Marlie waited until his attention was directed toward the far end of the room before she joined the line and assumed the same chin-up, chest-out position as the others. I followed her lead, though the line was so long I found myself straddling the vestibule doorway.
“I am aware of the discontent over our decreased numbers,” I heard him say as he turned and paced back our direction, “and that some have expressed concern over our ability to uphold our usual excellence in service. To that opinion, I say, hogwash. I am confident this staff is more than capable. Furthermore, allow me to remind you it is not only our duty to perform our tasks as they have been assigned, but rather our privilege to do so, for the sake of our Queen and country.”
I turned away, unable to stomach this insipid speech from a man with lily-white hands who had obviously never touched a broom or scrub brush in his life.
As rousing as he was trying to be, I could not help but think his time would have been better spent foregoing this lecture and letting us simply get on with our work. At least when he paced back the other direction, it left me free to take in the flowers and the silks. But then a group of workmen ascending the Grand Staircase caught my attention. They were muscling up wooden crates from the lower floor before disappearing into a side room.
I leaned toward Marlie and motioned their direction. “What are they doing?”
She only grimaced, her stern look imploring me to be quiet.
But it was too late. Mr. Bailey was already striding toward us.
“My apologies. Did you have something to add to the discussion?” Each syllable dripped with sarcasm.
“No, sir,” I muttered, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the parade of crates being carted through the hall because one of the delivery men was indisputably Mr. Wyck.
Mr. Bailey wheeled around to see what I was staring at when Mr. MacDougall appeared at the stairs, carefully watching and directing the men and crates.
Mr. Bailey’s brow furrowed. “MacDougall!” he called out. “Deliveries are to be routed through the kitchen. I was quite clear!”
Mr. Wyck and the other workmen stopped and stared at Mr. MacDougall, who looked at Mr. Bailey with such puzzlement I had to snicker.
I had never seen Mr. MacDougall called out, and from the scattering of gasps and giggles, I wasn’t alone.
The House Steward adjusted his tie and swallowed hard. “Of course, sir. I was under the impression we were to—”
“Never mind,” Mr. Bailey barked, waving off Mr. MacDougall’s attempted reply. “I’ll go over it again.”
As this transpired, I watched Mr. Wyck. My fingers found the Faytling resting at my collar, and I squeezed it gently through my gloves. If you are capable of doing anything, do it now!
The ground shifted and a swirling sensation licked at the space around me. A vision? I waited, eager for something.
But nothing manifested. The feeling only teased. A wink at something beyond my grasp.
“Are you from the kitchen?”
The question jolted me from my near swoon. I tried to focus on the dour man in a footman’s uniform standing before me.
“That’s us.” Marlie shot me a nasty look before turning her sweetest smile back to him.
I nodded and saw that Mr. Bailey had crossed the vestibule to huddle with Mr. MacDougall. He seemed to have forgotten us altogether.
“I’m Chester.” The footman touched the scarcity of silver strands the years had left him and cleared his throat. “Have you ever received guests before?”
Marlie and I looked at each other and back at him. We both shook our heads.
He frowned with mild exasperation. “Well, come on then.”
He led us through the Grand Vestibule—past the place where Mr. MacDougall and Mr. Bailey had been, though where they’d gone I didn’t know—to a side gallery filled with chairs and side tables at the front and, behind two sets of folding screens, an area where guests could deposit coats and shawls and whatever sundry items they wished to store for the evening.
Chester directed us to a secretary desk set at an opening between the screens.
“This is your station. You shall accept the items from the guests and hang or shelve them as necessary. Take a ticket from that desk”—he motioned to a stack of gold-embossed stationery and a quill—“write the number of the rack hook or shelf… You can write, can’t you?”
I had been strolling through the makeshift aisles, acquainting myself with the racks but wheeled around. “Of course I can write.”
He cleared his throat. “Just making sure. Now, that door there”—he motioned to a large one along the back wall—“is the resting room for ladies.”
“And the gentlemen?” I asked. “Do they have a room as well?”
He nodded with a degree of impatience. “The anteroom behind the vestibule has been set up for their purposes.”
I looked at Marlie. She shrugged.
He rolled his eyes. “Shall I acquaint you with it as well?”
His opinion that we were not the most helpful of attendants was clear, and to be fair I was inclined to agree.
Marlie and I nodded in unison.
“Follow me, then,” he said.
He covered the distance to the door in long, hurried strides before disappearing into the vestibule once again. If he was trying to lose us, he couldn’t have done a better job of it. When he glanced back to check that we followed, I could swear there was disappointment in his eyes to find us still in pursuit.
Finally, he turned a corner and opened a door, releasing the scent of cigar smoke and pipe tobacco, newspapers, and hair pomade. I peeked inside and found a formal room arranged with high-back chairs and side tables topped with crystal ashtrays, decanters, and tumblers.
“The gentlemen’s room—”
A commotion around the corner stopped him. I
