Corset Diaries Page 7

  “Pooh, I left my journal up in my room.”

  “Ring for it,” Barbara said, sitting gracefully on the sofa and picking up a bit of linen stretched on a small embroidery frame.

  That’s right, I had servants now. But I knew from reading their duty list that they all had jobs to do, lots of jobs to do in the morning. I hated to make one of them wait on me, just as if I couldn’t walk down the hall and get my own journal.

  “No, there’s no need, I’ll get—”

  I stopped when the door opened and Palmer the butler gave me a slight bow of the head, then turned to Barbara. “Mr. Slough has requested your presence, my lady. He is desirous of knowing which horse you would prefer to ride in the mornings.”

  “Oh, that silly man, he knows I trust his judgment when it comes to my horseflesh,” Barbara simpered as she rose gracefully to her feet. I narrowed my eyes and examined her torso. She didn’t look in the least bit like she minded wearing a corset. I was willing to bet it wasn’t nearly as tightly laced as mine. “Palmer, Her Grace left a journal in her bedroom. Have one of the maids fetch it for her.”

  “Certainly, Lady Barbara. I will do it this moment— oh!”

  Palmer staggered and grabbed the back of the chair, one hand to his chest.

  I scrambled to my feet and hurried over to him. “Are you OK?”

  “Yes, yes, I apologize for discommoding you.” Palmer straightened up, giving me an apologetic grimace. “It is nothing; just my heart. A very minor heart attack, or perhaps a stroke. Nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

  “Oh, my god,” I said, and turned to Sam, expecting that as a representative of the TV company, he’d take charge of emergency situations. Sam cocked one eyebrow at me and kept filming. Wilma grinned. Clearly, they thought he was in no serious distress.

  “Perhaps you should go have a lie down,” I said, grasping his arm in case he needed my help.

  “I’ve found that it doesn’t do to coddle the servants,” Barbara said as she swept out of the room, casting a glance that more or less ordered Sam to follow her. He hesitated and looked at me. I twitched my head toward the door and made shooing motions for him to follow her. He signaled to Wilma, and followed Barbara out of the room.

  “Palmer, listen, if you’re really feeling poorly, I can call for a doctor or paramedics or whatever you guys have in England. Roger said there’s a doctor on call in town just in case someone gets sick. Why don’t you go lie down and I’ll get Roger and we’ll call the doctor—”

  He pulled his arm out of my grasp and gave me another down-the-nose look even though I was a smidge taller than him. “I wouldn’t think of abandoning my duties.”

  “But, if your heart—”

  “It is nothing I haven’t tolerated for many years. If you permit, I will now go attend to Lady Barbara’s request.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he stalked out with so much dignity, I figured he was simply enjoying a little martyrdom before the camera. I didn’t want to make him look like a fool, so I let him go without comment.

  Besides, I had more urgent matters to take care of.

  “Bathroom!” I yelped as I dashed out of the morning room, down the hallway, across the landing, and into the next wing, where my room was. My faulty memory was right for once and I found the water closet where I had remembered seeing it on the floor plan.

  A minute or two later I returned to the morning room and found one of the maids in there just setting my journal down on the escritoire.

  “Hi, we haven’t had a chance to meet. I’m Tessa.”

  The woman looked at me curiously for a moment, then gave a relieved sigh. Her whole demeanor changed from one of wary concern to a pleasant, relaxed stance. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you. I thought you would be like the others. I’m Alice Bolton. I’m the head housemaid.”

  “Like the others?”

  She gave a wry smile and tipped her head back so her nose was stuck in the air, affecting a very cultured tone. “Rather stuck on themselves.”

  I grinned. She did a pretty good job of mimicking Barbara’s upper-class drawl. “Your job would be pretty hard to take if we really were living a hundred and twenty-five years ago, but I imagine it’s horrible for you guys who are expected to jump every time one of the family snaps her fingers. If you don’t mind my asking, what made you decide to do it?”

