C.J. tenderly draped an arm over Mary’s bare shoulder and drew her close. Side by side they sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s all right, Mary,” she soothed. “It’s perfectly reasonable for you to feel this way.”
“No. No, it’s not,” Mary wept. “You don’t understand, Miss Welles.”
C.J. noticed an angry-looking mark on Mary’s upper arm where her fingers had been resting. “Mary, what’s this? How came you by this bruise?”
“Oh . . . I bumped into the . . . a . . . hanging cupboard in the kitchen when I was fetching a . . . I was rushin’ too fast you see, because Lady Wickham asked . . .” Mary’s untested imagination failed her. She was no good at dissembling.
“My poor Mary,” C.J. said softly, stroking the injured area with her thumb.
“I’m such a clumsy girl. I’ve always been clumsy . . . everybody says so . . . that’s why I’m usually in the scullery instead of bein’ an upstairs maid, except that Lady Wickham’s too stingy to engage a separate upstairs maid, now that she’s turned Fanny out. There’s not much I can break in the scullery. And I’m too ugly to work upstairs and serve the guests. That’s what my other employers said.”
C.J. was at a loss for words. “Mary—”
“I got myself turned out of my last position for disobedience. They put me on the street and I had nowhere to go. Constable Mawl arrested me for vay . . .” The girl searched for the correct word.
“Vagrancy?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Mary sniffled. “That’s how Lady Wickham found me. I was brought before the judge. Just like you.”
Disgusted, C.J. shook her head. “Mary,” she murmured gently, “let’s try this again. How did you get this bruise?”
The girl dissolved in a flood of tears. It was useless to try to maintain the deception. Miss Welles could see through her as clearly as if she were a windowpane. “L-L-Lady Wickham,” she sniffled in a hoarse whisper.
“Why did she do this to you?”
“Because this mornin’ I would not bring back the rabbit she asked me to buy for supper. I could not force myself to do it this time. Miss Welles, it breaks my heart to see God’s defenseless creatures strung up like highwaymen at a butcher’s, and when she asked me why I returned empty-handed . . . well . . . it’s a sin to tell a lie, Miss Welles. It’s the devil himself whisperin’ in your ear. So I told her the truth.”
“And she struck you.”
“First she grabbed my arm here, so I could not run away,” Mary began, displaying her bruised upper arm. “Then she swung her stick at me and hit me in the same place with it. Fairly lost her balance, she did. In-sub-or-di-na-tion,” the girl said, her voice still choked with sobs. “She said she’d have Tony take the lash to my back if I ever tried anything like that again.”
C.J. tried to conceal her boiling rage. The child had the sort of open heart that would no doubt have expressed more concern for her friend’s anger than for her own mistreatment. “Poor Mary,” she murmured. She drew the maid to her and rocked her in her arms, stroking the girl’s dull brown hair. “Sleep now. In the morning, we shall set things right.”
Mary was too exhausted to protest or try to convince her idol of the inadvisability, not to mention impossibility, of ever affecting a change in their circumstances. If Miss Welles wanted to indulge in dreams, who was Mary Sykes to cruelly dash them?
THE FOLLOWING MORNING C.J. began her crusade. “How dare you, you bitter old crone?” she bravely demanded of her employer. “Striking a defenseless scullery maid! Some civilized nature you’ve got—you, who consider yourself superior because you admire Dante and Shakespeare! A fine example of Christian charity! You sit smugly in church every Sunday believing yourself a better representation of humanity because you can read and write and comprehend the bishop’s lofty sermons. But do you ever practice what he preaches?”
Mary lurked in the doorway to the parlor, dust rag in hand, trembling like a leaf in an early November wind.
“Your insubordination astonishes me, Miss Welles! The manner in which I treat my servants is no concern of yours, and I would advise you to keep about your own business or you will mightily regret the consequences.”
“I cannot stand idly by while you beat them,” C.J. insisted stubbornly, completely unaware of how punishing such “consequences” would be, despite her knowledge of Lady Wickham’s cruel reputation.
“Come here!” C.J. obeyed, head held proudly, almost defiantly, in the face of Lady Wickham’s admonishment. “Never, in all my seventy-six years—never—have I experienced such impertinence from a servant. I regret the day you came to my attention, Miss Welles. You are an ungrateful chit who does not deserve the excellent considerations I have afforded you. This house has been turned upside down and inside out since your arrival. You have encouraged others in my employ to contradict and countermand my orders, to slack their duties and shirk their responsibilities. I have even done you the kindness of purchasing candles for the domestics to enjoy in their quarters in the evenings. Never has such generosity gone so unappreciated.”
“This does not concern me. Mary Sykes is a human being, your ladyship. She is not a slave.”
“You are correct, Miss Welles. Mary is a domestic servant who earns a wage for her labors. She
