The night that followed was a twisted hallucination, filled with wandering demons and long-lost emotions. Mourning came: the devastating sense of loss for her mother that Tess had been too seasick to feel at her death. And guilt, for having hated her mother at her trial in Wrexham for petty thievery. And sorrow, too: for Maggie's youth being eaten up by disease. Frustration: that with all her strength, Tess was powerless to help. But mostly Tess felt overwhelming pity, because that was all she had to give.
A sooty lamp flickered and died somewhere in the dingy room, lighting nothing but adding its noxiousness to the acrid air. Will lay still unconscious on the dirty, unmade bed. His father was cradling his head in his vast arms on the table, snoring lightly. Tess, stiff and sore from her vigil in the rickety chair she'd placed next to Will's bed, was bent over double, her head dropped between her knees, stretching her spine. Demons leave at dawn, leaving numbness behind.
****
"Ow-w! Who ... ow-w ... hit me?" They were his first words, full of bravado and pain.
"Will!" Lightheaded, Tess fell to her knees on the floor alongside her brother's bed. "Dear Will—someone threw a stone at you. Father, wake up," she called softly.
"A stone! Oh-h—what a dirty trick," Will said weakly. "And I know who—Billy Corcoran, that dirty rat." He moaned and rolled his head a little. "Ow—it feels like my head's been through a mangler .... " He tried to get up. "Wait'll I get—"
"Back down, boy," his father interrupted in a severe voice completed unrelated to the look of love on his face. "Plenty o' time for vengeance after. You give us a turn, you did," he added gruffly, approaching the bed.
Tess allowed herself, at last, to burst into tears.
"Gee whiz, Tess—it ain't anything," her brother protested feebly.
But Tess continued to sob, and no one could comfort her.
****
"I suppose you expect me to believe that? What will you use for an excuse the next time you stay out all night? That your father's been shot in a duel?" Cornelia Winward tapped a satin shoe on a parquet floor, not at all amused.
"It's the truth, ma'am. Will nearly died. Even now the doctor says he must be watched carefully."
"And at this rate he shall have more than enough around him to do that. You're very close to a dismissal," Cornelia added angrily. She brought her forefinger within a hair's width of her thumb. "This close. If Marie hadn't been here, who on earth would've attended me? I don't feel I can trust you at all, Tessie. Your loyalties are ill-placed. Perhaps you're too young for this. I really think you're too young."
Tess drew a deep, slow breath. Should she fight for this wretched position? Did she have a choice? She exhaled slowly. "Of course I feel differently. I—" A knock interrupted her.
"Ah, Marie! Good." To Tess Cornelia said, "There's a rather elaborate picnic planned today; Marie will be accompanying me. Perhaps a quiet afternoon of reflection will allow you to put things in a better perspective," she suggested in a voice filled with meaning. "You might look over the ecru satin gown. I tore it last night learning a new mazurka. They do it differently—oh, never mind. See if the gown can be salvaged, but I'm sure it cannot. Do hurry, Marie."
Marie, pretty, dark, with a Frenchwoman's expressiveness. rolled her eyes at Tess and fell in behind her mistress.
Tess was left alone, with sewing to last her a week. (Cornelia was very hard on her wardrobe, having learned early on that a little well-placed sabotage worked just as well as begging and pleading all the time for new gowns.) Tess took up the torn dress, an off-white satin gown with fine lace appliqué spilling over the shoulders into a free fall down the back, over the bustle, and along the edge of the train. The tear, a diagonal rent across the fabric, was obvious. Tess thought about it for a while, at length deciding to sew appliquéd lace of a complementary design over the rip, though it meant introducing the new pattern randomly throughout the fall of lace. It would require hours, even days, of handsewing, but the gown was an exquisite piece of art, and Tess was determined to save it.
Or am I really doing this simply out of malice? she wondered. To thwart her? She laid the dress flat on a table in Cornelia's dressing room and smiled. Probably.
After an hour of planning and sketching, she was ready to begin the painstaking work of separating lace motifs from the roll of exquisite appliqué that lay folded in tissue in one of a pair of tall French semainiers that stood side by side in the dressing room. Tess took out the appliqué, then wandered over to a small lead-paned window which opened out onto the manicured grounds.
