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“You must be the reason why the wash is finally getting done,” Lady Lydia observed with a single finger tapping her chin. “Do not think that I did not notice that the servants reeked to high heaven the past few months. Honestly, I ought to have fired them all for the offense to my senses. My Venetian salts could hardly do the trick. Still, whatever poor soul was left to the task at least had the good sense to make my garments the preference.”
“Peggy did the best she could on her own,” Marilee agreed. She hoped that by putting in the good word for her friend, and even by calling her by name, it might ease some of the pressure that Mrs. Cavendish had placed upon their shoulders. Now that progress was being made, the head housekeeper wanted the task done immediately rather than being satisfied.
Lady Lydia sighed and inspected her perfectly rounded nails. “Though… I am still waiting for my silk brocade in rose; the one with the white lilies on the sleeves. It has been three months and I want to wear it to Josie Belton’s dinner party tomorrow.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Marilee replied with yet another curtsy. She did not recall that specific gown which meant that it must still be laid at the bottom of the pile of the gowns in need of repair.
“I shall expect it in my chamber by morning. No excuses.” Lady Lydia turned on her heel and vacated the hallway by means of a door to her left.
Marilee groaned. Half of the gowns that they had come across had already been tossed in the scrap pile to be made into something new. Some were little more than rags after lying in a damp pile for so long. Lady Lydia was an avid rider and her clothing was often sent below worse for the wear, plus many of the stains had sat long enough to be ingrained in the fabric.
Marilee had no idea if the rose brocade was salvageable. She hoped that it only needed a gentle cleansing, but if a stain had set for months, as many had, there was no telling if it could be removed. If mildew had set in, it was lost. She delivered her load to a young maid who could not have been more than fourteen-years-old. She was tempted to ask the girl if she too was here against her will; if she had been taken from her family or even sold away when money had been sparse, but Marilee found that she did not want to know the answer. She did not speak. Silently, the young maid took the pile of bedding and slipped into the nearby chamber without providing an opportunity for conversation.
Such was the way of things in the Blackwell house, Marilee had realized. Servants rarely spoke with one another unless it had to do with their duties. The place was silent as the grave, and truthfully, Marilee sometimes felt as if she had one foot in that hole, but Marilee also understood the lack of happy conversation. There was little mirth in the house, and if Mrs. Cavendish came upon idle chatter, her rage was swift and exacting.
The only time that Marilee might hope to gather a tidbit of information happened in the moments before sleep when the newest girls of the dormitory would giggle and gossip until the last of the candle burned down. For that half-hour or so, Marilee almost felt as if things were as they ought to be. Then, the light would fade and the girls would fall into silence, a sniffle or a whimper the only indication that someone was crying. Someone still had the energy to cry.
It was then that reality of her predicament would slam back upon her with full force. She might never see her friends and family again. She might never even lay eyes upon the sun and tip her face up to feel a warm summer breeze upon it. The stifling dread of the house closed in upon her reminding her that she was a slave to the far-away woman who decided her fate, on a whim; if indeed, it was Lady Lydia who made the decisions.
Perhaps it was her father, or some other miserable old man who thought only of lining his pockets with gold. He did not care of the lives he ruined in the process. He did not see Marilee or Peggy as people. Perhaps he never would. He would sit in his tower and dictate their lives and their deaths. Surely, he would dictate their misery.
Neither melancholy nor anger would change things, Marilee reminded herself as she straightened and pulled herself back from her wool-gathering. She had a job to do, and to neglect it would invite a reprimand. She had to remember that Miss Caroline might still be in danger. She had to be careful. She would bide her time. She would continue to put one foot in front of the other, and hope, but hope was in short supply. Perhaps it was as lost as Lady Lydia’s rose colored dress.
* * *
Marilee madea hasty retreat to the laundry and informed Peggy of Lady Lydia’s request for the rose-colored dress with white flowers on the sleeves. Together, they dug through the pile of elegant gowns until they found the one in question. As one they stared down at the ruined garment. Marilee felt her hope plummet. Lady Lydia had not seemed the sort to be forgiving if her request was to be met with failure. Nothing in the Blackwell house seemed bent toward forgiveness, even when the fault was not Marilee’s to bear. Instead of leniency, the noose was pulled ever tighter day by day.
The dusky rose skirt sported a tear at the hem and one of the sleeves had an ink blot on it the size of a saucer. Peggy wrung her hands with dismay. “Are you certain she needs this gown in particular?” she worried. “Perhaps we can convince her to wear the pink cambric with the Brussels lace? It’s very pretty.”
“Could she be convinced?” Marilee asked. Peggy knew their mistress better than Marilee, whose first impression had not given cause for hope.
Peggy shook her head and expressed her doubt. “I’ve seen beatings for less.”
Marilee stood over the gown and inspected it once more with nothing less than creative determination. “The bulk of the gown is salvageable. Perhaps she would be amenable to alterations?”
“I can clean just about anything, but sewing is not my forte,” Peggy said with a sigh. “That ink spot is well set. Maybe with a week’s time I could lessen the mar, but not in a single night. Not to mention that it would never dry by the evening. Even set near the fire it will take hours and must be watched to prevent a singe.”
It was late, and they had already finished their scouring for the day. Marilee bade Peggy to go to bed while she pondered her options. Peggy seemed loathe to abandon her companion, but gave in when Marilee said that one of them needed to be useful in the morning. If they both had a sleepless night, and fell behind with the wash, they would be in for a tongue lashing or worse in the morning.
Peggy nodded and went to bed.
* * *
Marilee staredat the gown for what seemed like hours before she set upon a plan. She needed to search out Mrs. Cavendish and hope that the housekeeper would be willing to get her what she needed.
The housekeeper was well in her drink when Marilee found her in her room. She rapped her knuckles on the doorframe and waited to be permitted to enter.
“What?” Mrs. Cavendish grumbled.
“I am in need of several lengths of white ribbon,” Marilee requested with her head bowed. “If you could manage to have some procured first thing in the morning…” She had chosen not to imply that the ribbon might be bought because she doubted anything in this house was obtained through honest means.
“Don’t like your ugly dress, Kate?” Mrs. Cavendish laughed sloshing the spirits in her glass. “I’m not in the habit of allowing my girls to waste their time primping. You’re covered and that ought to be enough.”
“It is for the lady,” Marilee explained though her cheeks heated at the implication that she would even care how she looked. She was alive and, for now, that was enough. She would not deny that she missed the pretty gowns Miss Caroline gave her, but she would never have had the courage to make such a request of the housekeeper for personal reasons. “Lady Lydia needs a certain gown for tomorrow evening and the tear in the silk will never lay flat. I need to fashion a new hemline.”
Mrs. Cavendish narrowed her beady eyes. “Have you approved such alterations with the lady? She does not care for servants fiddling with her things.”
“There was not time before she retired. It is either this or the whole gown be scrapped.” Marilee raised her head and stood straight with the full confidence, albeit faked, of her decision. She was well-aware of the risk of failure in cutting up the gown, but there was no other option. Silk was a finicky thing. “I believe the Lady would prefer I try to salvage what I can.”
