Rose (3 page)

At least her attic room was perfectly normal. The odd, sparkling, shadows-in-your-eyes feeling wore off once they got beyond the carpets. The plain wooden stairs to the servants' rooms were a little dusty and creaked, and by the time they'd reached the last and tiniest attic bedroom, Rose felt she could breathe again.

Miss Bridges had had to slow down by the fourth staircase. Now she opened the door and sank down gracefully on the little white bed with the bundle of dresses. “Here you are, Rose,” she said, puffing a little.

“Is this—all for me?” Rose asked, sure that it couldn't be right. “My own room?”

Miss Bridges smiled. “Yes. The rooms are too small to share. Susan sleeps next to you, so you can ask her if you need something.”

Rose nodded, though privately she vowed not even to breathe near Susan if she didn't have to. She was well used to tiptoeing around the bigger girls at the orphanage. She smiled to herself, thinking how jealous they would be. Her own room—not shared with anyone! And she was to have four dresses, only one a hand-me-down, so she had something to wear while the new ones were sewn. Even knowing that she would have to do most of the sewing couldn't dim the glory of those dresses.

Miss Bridges left her to put on the lilac print hand-me-down dress and her apron, reminding her again to come down the back stairs once she got to the main floors. Rose nodded eagerly. She wanted to have just a minute alone in her room—even though it was so small she could almost touch both walls if she stood in the middle, it was
hers
. It had a shelf by the bed for a candle and hooks for her dresses, and even a tiny looking glass. Rose adjusted her cap in the looking glass, trying hard to make it look as smart as Susan's. Then she gave her room one last fond look and set off downstairs.

Rose pattered down the wooden staircase, still in her patched, old boots. As she turned the corner onto the first flight of stairs that might possibly be used by the family, and therefore had carpet—although not the rich plush of the lower floors—she
felt
the difference. The house hummed. It sang in her head. The walls sparkled, and the corridors seemed to stretch for miles. Rose hung tightly on to the banister, feeling as though she might float away on the wobbling stairs. What
was
this place?

“Are you lost?” an amused voice said in her ear. “You've been standing there for ages.”

Rose squeaked and sat down with a thump on the stairs. She could have sworn the blond-haired boy had appeared from nowhere. Surely there hadn't been anyone there before?

“Who are you?” she gasped, too surprised to remember that servants shouldn't ask impertinent questions.

The boy raised his fair eyebrows, and his voice was rather cold as he replied, “I am Frederick Paxton.”

Rose stood up quickly, reminded of where she was—and
what
she was—by his sharp tone. “I'm sorry, sir, you startled me,” she murmured, bobbing a curtsy. “I only came today, and—and I can't see my way back to the kitchen somehow.” She gazed around in confusion. The stairs seemed to look different every time she blinked.

“Follow these stairs down, and then the back stairs. Those for the
servants
are on the left,” said the boy. It was odd to be spoken to so coldly by someone her own age—someone Rose thought she could fairly easily have taken in a fight.

“Thank you, sir.” Rose bobbed again and scuttled away, glancing back only once. The boy was staring after her, and his face was hard to read. He looked disgusted, rather as though she were some sort of beetle, but there was something else. Unless she was very much mistaken, he was also curious. And—possibly—somewhat scared…

Rose hadn't been sure what to expect now that she was working. Would it be harder than the orphanage? At St. Bridget's the girls had worked most of each day, with lessons fitted in where they could be. It was felt that as long as the girls could read and write up to a point, they were better off learning to sew or clean fireplaces. After all, that was what they were going to spend the rest of their lives doing. They would only ever need to read enough to do the shopping.

Rose told herself that first day that she didn't mind how difficult the work was. She was free! She was going to be paid—she still found this hard to believe. If the mood came upon her, she could walk out of the house and leave her job, and
no
one
would
be
able
to
stop
her
. The mood wouldn't, of course, but it was nice to know that it could.

Susan woke her at six the next day by slamming open her door and snarling, “Get up, you. You'll be late.”

