Crimson Snow (24 page)

“Yes,” said Mrs. Malloy with a sigh, “I see that you must. Mr. Malloy, will it be possible for you to be away from the store tomorrow?”

“Don't see why not. Not much business in January anyway, once the white sales are over. I've a bit higher opinion of the police than you do, Hilda, but I admit they don't seem to have got very far with this murder. It's making the girls in the store nervous, my clerks and my customers both. They don't like walkin' around alone, even in the daytime, and I'm tellin' you, by late afternoon you could fire a shotgun through the store and not hurt a livin' soul. I'm as eager as you to get this thing behind us. I'll take you to the funeral, Hilda, and good luck to you.”

Treat your servants always with kindness.

—Richard A. Wells, A.M.
    Manners Culture and Dress
, 1891

 

 

 

24

H
ILDA SLEPT, IN THE strange bed, the sleep of the emotionally spent. It was by far the best bed she'd ever known, in the prettiest room, though she went to sleep too soon to appreciate it much. She woke early, yawned and stretched, and wondered what time it was. There was a clock by her bed, but the room was pitch dark. The electric street lamps on Colfax were only on the corners; their light didn't reach the Malloy house in the middle of the block.

The house, entirely modern and up-to-date, was wired for electricity. There was an electrolier in the room that she could turn on from a switch on the wall, but the room was chilly and her bed was warm. She was just about to drift off to sleep again when she heard soft footsteps pattering down the hall outside her door, and in a moment a tap on a door and the rattle of china.

Agnes bringing early-morning tea or coffee to her master and mistress, Hilda surmised. It couldn't be all that early. She'd better be up and dressed.

Then the tap sounded at her own door. It opened a crack, letting in light from the hall. “Are you awake, miss?”

“Yes, Agnes. I am getting up.”

“Please, miss, Mrs. Malloy said as I was to ask you if you'd like some coffee or tea. It'll warm you before you have to get out of bed, miss. And she said to tell you there's no need for you to get up until you please.”

“Thank you, Agnes. I would like some tea. And would you leave the door open a little, please, so I can see my way?” She badly wanted coffee, but she had learned that the Irish idea of coffee and the Swedish idea were two very different matters. Good tea was infinitely preferable to bad coffee.

“I'll light the gas for you, miss, shall I? It's a kinder light for the morning, to my way of thinking. Softer. The electric glares so.”

So Agnes lit one of the wall sconces and turned it to a low level. Hilda lay in bed watching her. Agnes had improved in the two years since Hilda had first met her. The raw girl had turned into an accomplished maid.

When she left, Hilda spent a little time looking around her room. It was nothing like the guest rooms at Tippecanoe Place, of course. It was much smaller, for one thing. The rug on the floor was not Persian, but a good, thick, American-made Axminster. The fireplace was pretty, but not elaborately paneled and tiled like the ones in nearly every room of the Studebaker home. The curtains, the wallpaper, the furniture all spoke of solid comfort rather than vast wealth.

In her own house, Hilda decided, she would have a room very much like this one. She was just deciding on the colors and patterns she wanted when Agnes came back with her tea.

“I'll just light your fire, miss.”

Hilda lay sipping her tea and watching someone else work. It made her feel peculiar. She wasn't entirely sure she liked it. And when Agnes spilled a little coal on the hearth, she could stand it no longer. She sprang out of bed, picked up the coal, and placed it neatly in the grate.

“Miss, you didn't ought to do that!”

“I am used to doing it, and I can show you an easier way. Here, if you hold the scuttle
so…
” She demonstrated, while Agnes knelt watching, open-mouthed.

“Agnes, do you like working here?” Hilda asked abruptly.

The maid turned to her, startled. “Yes, miss.” She stood, dusted off her skirt where she had knelt on the floor, and started for the door.

“No, I mean, do you really? Or are you just being polite? Because I am a maid myself, you know. Soon I will not be one, but for many years I have done the kind of work you are doing. I want to know. Is this a good place to work?”

“Well, it is and it isn't, if you know what I mean, miss. I don't like Mr. Riggs. He's got a temper.”

“I think all butlers do,” said Hilda.

