The black slacks and black button-up we are to wear as our uniform are stuffy, straining over the muscles of my arms and chest, and making it difficult to maneuver freely. But I do look sharp; I’ll give my employer that.
“Do you want to wear something specific?” I ask the young missus as I enter her large closet.
Clothes are hung all around the walls, shoes lining the floor. In the center of the room is an island, one that holds various articles of jewelry and little hats with feathers or flowers onthem. Everything is pastel and bright, all suited to the tastes of a ten-year-old girl.
“No, I’m fine with anything,” she responds, not moving from her place on the bed.
I grab a frilly purple dress and white, shiny, faux leather dress shoes that have a single gold strap over the front. Searching the bottom drawers of the island for a moment, I very awkwardly grab a pair of underwear and some white socks with lace lining the tops.
Never in a million years did I foresee myself picking out undergarments for a child that is not my own. But here we are.
I return to the main bedroom and present Abigail with her clothes. Her green eyes sparkle as she stares at the stack in my hands.
Then, she lifts her eyes to mine and says, “That’s my favorite dress. Did you know?”
“I didn’t,” I answer honestly. “But it is very pretty. That’s why I picked it.”
Abigail grins as she takes the stack from me. “Exactly! I like the little bow on the back. Let me get dressed, and I will call you back in.”
With a polite nod, I slip back out of the bedroom, standing guard at her door.
A moment later, the door to my left opens, and out steps Atticus.
“Young Master Atticus,” I greet him, remembering how offended Oscar was when I referred to Atlas by his first name only. “Is there anything I can do for you this morning?”
Atticus turns a scowl onto me, only bothering to reply after he’s turned away and begun the walk toward the landing.
“No, Mr. Walsh. I need nothing from you. Just keep attending to Abigail.” And then he’s gone, having turned the corner to his left, heading toward the staircase, I suppose.
“Julian?” Abigail calls.
I re-enter her room, catching sight of her standing in front of a full-body mirror that sits propped against the large window across the room from the door.
“Will you tie my bow?” she asks quietly.
“Of course.” I make my way across the room, taking the two purple pieces of fabric in hand as I begin to tie them at the small of her back.
Feeling her eyes, I look up and into the mirror, catching our reflection. I look like a dutiful butler taking care of a sweet, innocent heiress. And in some ways, I guess I am.
My life has changed so rapidly, and some part of me feels as if I’ve been shoved into the pages of an old fairytale.
“You think I’m adopted?” Abigail suddenly asks, and I startle, accidentally tugging on the purple strands of fabric before loosening my grip.
“What? Why would I think that, missus?”
She shrugs, her green eyes never leaving mine, as if she refuses to appear embarrassed or belittled.
“Because I look different. I do not look like Papa or Momma, or my brothers.” She says it simply, as if this accusation has been made before.
Some part of me wonders who, in their right mind, would tell a sweet child like Abigail that she must be adopted due to her appearance.
“No,” I tell her firmly. “I didn’t think that for a second. You’re a very pretty young lady, and I see how you resemble your family.”
“You do?” She perks up, moving to sit on the bed once her bow is finished. “How so?”
“Well,” I begin, accepting the socks she extends to me. I settle onto my knees before her and begin to slip them over her feet gently. “You have the same gentleness I feel from Lady Theodora and from Young Master Atlas. And you appear to be as brave and strong-willed as Master Abraham.”
As I reach for her dress shoes, I catch sight of Abigail’s watery eyes. But she’s quick to wipe at them and to give me a small laugh.