  She hesitated for a moment, then bent over and pulled up her white apron, black skirt, and soft pink petticoat. Although both legs were wearing thick black stockings, one of them was artificial.

  “Oh, geez, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry or anything. Do you need to sit down?”

  She laughed, her hazel eyes twinkling with genuine humor. “You didn’t pry, and no, I’m fine. I heard about the project and thought it would be a challenge to see if I have what it takes to tackle a demanding physical job. Ever since the accident that took my leg, I’ve set challenges for myself to overcome, just to prove to myself and my family that I’m no different than I was before.”

  “What a noble purpose!” I said, impressed to death. It made me feel horribly mercenary that the only reason I had taken the role was for the money. “That really is inspiring. What a great role model you are to girls everywhere.”

  She looked a bit embarrassed, then said with a flutter of a dimple in her cheek, “Well, the money also had something to do with my decision.”

  It was a bonding kind of moment, and by the time Alice left a few minutes later, I was feeling like I had at least one friend in the house.

  Palmer interrupted me when I was just sitting down with my journal to ask if I’d see Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper, at that moment or later.

  “Oh, shoot, I forgot. Um . . . send her up. Are you . . . uh . . . OK?”

  He paused at the door, his left hand going to his right shoulder. “I’m quite well, excepting, of course, the pain in my sciatica.”

  I thought about pointing out that the sciatic nerve ran down the leg, but decided against it. Why ruin his fun? Instead I went over my list of duties for the day, making a couple of notes of what I wanted to get accomplished:

  Talk to Max. Alone. Without cameras. Apologize again for ralphing on him.

  Ditto for the unfortunate gas leak at morning prayers.

  Visit stables to see the horses. Maybe Max would like to go riding this afternoon?

  Go up to day nursery and meet governess and Max’s daughter. Maybe Max should be there, too, just to introduce us?

  Ask Max to take me on tour of the house.

  Check out library. Meet rest of servants. Cut corset strings. Go for walk by pond with Max.

  I frowned as I read over my list. The frown wasn’t just for content, although I noted with some concern that Max’s name popped up on every item, but also because the writing was hard to decipher. There were huge violet blots and splotches, and great big swoops of smeared ink where my finger had touched the wet scrawl. I glared at the pen and pulled the nib off it, replacing it with another one, but it didn’t help. Clearly, writing with the pen and ink was going to take some getting used to.

  “You wished to see me, Your Grace?”

  The woman at the door was not who I had picked out in the hall assembly as housekeeper. This woman was petite with elegant hands, soft, curly light brown hair that defied her attempt to pin it into a bun, and a rather dreamy look in her eyes.

  “Hi, you must be Mrs. Peters. You don’t have to your grace me when the cameras aren’t . . . oh, uh . . . I see. Right. Um, yes, I wished to see you about the menus for the day. Won’t you sit down and tell me what you have planned to give us today?”

  Her eyes widened as Sam and Wilma sidled around her. She turned with them so her back remained to the camera. Her eyebrows went wild, trying to semaphore something to me, but I didn’t understand what. Finally, she nodded quickly toward the chair and made a negative motion with her hand.

  I took it that meant that she wasn’t supposed to sit in the presence of her betters, whic
h I thought was too stupid for words, but I kept my mouth shut. For once.

  “Luncheon will be stewed beef’s heart, fried tripe, stuffed baked tomatoes, French bread, sponge cake, and peach cobbler.”

  I managed to get the look of horror off my face by the time Sam swung the camera around to face me. “Well, now, that sounds like just an indescribably . . . lovely menu, but silly me, I neglected to tell you that Max . . . the duke is allergic to beef’s heart and fried tripe. Perhaps we could have some, oh, I don’t know, chicken or salmon or something else?”

  The housekeeper was shaking her head even before I finished speaking. “That wouldn’t be wise, no it wouldn’t.”

