CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

Winston was the son of a gentleman's gentleman as was his father. Their family had been helping the rich and privileged appear better than they were for centuries. His brother had worked for a lord in London but had passed away, a casualty of the German air raids during WWII. He wondered what his brother would think of his current employer. He imagined the advice would be to leave America and move back to London.

Winston removed two pieces of toast and spread butter and marmalade on each one, then set them on the table with a bowl of fresh fruit. The coffee was ready. He poured Miss Culberson a cup, added two sugars, and stirred.

The two maids were already tending to their duties, light as they might be, so he sat in quiet contemplation. The recent events had been hard on Sylvia as they would be on any person, but it was worse for him. He knew the secret and couldn't tell. He couldn't ease her suffering, and, for that, he suffered right along with her.

She wasn't like other people he had worked for, not in the least. She was a proper lady. Sylvia was more proper than most of the terrible shrews who had 'breeding.' It came to her naturally. She was polite, clever, and witty even around the society folks who didn't deserve it. Winston knew it wasn't her choice, but she played the role with style.

He thought about the suitors who called and how she had run them all off since the explosion. He knew grief for he still felt the pain of the loss of his brother, but he didn't want to wall off the world. He wanted to let it in. Winston felt best around people. He liked it when Mr. Culberson brought over colleagues. It was a pleasure to serve them, to attend to their needs, and to see their appreciation. Mr. Culberson's friends were not high society folks, either, though some were successful and had made their own fortunes. They all remembered life before and never once looked down on Winston.

Winston thought about their late night conversations. Mr. Culberson would stay up all night, working on a project, and Winston would sit and listen to him describe how it worked. Winston didn't know anything about science or inventing but still was asked for an opinion. It often was something simple, such as where he would put this handle or, if it could do this, would that be good. Winston would simply answer from the heart and explain why he agreed or disagreed with the idea. Often, Mr. Culberson would look at him and say, "You know, I think you are right." Or, if there was a good reason, he would explain why Winston was mistaken. It wasn't the contribution that was important to Winston; it was the joy in being respected. Mr. Culberson treated him like a friend, not a servant.

He heard footsteps, and Sylvia walked into the kitchen. Normally the lady of the house would insist on eating in the dining room. Sylvia liked eating in the kitchen and reading the morning paper.

"Good morning, Winston."

"I wondered if you might miss it today."

"Yes, I wondered that, too. But I am up. Life goes on, and so must this day." She took a bite of toast and opened the paper with a crack. Winston noticed. She had not done that before. Usually she would take a section, lay it on the table, and then carefully turn each page. It was her father who snapped the paper open and devoured each story. Winston wondered if she even knew she had done it.

"Did you see this review by Le Mange? It looks like it might be a good place to dine."

"Shall I make a reservation for you, Miss?"

"A reservation for one? I don't think so. Maybe we could go together. It would be less lonely."

"That would hardly be proper, Miss. Perhaps one of the gentlemen callers, whom you have whooshed away, might be interested?"

"You think I should ask them out? That certainly wouldn't be proper."

"I could make a call and hint that..." There was someone at the door. Winston got up to answer it. Sylvia remained with her toast but seemed a little surprised by Winston' comment.