Maid to Match

  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.

  The brilliance of the sunrise, the cantata of the birds, and the thrill of wearing a silk-waist had refreshed Tillie as nothing else could.

  “The pool is a sight to see, miss. And very deep. But there are ropes all along the edges to hang on to.”

  Miss DePriest flipped her thick blond hair over her shoulders and picked up a tiny silver spoon. “You must take my new bathing costume to the pool dressing rooms and remain there until I come. I can hardly wait. I had the outfit made especially for this visit. Did you see it when you unpacked? It has a delicious turkey-red sailor’s collar.”

  “Yes, miss. It’s very fetching and will look lovely with your coloring.”

  “I know!” she gushed, foisting the spoon onto Tillie, then sticking out her tongue as if expecting an examination of her tonsils.

  Tillie hesitated, uncertain of what to do.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? Scrape!” Closing her eyes, she again stuck out her tongue.

  Scrape? She wants me to scrape her tongue?

  Dutifully, Tillie ran the edge of the spoon from the back of the girl’s tongue to the front. A thick, white mucuslike substance collected on the spoon. Tillie grabbed a handkerchief from her pocket, wiped off the spoon, then scraped again. And again. Until nothing more would collect.

  “All done, miss.”

  Popping open her eyes, Miss DePriest scooched around to face the mirror.

  Tillie picked up the brush. Before she had a chance to take one stroke, Miss DePriest gasped and leaned forward, examining a blemish on her right jaw.

  “Oh dear. Look, Tillie. You must take care of this at once.”

  Tillie nodded. “Would you like me to make a honey potion?”

  “Indeed I would. But first you must pop it.”

  She stared at Miss DePriest in the mirror. Pop it?

  The girl crinkled her brow. “I’m growing extremely tired of your slothful responses. Fetch a needle and pop my pimple. Hop to it!”

  Opening a vanity drawer, Tillie retrieved a needle case. Miss DePriest lifted her face and flattened her cheek against her jawbone like a man preparing to shave.

  Tillie swallowed. With fingers shaking, she pierced the skin then squeezed. A dollop of white burst out onto her finger. She willed her face not to show the revulsion she felt.

  The only handkerchief available was the one soiled from the tongue scraping. She wiped her finger on its very edge.

  Miss DePriest reexamined her spot in the glass. “Oh, I hate those things. Quickly, go make a honey treatment. I simply must have one before breakfast.”

  “Yes, miss.” Collecting the soiled linen and clothing, Tillie hurried from the room.

  Mack glanced up from his kneeling position, then sat back on his heels and stared. Tillie crossed the wooden pool deck, a stack of neatly folded towels in her arms. She wore no uniform. With each step her heels kicked back the hem of her dark blue skirt. Her hair poofed out like an oversized halo, a knotted bun anchoring its center.

  Setting the towels on a stand in the corner, she pulled a long fat ribbon that hung from her neck and wrapped it around the linens like a gift. She fluffed the bow, admired her work, then turned around and saw him.

  He slowly rose to his feet, scrub brush in hand. Her white top draped gently across her curves and was tucked tightly into the tiny waist of her skirt. With his neckerchief, he wiped the sweat from his face.

  “Mack.” Her eyes shone as a smile he’d seen her share with others now turned its full force onto him. He felt its impact as strongly as a blow to the gut.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” he asked. “Did you quit?”

  Her smile dimmed and she glanced down. “No. This is what a lady’s maid wears.”

  His throat squeezed shut. “You got it, then? You’re Mrs. Vanderbilt’s lady’s maid?”

  “No, no. Her maid won’t be assigned until Bénédicte returns to France. So I’ll go back to being a parlormaid as soon as Miss DePriest leaves.”

  He took a breath. “I see.”

  She clasped her hands together, twisting her fingers. “I looked for you last night but couldn’t find you.”

  “You did? You couldn’t?”

  “I wanted to thank you for putting away Miss DePriest’s things. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. It never would have occurred to him to do that for her if he hadn’t heard Lucy Lewers regaling one of the footmen about the mess and relishing the comeuppance Tillie was sure to receive.

  He’d walked straightaway from the task he’d been doing and headed to the Paris Gown-Room. He’d tossed what he could into drawers and onto shelves and dumped the things he had no business handling into one of the trunks.

  When he’d returned Lucy’s things to her designated gown-room, he found a stash of skirt-supporters along with the sachets Tillie had mentioned. He recovered both, slung Miss DePriest’s skirts onto hangers, stuffed all the tissue paper into empty trunks, and hauled the luggage to storage. Took him no time at all.

  The heated water in the pool gave off a musky odor and made the room muggy and humid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Tillie’s eyes softened, her lashes thick and dark. Not a drop of sweat touched her ivory skin. “I don’t know what to say. How to thank you.”

  “Spend your next day off with me.”

  She frowned. “Mack, I told you – ”

  “You said no private conversations on the terrace, no dancing in the dark, and no kissing. I’m not asking for any of that. Just a day. One day.”

  Her gaze bounced about the room, touching the water, the diving platform, the long ladder into the pool, and the palm trees in the corner before finally returning to him.

  “It’s forbidden,” she whispered.

  “I promise to follow your rules.”

  She shook her head. “You ask too much. But I will make it up to you. Somehow.”

  She glanced at the white cambric shirt he wore. The blue one she’d made was being laundered. “Perhaps another shirt?” she said.

  “I’d rather have a day with you.”