  “Wise? Why wouldn’t it be wise?”

  She gave me a pitying look. “The spirits wouldn’t like it! They dislike change, you know. They’re quite sensitive, and get most annoyed when changes are made harum-scarum.”

  I started to blink at her odd comment, then decided I’d been blinking far too much of late, so changed the move to a cocked eyebrow. “Spirits? As in . . . ghosts?”

  She nodded, her wispy hair forming a corona around her head. “This house has a great many spirits attached to it, and I would hate to see them upset simply because the duke can’t eat the luncheon. There is, after all, dinner.”

  I tried to look like it was commonplace to be ordering meals around the whims of spirits. “And that would be . . . ?”

  “Dinner this evening is beef soup with croutons, boiled fresh cod with Hollandaise sauce, roast partridge, mashed potatoes, spinach with eggs, tomato salad, stuffed aubergine, lobster croquettes, peach meringue pie, tutti-frutti ice cream, rolled jelly cake, and cheese, of course.”

  “Of course. It’s hardly a meal without a great whopping wad of Stilton at the end.”

  Mrs. Peters bowed her head. “Exactly so.”

  “I take it this dinner has passed the spirit test?”

  “Oh, yes, they quite approve it.”

  “Really? How do you know, exactly?”

  She looked startled, which I thought was odd since I was the one who felt like I suddenly found myself in Wonderland. “They told me so.”

  I gave in and had a few therapeutic blinks.

  “I held a séance last evening in the Pug’s Parlor,” she explained gently. “I plan to hold them every night. It was very successful. The spirits here have fascinating stories to tell, and they’re very pleased to have someone to talk to.”

  Well, there just really wasn’t much I could say to that, now, was there? Mindful of the camera, I just smiled and said, “Wonderful. Sounds like a very commendable project. An idle ghost is the devil’s plaything and all that. Perhaps one day you will allow the duke and me to join the séance.”

  “Oh, I don’t think they’d like that,” she said with a sudden frown.

  I kept the smile on my face even though my cheeks were starting to tire. “Oh? Why is that?”

  She all but rolled her eyes. “You’re American! Everyone knows English ghosts don’t take to Americans! You fought a war against us!”

  “Ah. Right. Silly me, what was I thinking? I’d assumed all that had been forgiven and forgotten.”

  She ignored that and instead said something about showing me around the house, but I wanted Max to do that. After all, it was supposed to be his house; he could do the honors. Right? Right. I’m so glad you’re with me on this.

  Wednesday

  September 1

  7:40 P.M.

  The fainting couch

  I formally nominate today to be officially recognized as the longest day in recorded human history. It seems like it’s gone on FOREVER and there’s still dinner to get through. There’s so much I want to do that I haven’t had time (or the breath) to do. . . . Oh, well. It’ll all be here tomorrow.

  Sam and Wilma followed me around for most of the morning. They filmed us at lunch, which was not the success I’m sure the cook was shooting for, as no one but the Sloughs ate the tripe and cow heart. The rest of us—Max, Melody, and me—made do with the tomatoes (which were actually very good), bread, and desserts. I, of course, am now on the corset diet, so I didn’t eat too much of anything that would either expand in my stomach or give me more gas. There’s only so much humiliation a girl can take before she loses all dignity.

  Melody, I hear you asking—what of this daughter of Max’s? I have two words to sum her up: spoiled brat. Oh, all right, I’ll be honest: smart spoiled brat. I met Melody at lunch, but couldn’t let on that I didn’t know her, of course, because the cameras were on. Instead I just gave her a cheery smile, which she answered by glaring at me and turning her back to the camera. After Max helped me to my chair (which, let me tell you, is something I could really get used to), he held out a chair for Melody at the spot on my immediate right. She transferred her glare to him and huffed her way into the chair, arms crossed, face set in a scowl that would have warned off a rampaging bear.