Rose sighed. She didn't know late for
what
, and she still wasn't sure what she had done to make Susan dislike her quite so much, but there didn't seem a lot of point in worrying about it. She smiled as Susan stomped back to her own room, and Rose went to the water jug to wash. The lilac print was still pristine, and she and Sarah and Miss Bridges had almost finished sewing a pink-striped cotton between them the previous night.

After her experience with the swaying staircases the day before, Rose had decided that once she got onto the family floors, she would just stare at her feet. Hopefully that way she wouldn't be distracted by dancing furniture, unless the carpet started too—it was quite fiercely patterned. She managed to get to the door to the servants' stairs with only quick glances out of the corners of her eyes but nearly impaled herself on an ornamental sword hanging from the wall at stomach height—one that she was sure hadn't been sticking out as much yesterday. She scurried down the back stairs and flung herself into the kitchen, glad to get there in one piece with no holes.

“Goodness, child, whatever's the matter with you?” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, slopping tea into Miss Bridges' saucer and tutting. “Fetch me a cloth, Sarah, do.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Jones.” Rose automatically bobbed at the knees in a little half curtsy. It seemed to appease Mrs. Jones, but she clearly still wanted an answer. “I—it sounds silly—but everything
moves
up there…I was just trying to get down the stairs while they were still there,” she added apologetically.

Miss Bridges peered at her sharply over the rim of her teacup. “What moves, Rose?”

“The walls. And the stairs…And I'm sure one of the swords jumped at me!”

“You're having us on!” Bill was standing by the back door with the ash bucket, looking disgusted. “Them stairs have never moved that I've seen.”

“But they did!” Rose pleaded. She didn't want Bill to think she was as silly as Freddie, wittering on about floating down the stairs.

“I wouldn't be surprised in this house,” Mrs. Jones said darkly. “Not that the stairs would move with me.”

Bill smirked, and Rose couldn't help wanting to giggle. The stairs wouldn't dare. She could easily imagine Mrs. Jones's reaction to magical furniture.
“Now just you put me down at once, or I'll take a feather duster to you!”
Mrs. Jones just didn't hold with magic.

Rose had a feeling that it was probably the safest way to be. She wished she didn't hold with it either, but it seemed to keep sneaking up on her. She resolved to have nothing to do with it. If anything wobbled, she would just close her eyes.

“You've really never seen anything strange?” Rose asked Bill quietly, as he showed her where to find everything she'd need to light the bedroom fires.

Bill shrugged. “Nope. The odd explosion here and there, mostly when Mr. Freddie's mucked something up. He's not very good at this magic lark, seems to me. You're imagining it about the stairs, though. It's just a house. Made of bricks and…and stuff. How can it
move
?”

Rose nodded sadly. She wished that was true, but she knew she'd seen it. It was going to be difficult if she had to spend all her time looking at her boots.

“Start with Miss Anstruther, that's the governess, on the second floor at the end of the corridor, opposite the picture of the fat girl with the horse. Then do Mr. Freddie and Miss Isabella, and then Mr. Fountain. Susan does the downstairs rooms. And be quick or you'll miss breakfast.”

Rose picked up the heavy coal bucket, and the brushes and cloths.

“Don't bang it about like that!” Bill scolded. “You're supposed to be silent! You have to not wake them up, don't you get it?”

Rose looked at him worriedly. She knew how to lay a fire and light it, but how on earth was she supposed to do it without making any noise? Coal was noisy—it was made of rocks; it had to be.

“Oh well.” Bill shrugged. “They all sleep like the dead anyway. Just do the best you can.”

This certainly seemed to be true of Miss Anstruther. She only turned over and grunted when Rose dropped a cascade of coal all over the hearth, and then said something that would have got her mouth washed out with soap at St. Bridget's.

Mr. Freddie woke up and glared at her like a ruffled white mouse when she opened his door, but Rose decided she was probably supposed to ignore him. She glanced over her shoulder at him as she scuttled out. He was still watching her, though he shut his eyes as soon as he saw her looking. What was he thinking? Rose had a strong feeling that he would quite like to turn her into a beetle.