Two elderly guests were touring the garden, companionably arm in arm, sharing a parasol. A small terrier trotted busily ahead of the ladies, then returned to shepherd them forward, determined to keep his touring party together and safe. The morning was perfect, another pearl strung onto a necklace of fine days, and Tess decided to take her work outside to her favorite bench in the servants' yard. The servants' yard was tiny, it was true, but much grander houses then Beau Rêve had no yard at all for their staffs. Space in fashionable Newport was dear; the whole of Aquidneck Island could have been dropped into the park of one large country house in England. Tess had been spoiled by Wrexham, but fortunately for her, her American employer was an outdoor enthusiast who firmly believed that fresh air was necessary to cleanse the body and make it more energetic.
Tess settled into an iron and pine bench tucked among high hedges and took up her scissors and the lace from her sewing basket. The work was so pleasant, the day so warm, and her daydreams so sweetly melancholy, that two hours passed as one.
The afternoon was in its most languid phase when Bridget rushed up to her and asked, "Have you seen Peter Boot?"
Tess shook her head and Bridget hurried on, but the thought that Peter Boot might be in the area made Tess reluctantly begin to gather up her things. The sound of a man's footfall on the path startled her into a panic; she stuffed the lace into her basket and jumped up, ready for flight.
"You're here, Tess!"
Edward Hillyard was dressed, this time, in white flannels and a beautifully cut double-breasted blazer, with a yachting cap in one hand. In the bright sunlight the tips of his sun-bleached hair and even his mustache shone as brass as the buttons of his jacket. He was an outdoor dilettante, tan and fit and urbane all at the same time, an eminently decorative guest.
"Of course I'm here," Tess answered rather calmly, despite the knockdown that her heart had taken. "Where else would I be?"
"Down at the wharves, of course. I heard one maid tell another that the 'Moran girl' had gone to see her 'busted-up brother' somewhere near Howard's Wharf."
"Maggie Moran, that would be. My sister."
"Ah. Well—you're looking wonderfully serene. I assume that means your brother is mending nicely?"
"He seems to be." Serene! Her emotions were dragging her like a runaway horse.
"Good. In any case, if your sister had chosen to look out her brother's window, she would've spied a nattily dressed yachtsman skulking around the wharf like a water rat. That would be your servant, ma'am," he said with a bow and a flourish of his cap.
"But why?" The words floated from her, soft as the flight of a butterfly.
He shrugged. "Why. Who can say why? I'm bored, you interest me, the picnic was a fiasco—"
"Oh yes, the picnic. Miss Cornelia did say it was going to be 'rather elaborate,'" Tess interrupted, mostly for something to say.
Because he was just standing there, twirling his hat, or trying to. His dark brows were pulled together in concentration as he managed a wobbly circle. For one silly instant he looked like an eager, intelligent puppy, which endeared him to her.
He stopped, grinned, tossed the hat up, caught it by its visor and said, "Oh, it was an elaborate picnic, all right: Team A, which included half a dozen of us nautical types, was to take a new and completely experimental gasoline-powered yacht over to Price's Neck, there to anchor off and join forces ashore with Team B and several magnums—or is that 'magna'?—of champagne and mountains of pâté. I predict great things for the internal combustion engine, but not quite yet. Anyway, the damn thing sputtered and died around Castle Hill, and we were towed back by a steam yacht and flung up on one of the piers like the catch du jour. Give me a sturdy mainsail and a halyard to hoist it with anytime. End of picnic plan. Can you sit?"
"I can," she said with an impish look, "but I think the others may consider that you're trespassing."
"Ouch. Tossed out on my flannels by the servant class, no less. Ah well—may I walk with you a bit?"
"I don't think so." Her voice, soft and blurred, sounded unconvincing. "Why are you in our yard?" Clearly it wasn't to seek her out.
"My dear young woman, I'm ashamed to say. We're playing an inane version of hide and seek; the first three men to be found by the first three women have to exchange clothes with them. Some of them, anyway. It's absurd. Miss Cornelia's idea. She considered she was being brilliantly original, I suppose."
Tess and Hillyard had begun sauntering—technically, it was true, it could not be called walking—toward the entrance to the yard. Tess, dressed in her uniform of black, would have liked just once to be wearing white, extravagant and elegant and gay. She wanted the luxury of being able to laugh in the company of this man. To tease him. To be arch and clever and coy. But a maddening sense of propriety would not let her.
"So you are hiding from a game of hide and seek," she said wistfully.
"Which you would not, I gather? Am I to take it you enjoy games and amusements?"
"Oh, yes—in Wrexham we seemed to do so much more of that than here. And dancing, too. I love to dance. More than once Lady Meller and even Sir Meller surprised us in the hall and joined us in a romp around the floor."
