes closed, once again reminding herself of the many reasons she wanted to be a lady’s maid.

The discordant sound of harried staff members racing every which way and talking at once, each louder than the other, reminded Tillie of an orchestra tuning up before a concert. As conductor, Mrs. Winter stood just inside the servants’ entrance directing footmen and grooms, chambermaids and housemaids, visiting servants who’d traveled with their masters, and anyone else underfoot.

“Tillie,” she barked. “Your mistress is finally here. Have her trunks taken to the Paris Gown-Room and see to her clothing after you check on the lady herself. . . . What are you doing out there, Earl? I told you to return to the house while the guests were in residence. Change out of that coachman livery and back into footman livery. . . . Dixie, Mrs. Whitman’s lady is in the courtyard. Take care of her, will you? . . . Mack, those are Tillie’s . . .”

Hunched over, Mack trudged inside with a large trunk on his back, his arms straining against the straps.

“The elevator,” Tillie shouted to him over the noise.

Just outside the stairwell and elevator shaft, he dropped the trunk to the floor. “I’ve never seen it so crowded down here.”

She nodded. “That always happens when a guest party arrives. The way we’re usually spread out, it’s easy to forget there are sixty-six of us.”

He pointed to the trunk. “She has five more.”

Tillie sucked in her breath. “
Five?
Are you sure they’re all Miss DePriest’s?”

He pointed to the elaborate DP monogram. “Are there any more DePriests in the house?”

“No. She’s the only one.”

“Then they’re hers. And they’re big, too.”

Tillie glanced at the clogged corridor. “You go ahead and collect them. I’m going to run up and check on her. Do you know where the Paris Gown-Room is?”

He shook his head.

“Fourth floor, south end, second door to the right. Look for the plaque that says
Paris
.”

He turned to go.

“Mack?”

He glanced back.

“How do I look?” She smoothed her stiffly starched apron, plucked at its frilly shoulder straps, then stood up straight to face him.

She’d only meant to receive a quick word of reassurance, but he gave the task his complete attention. Starting with her white cap, he surveyed her coif, her collar, her apron bib, her waist, her full black skirt, and then up again.

The noises receded. She held her breath.

Stepping forward, he scooped up a long streamer hanging from her cap and moved it to her back. “Perfect.”

He had ridiculously long lashes. How had she not noticed them before? A bead of moisture slid from his hairline down the side of his bronzed face, tucked up under his jaw, and then trickled beneath his collar.

“Tillie!” the butler shouted. “The call button from the South Tower Room was pushed. Get moving!”

This was it. Her chance to prove herself. But doubts began to assail her. This wasn’t her mother she’d be waiting on. This was a real, genuine lady who wouldn’t be offering quiet corrections or gentle suggestions. She would expect Tillie to know exactly what to do and when to do it.

What if a situation came up that Mama hadn’t prepared her for? What if she committed some grave breech of etiquette? She looked up at Mack, trepidation thrumming through her veins.

His eyes softened. “You’ll do fine. Now, go on. I’ll have these trunks up there quick as a wink.”

But some hidden force, some giant magnet hiding beneath the floor, held her rooted to the spot.

He took her by the shoulders, turned her so she faced the stairs, then gave her back end a pat. “Go.”

Jerking, she swished a hand behind her as if batting away a fly, then hurried to the third floor.

“Where have you been? I rang for you a good five minutes ago.”

Mary Pamela DePriest sat in the large oval room, her face drawn up in a pretty pout. She couldn’t have been much older than Tillie. Nineteen, perhaps. But no more than twenty. She was the cousin of one of the invited guests and had been included in the party as a courtesy.

Surrounded by pastel colors and dainty floral fabric on the draperies, she looked wilted and worn in her brown travel outfit.

Tillie bobbed a curtsy. “May I help you with your hat and driving cloak, miss?”

“Do hurry up.”

Tillie quickly withdrew an eight-inch, jewel-topped pin from the delectable hat the girl wore. Its melon-shaped crown had what looked like an inverted magnolia of brown velvet held together with a long gilt buckle. Tillie clasped its rim and lifted, but it resisted.

“Ouch! Careful, you clumsy child!”

Child?
Tillie kept her face void of expression. “Sorry, miss.”

She searched out and found two more hatpins before finally freeing the hat. She placed it on a wire holder, then assisted the girl to her feet and quickly unbuttoned the brown serge jacket she wore. Slipping it off her shoulders, Tillie laid it carefully across a striped cotton armchair.

Miss DePriest extended her arm and fanned her hand as if she couldn’t wait another minute to have her glove removed.

Tillie balked. Ladies took their own gloves off, or so Mama had said. So she wasn’t exactly sure how to remove gloves from someone else’s hand. She couldn’t very well grab the girl’s wrist and yank. Mack removing his with his teeth flashed through her mind.

Miss DePriest stomped her foot. “Well? Get on with it. The trip was a complete bore and I’m anxious to have a rest.”

“Yes, miss.” Grasping the hem of the glove, she quickly peeled it inside out. Then moved to the next.

Not taking the time to right them, she laid them beside the jacket and started in on the double-breasted vest. A light floral scent wafted around her.

“Must you take so long?”

Instead of answering, Tillie kept her fingers busy removing collar, cuffs, skirt, shirtwaist, petticoat, and corset.

“Would you like to sit down while I brush out your hair, miss?”

Miss DePriest presented her back to Tillie and hoisted up her chemise. “Scratch.”

Deep red grooves from the corset’s boning marred the girl’s otherwise flawless skin.

She stomped her foot again, a hairpin falling from her coiffure. “Scratch!”

Tillie ran her fingernails over the angry marks.

“Harder!”

Tillie increased the pressure, wincing as her light scratch marks superimposed themselves over the grooves.

Miss DePriest twisted from side to side and up and down, sighing and groaning like a bear against a tree trunk. Finally she dropped her chemise, fell onto the striped cotton couch, and extended one leg.

Tillie kneeled before her and removed shoes and stockings. The smell of sweaty feet that had been encased for a long period of time slapped her in the face. She struggled to keep her expression neutral, then braved a slow, cautious breath from her mouth. After setting the last stocking and garter aside, she turned to find Miss DePriest swirling her foot.