Rose didn't know an awful lot about boys. She didn't remember ever having spoken to one before Bill. The matrons at St. Bridget's were convinced that the orphans' morals would be forever destroyed if they so much as breathed the same air as a boy. They saw the boys from St. Bartholomew's on Sundays at church, but that was all. And the orphan boys stayed strictly on their side of the aisle. Even so, she knew what everyone at the orphanage would have said about this one—that he was a spoiled snob who'd never had to lift a finger. They would have taken great pleasure in blacking his eye for him—both of them if possible.

Rose shook her head disgustedly. It was a pity not to be able to tell Mr. Freddie what she thought of him, but of course she couldn't. She'd be dismissed at once. Besides, there was the possibility of being a beetle too. At least she had normal, sensible Bill to talk to—she definitely felt the same way about Freddie as he did. A tiny doubt rose somewhere in the region of Rose's stomach that, actually, she wasn't quite normal either. It wasn't normal to be able to make pictures, but at least no one knew about that. She'd made a mistake earlier on, though. None of the rest of the servants could feel the staircases fidgeting under their feet.

Rose resolved to be as normal as she possibly could—boringly normal if she could manage it. She simply didn't want anyone to notice her.

She nearly dropped the coal scuttle at her first sight of Miss Isabella's bedroom. From the expressions of the servants when they talked about her, and everyone's huge sympathy for Miss Anstruther (Mrs. Jones had made some revolting herb tea for her yesterday, to help her keep her strength up, after screaming had been heard from the direction of the schoolroom), Rose had the impression that Isabella was rather spoiled. Her bedroom was incredible. Anything that could possibly have lace had it. The bed had a lace canopy, held up by a smirking golden angel, and was covered in layers of lace-edged pillows and embroidered ruffles. There were dolls and toys everywhere, and a rocking horse even larger than Albert, just for one little girl. Rose peered over at her. Golden curls—of course—and a very lacy nightie. She couldn't see much else. Rose shook her head in amazement and remembered breakfast.

She'd better hurry. Goodness, even the fireplace had flowery tiles.

“Who are
you
?” an imperious little voice demanded, and Rose jumped, spraying ash all over the grate. She edged around on her knees and looked up. Miss Isabella was kneeling up on the end of her bed, staring at her.

“I'm sorry, miss, I didn't mean to wake you,” Rose murmured. “I'm the new housemaid, Rose.”

“Oh. You're ugly.” Isabella yawned. “Lots of coal, please, it's chilly. And pass the biscuits.”

Rose gaped at her for a second, then looked around and found a pink china biscuit barrel on the bedside table, within easy reach of Isabella's hand. Nevertheless, she got up and offered it to her politely, and Isabella took a huge handful. Rose tried not to look envious; she was hungry too. She finished laying the fire with a biscuit-muffled running commentary from Isabella on how clumsy she was and how much prettier Lizzie, the last maid, had been. By the time the fire was finally lit, Rose felt like slapping the horrible brat. She shut the bedroom door behind her and leaned on it, taking a deep, calming breath. Little toad! Was she a magician too? Perhaps she was too young to know much yet. Rose hoped so. She resolved to put extra coal on Miss Anstruther's fire tomorrow—the poor woman deserved it.

Luckily, not even Rose's rumbling stomach woke Mr. Fountain. All she saw of him was a rather elaborate nightcap and his large mustache. She had to stifle a giggle, as his mustache was held in a strange black net, which fixed over his ears. It looked as though his mustache was taking over his face…But there was nothing else that suggested he was a renowned magician. He snored.

Rose galloped back down the stairs—still carefully not looking at the walls in case they took the opportunity to move at her. Mrs. Jones pushed a large bowl of porridge in front of her as she slid into her seat at the table, and Bill passed her a jar of honey. He mumbled something sarcastic about stairs, but Rose couldn't understand it, as his mouth was already stuffed with porridge. Rose set to following his example. It was very good porridge.