You make England sound very democratic," he said blandly. "And yet when I was privileged to visit a very fine country house in Suffolk the year before last, it did not seem so to me. I would be walking through the house, minding my own business, and if I happened to come upon a servant—bam! Face to the wall she would go, flattening herself away from me. What do you say to that? And why are you so protective of the British, anyway? You're Irish, after all."
"I'm from the south," she said quietly. "There is not the hostility there. In any case, Lady Meller was always extremely kind to my family and me. I have no cause to resent the English."
"Then why did you leave?"
Tess looked away. "Father is adventurous," she answered lamely. After a pause she added, "There was some trouble. We had no choice."
"The fault could not have been yours," he said gently.
"What difference does it make? If there is bad blood, it runs through all our veins. It will out; if not now, then later." She reined herself in, too late.
"What a preposterous idea! I suppose it comes from being Catholic, this sense of doom and gloom. Here you are, a beautiful woman with a gentle manner and a thoughtful mind—and yet, you seem to consider yourself worthless at best, a possible rogue at worst."
"Not at all!"
"Why bother to deny it? You have let your own good opinion of yourself be destroyed by the grandes dames of Newport!"
"Ha. Not only by the women," she objected good-naturedly.
"But mostly the women. They have the power to grind their husbands to dust—men with the will and the resources to buy and sell half the planet. Where does that leave you in their regard? I'll tell you: to them you're less than human, an assembly of muscle and bone shipped to Newport for their convenience, along with the china and the plate."
"I see." Her eyes glittered, glazed over with tears. "And I suppose you are doing your utmost to raise my sense of self- worth."
"Admittedly, that was my intention," he said, suddenly conscious of his own vehemence. "I take it I've failed?"
"All in all, I think I prefer Miss Cornelia's cruelty to your kindness. But thank you for—well, for nothing," she said, suddenly angry with him for pointing out what every single day she tried to ignore. "Surely I'm keeping you? Is there not a box somewhere for you to stand on, a speech to make, a revolution to organize? That is, assuming you can find the time to tear yourself away from your picnics and your paté. Good afternoon, sir." She turned on her heel.
"Wait." He held her back, and his touch, electrically intense, sent her spinning back to him.
"What? What do you want?"
"To prove that you are equal to the best that Newport has to offer. You've accused me of being a dilettante, a hypocrite. All right! Then give me a chance to redeem my words. There is to be a servants' ball tomorrow night at The Ledge. Will you let me take you to it?"
The invitation staggered her. She hedged her answer. "A servants' ball? Like those we have on Boxing Day? Eh ... I've never heard of one in America. And, eh-h, it isn't Christmas."
"This is the Newport version," he said with a grim smile. "Will you go?"
"I ... I don't know. I've heard nothing about it—"
"Nor will you. It's a very exclusive, very secret affair. In fact, I want you to tell absolutely no one about this. There would be much hard feeling if you did."
A young woman's voice, clear, musical, edged with impatience, rang out somewhere on the other side of the hedges. "Edward! Oh Ed-ward! We give up. Come out, wherever you are."
Hillyard ignored it. "Will you go, Tess?" He held her by her wrist. The movement of his jaw, his short breath, his furrowed brow—all belied his earlier, offhand manner.
"Ed-ward! Where are you?"
"They'll find you here with me," she whispered, aghast.
"Not in a million years. Yes or no Tess?"
Her eyes dropped from his. "Yes, then."
"Excellent."
"But when—"
"I'll be in touch."
****
And he was, the next day. A small package, addressed in a careless hand, came for Tess. The housekeeper delivered it personally.
"How are you getting on with Miss Cornelia, Tess?" asked Mrs. Bracken in a casual way.
If Mrs. Bracken didn't know, then Cornelia Winward hadn't told her. "Very well indeed, Mrs. Bracken. Splendidly."
"Marie leaves the day after next, does she not? If Miss Cornelia feels, as apparently you do, that the term of probation was a success, you will be moving into the bedroom next to hers and will begin to take your meals in my room with the other senior servants."
"Thank you, ma'am. I shall look forward to it."
"And how are the family coming along?" the housekeeper asked in a voice bristling with efficiency.
It seemed incredibly nervy of her to ask, and Tess gave her a long, cool stare before answering in a soft voice, "As well as can be expected, ma'am. These are hard times."
"Yes. Well, I'm sure it's all for the best."