“But Mr. and Mrs. Malloy are good people, and Mrs. Malloy is very kind.”

“I know,” said Hilda feelingly. “She has been kind to me, more than once.”

“Yes, miss, I know what you did for the family.”

“What I did was not all good.”

“About Mr. Clancy, you mean? Yes, but Mrs. Malloy doesn't hold a grudge about that. She says to Mr. Malloy, she says Clancy was headin' for a bad end, and havin' to go away might be the makin' of him. She says if you hadn't found out all you did, he might've got into worse trouble. And she's right about that. He went with a real fast crowd, he did, when he was here, and he got to be an idler and a masher, just like them. It's better he's gone. Mrs. Malloy, she's sad about him, but she doesn't blame you, miss.”

“I am glad. I have worried. Agnes, does it seem strange to you, a maid like me marrying and coming into a family with money?”

“No, miss. You're real smart and real pretty, and I reckon you could do most anything you wanted to. I got to go now, miss. There's breakfast to see to.”

“Thank you, Agnes.” The room was still chilly. Hilda crept back under the covers and lay in bed for another few minutes, basking in the luxury of getting up when she chose, and to a warm room. The clock beside the bed ticked more quietly than the busy alarm clock beside her own bed, the clock that forced her out of bed at five-thirty every morning, but at last it drew Hilda's attention.

Nearly seven! At Tippecanoe Place she would have a solid hour's work done by now. She threw back the covers, washed hastily, and dressed in yesterday's borrowed clothes. She also put Patrick's ring on her finger. No need for secrecy here.

Before she went downstairs she made her bed. The force of habit is strong.

Mr. and Mrs. Malloy were not yet downstairs, but Riggs was. All Hilda's trepidation returned. She greeted him with a nervous smile. He bowed stiffly.

“Good morning, Miss Johansson. Mrs. Malloy instructed me to serve you with breakfast whenever you came down, madam. What would you care for?”

His deference, though plainly unwilling, was correct. Hilda swallowed. “Thank you, Riggs. Are there any boiled eggs?”

“Whatever you like, madam.”

She licked her dry lips. “Two boiled eggs, please, and toast.”

“That is all, madam?” He managed to make it sound ridiculously meager.

“And some bacon, please. Thank you.”

She didn't want the bacon. She didn't want anything except to get rid of Riggs. And perhaps some good coffee, but she dared not go to the kitchen to show the cook how to make it. She was afraid of the butler, afraid of the cook, afraid of being a lady.

At home, at Tippecanoe Place, the servants would be sitting down to a large meal about now. Mrs. Sullivan had learned from Hilda how to make coffee. There would be porridge, eggs, ham, toast made from Mrs. Sullivan's own delicious bread, perhaps griddle cakes with maple syrup, rich butter….

There would be conversation. All the live-in servants would talk about the family, about their own concerns, about the work of the day to come, about Mr. Williams's health. They would joke and complain, make a good meal, and clean it up quickly so that they could attend to the family's breakfasts and the other chores of a huge house.

Hilda sat alone in the Malloy dining room and crumbled her toast.

She jumped when Mrs. Malloy came into the room.

“Why, child, you haven't touched your food! Did the wine upset your stomach, then?”

“Oh. No. I had forgotten the wine. No, I am—I am not hungry. We had a large dinner last night.” Her voice wobbled despite her best efforts.

“Hilda, my dear, what is it?”

“I am—I do not know. Lonely, and—oh, already I miss my old life!” A tear rolled down her cheek, and then another. She felt for a handkerchief. There was none in her pocket.

“Oh, is that all it is?” Mrs. Malloy was brisk. “Use your napkin, child. You're homesick, that's what you are. What do you miss most?”

“Coffee,” said Hilda before she thought.

“Then we'll get you some coffee.” She reached for the bell.

“No! No, I—” She'd done it now. She would have to explain. “I like Swedish coffee. It is different from the coffee in America.”

“Better?”

“I think much better.”

“Good. Then come to the kitchen with me right this minute, and teach me how to make Swedish coffee. I can't abide the stuff, myself, but maybe I've never had it made properly.”