Suddenly something silky and furry brushed against Rose's legs and she squeaked in shock, jumping up in her chair.

“Oh, it's that dratted cat again,” Mrs. Jones exclaimed as a silvery blur shot out from under the table. It resolved itself into a handsome, rather portly, white cat, who jumped up onto the table next to Rose and stared inquisitively into her face. It had one blue eye and one orange one, and enormous whiskers.

“Not on the table, please, Gustavus!” Miss Bridges said, and Rose looked up at her, surprised. Her voice was very polite for someone who was telling off a cat. The orphanage cat had been strictly a mouser and not a pet. He got shouted at a lot, as there were a great many mice, and he probably weighed only half as much as this fine gentleman.

Gustavus—was the cat really called that?—looked at her thoughtfully and apparently decided to cooperate by sitting on Rose's lap instead. Then he peered hopefully across the table, eyeing the larder door.

“Well, the cat likes you,” Miss Bridges noted. “That's useful. Susan, fetch that animal a saucer of cream, will you?”

Gustavus's whiskers quivered with excitement, and his tail-tip twitched back and forth against Rose's leg as Susan disappeared huffily into the cool, stone-floored larder.

Rose watched him curiously. “Does he understand what you say?” she asked, still staring at him.

“He's not natural,” Bill said, and the cat leered at him in a friendly way. Bill shuddered. “Monster.”

Susan slapped down a gilt-edged saucer in front of Rose, and Gustavus glared at her disapprovingly. The cream had slopped over the edge, and he clearly wasn't happy about it. Susan sat down and started to eat her porridge, but she only managed one mouthful before she laid the spoon down again. Gustavus was still staring at her.

“Oh, very well!” she snarled, and flounced up to fetch a cloth and wipe away the drops. Once the table was clean again, the cat consented to lap delicately at the cream. His whiskers trailed in it, they were so long. At one point he stopped his luxurious lapping and turned around to look at Rose—a very deliberate look, such as Rose would have given to one of the other girls who she'd caught staring at her in church. A
What?
look.

“Sorry,” Rose whispered. “Um. You've got cream on your whiskers…”

And?

Nothing…
Rose twitched, suddenly realizing that she'd said that silently. Or had she? Surely she was imagining this snippy little conversation with a fat white cat.

Gustavus slowly licked the cream off his whiskers, still staring at her. His tongue was enormously long, and it curled elegantly around his whisker-tips, savoring every drop. Then he turned back to the saucer and resumed his slow, dignified appreciation of the cream.

“Best Jersey cream…” Mrs. Jones muttered to herself, a stricken look in her eyes. “Wasted on a cat!”

“Gustavus belongs to Mr. Fountain, Rose,” Miss Bridges told her. “Which explains why he is, er, somewhat indulged.”

The cat turned back to Rose and winked with the blue eye.

“He's obviously taken a fancy to little Rose, though,” Mrs. Jones put in, still looking at the saucer of cream as though it were painful. “Someone has to feed him, so…”

“She can brush him too then if he likes her so much,” Susan snapped. “He scratches, nasty brute.”

Well, you're popular
, Rose told the cat without thinking.

I
wouldn't make a habit of that, dear. Or don't let them see you doing it, anyway.

Rose nodded slightly. The cat was right. She had no idea how she was talking to him, but she could see that there was a definite mistrust of this magical creature among the servants. And none of them seemed to like Freddie much, either. Maybe normal people just didn't trust magic? But then, Miss Bridges clearly thought the world of Mr. Fountain, and Bill seemed to have a grudging respect for him too. He did pay their wages, she supposed. It was difficult to pin down. Still, it would be better not to let slip that she was grasping at the edges of this strange subject—at least until she understood more of what was going on. Magic was clearly an upper-class thing. It wasn't her place to know about it. Rose shuddered. She didn't want to be seen as getting above herself.