  I understood part of why she was so angry with her father—she had a large port wine stain over the upper half of the left side of her face. I sympathized with her obvious desire to stay off camera . . . sympathized until she opened her mouth.

  “Who’s that?” she asked her father, pointing at me.

  Max gave her a look that most fathers keep for stupid questions, and said calmly, “That is Tessa, Melody. You know that.”

  “How can I know that? I’ve never seen her before.”

  Barbara, sitting across the table from her, tittered nervously. “Oh, now lamb, you know you’ve seen her, you were at the wedding. Don’t you remember it? It was such a very grand affair—”

  “She’s not married to my father,” Melody growled. “He and my mom are divorced.”

  “Such a rapierlike wit, I can see why you all adore her so. What a very clever child,” I laughed gaily as Sam, with Roger dancing around behind him, rolled his eyes. Roger gestured something that I assumed meant they would cut Melody’s comments from the bits to be aired on the show.

  Teddy moved smoothly around the table offering various dishes of food, assisting Palmer. The latter’s limp notwithstanding, theirs was a beautiful ballet of service made all the more impressive considering they’d only worked together since the morning.

  Melody’s high, strident voice pierced my thoughts and the various nummy noises that Barbara and Henry were making as they loaded up their plates. “I hate it here. I want to go home. I’m not having fun at all. You said I’d have fun, but I’m not. I don’t like Mademoiselle. She pinched me. And this dress is stupid.”

  Everyone started talking at once.

  “I don’t see why I can’t have my computer. No one would see it. It’s not like it would hurt anything to have it.”

  Max gave Melody another look, one that more or less told her to shut up. I said nothing, but smiled at her.

  She threw down her fork and crossed her arms, her lower lip going out in as fine an example of a full-fledged pout as I’ve ever seen. “The only good thing about this place is the horses, but you won’t let me near them. I hate it here! I hate you! I WANT TO GO HOME!”

  Max set down his fork with great deliberation and frowned at her. “Melody, if you are finished eating you may be excused. I’m sure Mademoiselle will be happy to give you extra lessons to keep you occupied.”

  “It’s not fair! I didn’t ask to be here!”

  “I believe I’ll take a stroll out to the stables after lunch,” I said, feeling more than a little sorry for the kid. A brat she might be, but I knew she must also be homesick. “If you like, Melody, you may accompany me. Perhaps we’ll go for a ride.”

  Her lower lip sucked in just a bit as she turned her angry eyes on me. Her face was flushed red, making the port wine stain stand out in an ugly purple blotch. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I don’t know you.”

  “Melody is not to go riding; she doesn’t know how,” Max said. “She’s not old enough to handle a horse.”

  “She’s not old enough? She’s twelve
—of course she’s old enough.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “In the hands of someone who does not possess the skill or strength to control them, horses can be dangerous. Melody has neither quality, therefore she will not be riding.”

  Tears glistened in Melody’s eyes as she huffed in a way that foretold an explosion.

  “There’s nothing to riding,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. I don’t know why I wanted to defend the little brat, I guess it’s just the peacemaker in me. “If she can ride a bike, she can ride a horse. I would be more than happy to teach her how to—”

  “She is not going to ride, and that is my final word on the subject,” Max interrupted, his jaw tense.

  “But, I’d be happy—”

  “There’s no need for you to get involved.”

  “That’s just stupid,” I said, shaking a forkful of stuffed tomato at him. All of a sudden he didn’t look nearly as attractive as he had before. Now he just looked like one of those annoying bossy men who think their opinion is the right one. They’re inevitably wrong, of course. “It’s obvious she’s not happy. The least you can do is make this a bit more bearable for her—”

  “It is not stupid, it is responsible. Horses can be dangerous, a fact I well know. I won’t have my child endangered just because she’s in a pout. Furthermore, I will thank you to keep out of my business. I certainly don’t need advice from a woman who has never borne a child.”