So Hilda found herself in the kitchen teaching Mrs. Malloy and her cook how to make coffee the Swedish way. The cook was none too pleased, but Mrs. Malloy was delighted. Not only was the coffee delicious, quite unlike the pallid brew Mrs. Malloy had tasted and rejected years ago, but Hilda was animated and voluble, her brief fit of panic forgotten.

It returned, however, when she went back to the dining room. Riggs was there and had cleared the table.

“Oh, Riggs, we hadn't finished eating. Bring us some more bacon and eggs and toast, and Mr. Malloy will be wanting porridge soon.”

“Yes, madam. I am sorry, madam. You had left the room and I assumed—”

“Yes, yes, quite natural. We had stepped into the kitchen for a moment.”

“Yes, madam.”

He left and Hilda sighed. “Never will I be able to do that.”

“Do what, dear?”

“Give orders to a butler. He frightens me. This morning I got out of bed and helped Agnes with the fire, and then, just now, I made coffee in the kitchen. That is where I belong. That is where I am comfortable. I do not know how to be a lady!”

“Of course you don't, but you'll learn, and the first thing to learn is never to let a servant intimidate you. You are in charge, not they.”

“But I am accustomed to taking orders, not giving them.”

“Are you? Have you not given Patrick orders for years? And the under-housemaids? And I daresay the Studebakers, as well, though with them you had to be a little more subtle. From what I know of your character, I'd say that you usually got your own way, somehow. Why is it so different now?”

Hilda had not thought about it quite like that.

“You see, it's all a matter of attitude. If you expect a butler to be rude to you, he probably will be. If you are polite to him, but firm in what you want, he'll respect that—and if he does not, you sack him and find someone who will obey you. Of course one never takes advantage of a servant. That is not only unkind and unchristian, it is also stupid, for servants talk to one another—as you know—and one must not get a reputation for injustice, or no good servants will ever enter the house again. Kind but firm, that's the rule. You'll have no problem with that, I'm sure.”

Riggs returned with their breakfasts. Hilda wondered if he had been listening outside the door. Never mind if he had. She inspected her plate, with two fried eggs staring up at her. “I prefer my eggs boiled, Riggs,” she said pleasantly.

“Yes, madam.” He reached for her plate.

“No, I will eat the bacon, but please bring the boiled eggs.”

She picked up her knife and fork. Riggs bowed and retreated.

Mrs. Malloy winked at Hilda, and then they both burst into laughter. They were still laughing when Mr. Malloy came into the room

“Well, well, you're both cheerful this morning. It's a morning that needs some cheer, for certain. Those clouds are going to burst soon, or I'm a Chinaman. Porridge, Riggs, good and hot, and some eggs and sausage and toast.”

“Yes, sir,” said the butler, who had materialized with Hilda's boiled eggs. “Tea, sir?”

“You should try the coffee this morning, Mr. Malloy,” said his wife. “Hilda taught Mrs. Hall how to make it properly, and it tastes like a little bit of heaven.”

Mr. Malloy couldn't understand why both women were convulsed by the scandalized expression on Riggs's face.

…a disposition that helped to make her one
of the most popular girls in town.

—South Bend
Tribune
   
January 23, 1904

 

 

 

25

N
OW, HILDA,” SAID Mrs. Malloy when they had finished eating, “what we must do this morning is find you a few clothes. Have you anything to wear to a funeral?”

“Only my uniform. I could go home and get that. I do not look like a maid if I do not wear the apron, and I have a black hat.”

Mrs. Malloy herself was still in mourning for her son Sean, but she had reached the stage of wearing touches of white at her neck and wrists, and white petticoats. With her graying hair, the clothing was becoming.

She considered Hilda's suggestion. “Well, it's possible, I suppose, but you're going to need proper blacks anyway. There's no time to have anything made up. What do you have in the store, Mr. Malloy, that would do?”

“A very nice line in ready-to-wear mourning, if I do say so meself. Some lovely black hats, as well. Why don't you spend the morning shopping, and I'll take you to lunch before we catch the train.”

“Oh, I cannot, Uncle Dan.” The name was beginning to come more easily to her lips. “Patrick is taking me and Erik to lunch.”

“Well, then, the two of them can join us.”