  She took a quivering breath. “We can’t. But if you tell me where you’ll be going and if we happen to accidentally meet or something, well, I suppose there’d be no harm in that.”

  A wave of satisfaction washed through him. “I’ll be going to Asheville.”

  Her brows lifted. “All that way? But it’s six miles – a good two-hour walk each way. What’s wrong with Biltmore Village?”

  “I need to see my sister.”

  “We’d never make it back by curfew.”

  “I guarantee I’ll get you back on time.”

  With a wary look, she fingered the buttons at her neck. “I’m sorry. It’s too far.”

  She took a step away from him, then hurried to the door.

  Sighing, he returned to his hands and knees and took up scrubbing again. It was just as well. He needed this job for at least two more months. No sense in jeopardizing it at this juncture.

  But his mind ignored his warnings and continued to call up the myriad of conversations they’d had on the terrace. The vulnerability she’d shown before meeting Miss DePriest. The desperation in her voice when she’d said she wanted no other woman to take his measurements.

  His scrub brush stilled. They were in agreement
on that, at least. There wasn’t anyone else whose touch he wanted, either. Just hers. Only hers. And before he left Biltmore, he was determined to convince her of it.

  Tillie helped Miss DePriest into a seamless dinner gown the exact color of the girl’s eyes. It was all one piece rather than a separate bodice and skirt and had no seam at the waist – or anywhere else in evidence. Cut on the bias, the dress clung to the upper body, then belled out at the hips.

  Miss DePriest lifted her arm while Tillie secured the gown down the left side, rendering the fastenings invisible.

  “You look lovely,” Tillie breathed, stepping back to admire the long slit up the side of the blue gown, which revealed a gold underskirt.

  “Fetch my necklace, please. I don’t wish to be late.”

  Tillie opened a plush red jewel box and removed several rows of pearls held together with vertical bars of diamonds and sapphires. She laid them against Miss DePriest’s neck and fastened the closure in the back.

  Miss DePriest tugged on her gloves. “Mrs. Vanderbilt complimented me on my hair last night.”

  “Did she?” A thrill of pleasure shot through Tillie.

  “Yes.” She slipped a golden fan over her wrist. “I told her I had to make you do it three times before you got it right and that it took my constant direction.”

  Tillie sucked in a silent breath.

  “After dinner there’s to be parlor games and dancing in the tapestry gallery, so I expect to be quite late. That should give you plenty of time to prepare the room to my liking. I do not want a repeat of last night.”

  Tillie’s posture went rigid. “Yes, miss.”

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Tillie marched to the bathing room and snatched up item after item. All the while her dislike for Miss DePriest percolated.

  Opening the door, she moved with calm decorum down the hall. The moment she stepped into the servants’ area, she allowed her anger to once again spill over, and she thundered down the stairs to the laundry.

  Before she reached it, the loud rumble of engines running progressive new machinery obliterated all other sounds. A huge barrel washer agitated by a pulley system cleaned the substantial amount of clothing and linens generated by the family, guests, and servants.

  The washer, extractor, and mangle were not only electric, but were on the same scale as what any fancy New York hotel would have in their basement. That didn’t mean the work wasn’t grueling, though.

  Waving to a laundress bent over a deep white sink, Tillie shouted hello over the noise and dropped her load into a basket designated for Miss DePriest. The smell of bleach and ammonia made her eyes water.

  The woman jerked her head toward something behind her. Tillie glanced over. Mack lay on his stomach in the drying room, oiling one of the rolling wooden frames that held wet sheets and clothing draped over a long dowel. When the frame was pushed into the wall cabinet, electric coils running along the floor of the cabinet would dry the items on the dowel – replacing the need for clotheslines.

  She stepped into the room, the gently heated floor immediately warming her shoes. “What happened?” she shouted.

  He looked over his shoulder. “The rack was stuck.”

  “Isn’t the floor hot against your chest?”

  Rolling to his back, he lifted himself to his feet without using his hands. “Yeah.”

  Sweat poured from his face and a smudge of dirt streaked across his cheek. His hair fell every which way. No hat in sight.

  She glanced at his shirt to see if it had been singed but could find no evidence. She took an involuntary step forward and placed her hand against his chest. Heat and moisture immediately bathed her hand. “Did it burn you?”

  Lifting her palm to his lips, he kissed its center, then released her. “I’m fine.”

  It happened so fast she had no time to jerk away. Still, liquid fire shot straight from her palm to her inner core.

  But concern for him pushed all else aside. She couldn’t believe he’d been so careless as to lie on a heated floor. “How long were you down there?”

  He shrugged.

  She scrutinized the edges of his button placket. “It burned you, didn’t it?”

  “I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice soft. So soft she only saw his lips form the words. And suddenly, she couldn’t draw her gaze away from them. She studied the slight fullness of his lower lip and the thin line of his upper. The shadow of blond end-of-the-day whiskers.

  His eyes flicked to the laundry room over her shoulder, then he turned and rolled the drying frame into the cabinet.

  “Tillie!”

  Jumping, she whirled around.

  Allan grabbed her hand and pulled her from the room, shouting all the while. “Kirk broke a crystal goblet and sliced open his hand. Conrad is so sick he’s glued to the commode. We need you to help us serve. Quick, go change.”

  “What?” She had to run to keep up with him.

  He dragged her down the hall and around the corner, and then pushed her toward the stairs. “Hurry. Dinner starts any minute and we need help. Run.”

  The panic in her brother’s voice had her instinctively following his orders. Lifting her skirts, she raced up the stairs.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  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 thei
r 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.