"Mrs. Bracken, about tonight—" Tess said, unsure how to begin.
"So you've already heard about the holiday?" interrupted Mrs. Bracken, annoyed. "Gossip simply tears through this house! Yes, you have the evening off. Miss Cornelia will not return to Beau Rêve tonight. As for the ball, I'm against the whole idea, from start to finish. It makes a mockery of our profession in an age that can ill afford it."
"Do you think so, ma'am? I think it will lift our spirits no end, especially coming as it does at the end of a hectic season ..."
The housekeeper fixed Tess with a withering look. "What an odd opinion!" And she left Tess thinking exactly the same thing about her.
Back in her room Tess held the hastily wrapped package in her lap as if it were a chest containing the crown jewels. On the front was a five-word address: Tess Moran, Beau-Rêve, Newport. No miss, no mademoiselle, of course; no return name. Slowly, lovingly, Tess untied the string as if it were gold braid, unwrapped the plain brown paper as if it were handpainted. The letter was inside the box, under an exquisite silver mask. Marveling, Tess put the mask aside and opened the heavy linen sheet.
"Tess—A hansom cab will pick you up at the corner of Bellevue and Ruggles at nine o'clock. Don't be late. Wear the ordinary day-dress of a lady's maid, and by all means put on the mask. I'll meet you at the entrance, and then we shall have some fun. Yours, etc. Edward Hillyard."
Puzzled but intrigued, Tess held the mask over her face and peered at herself in a small, bone-handled mirror. The mask covered two-thirds of her face. Never before had Tess gone to a servants' ball in masquerade. In England the balls were simple, jolly affairs: on the day after Christmas, Boxing Day, masters and servants changed places for the day, dancing together. Probably that was too straightforward for Newport.
A sound in the hall had Tess slamming the mask into a drawer, then sweeping the wrapping and the letter off the far side of her bed. Maggie entered as Tess swung round on her.
"Tessie, something is amiss in the laundry room," Maggie wailed, oblivious to her sister's embarrassment.
"Seriously amiss? Or just the normal amount?" asked Tess with a distracted smile.
"That's just it—I can't tell," Maggie answered, her eyes wide with apprehension. "There was a new girl poking about in the laundry rooms today. Bridget was taking her everywhere, showing her everything—machines, tubs, racks. Why would she do that if the girl wasn't coming to work here?"
"Which would be grand news for you, miss: less work," Tess answered, knowing full well where her sister's fearful logic was taking her.
"Less work, indeed! She's bound to be replacing me, and then I'll have all the time in the world."
"Don't talk nonsense, Mag. We would have heard."
"Well, it's not as though anyone else has ever been given warning," retorted Maggie, and she threw herself face down on the bed.
Tess sat alongside her sister and rubbed small circles into her lower back. "Mag, this is the merest anthill, and here you go making a mountain out of it. Couldn't the girl have been a friend of Bridget's from another house?"
"No," Maggie answered in a blanket-muffled voice, "or Bridget would've sworn me not to tell. No one's allowed. You know that," she added wearily.
"True enough—but on the other hand, Mrs. Bracken just spoke to me not half an hour ago and told me she was quite satisfied with your work."
If the remark were less than half true, was that a mortal sin?
Maggie rolled over onto her side. "Is that really true?"
"Would I lie?" Definitely a mortal sin.
Maggie rolled the rest of the way onto her back and sighed. "'I feel better, then."
"Good."
"Oh! Have you been given the night off? Some of the chambermaids have, and the groom, and some of the footmen and the under-cook and the scullery maid. It's very odd. The house will be quiet tonight. Well? Have you?"
Obviously Maggie hadn't heard about the ball.
"Ehh ... the truth is, I'm still working on the lace appliqué. Another half-truth; another sin.
"Can't it wait? I have only one underskirt to iron. It shouldn't take me more than three or four hours, and then I'm sure I'll be let go for the night."
"No ... no. Miss Cornelia specifically asked for the gown to be finished as soon as possible." Each lie spawned another.
"Can you work on it here?"
"No. The light is better in her dressing room." That was at least technically true. "I'm sorry, Mag," she said when she saw the look of disappointment on her sister's face. But she had to go to this ball. No matter what, she had to go. It was as simple as that.
Tess changed the subject. "Come now; time for Fellows Syrup and cod liver oil."
"I'd nearly forgotten why I was here," Maggie admitted, but she looked at her sister strangely as she took her medicine with less then her usual grace.