I caught Karen’s eye. When she nodded, I said, ‘That’ll be fine.’
Gabe did a quick about-face, disappearing the way he had come.
‘Dancing lessons must be over,’ I said, cradling the bowl against my apron and stirring, stirring.
Suddenly, the gardener’s dog, Flash – ever true to his name – streaked into the kitchen, followed by Gabe and Dex, in hot pursuit. ‘He’s got my marbles!’ Gabe shouted. Flash darted under the table, and crouched there, Gabe’s leather bag dangling from his mouth. I swear the dog was grinning. Gabe got down on all fours and crab-walked toward him, at which point, Flash took off for the door, knocking me off balance.
As the trio of pint-sized ruffians disappeared into the garden, I was distressed to discover that I’d slopped a good half-cup of Karen’s butter cake down the front of my dress. ‘Oh, shit! Look what I’ve done!’
Calmly, Karen handed me a damp cloth and watched while I tried to clean the spill off the linen, but my efforts only seemed to work the batter more thoroughly into the weave. ‘Ruined my gown, and your cake, too, I’m afraid.’ After all the elbow grease we’d already put into it, I felt like crying.
‘Never mind,’ Karen said with a grin. ‘It’ll be just half a slice smaller. Nobody will even notice. Here, let me have the bowl while you go upstairs and change for supper.’
‘Thanks. I’ll send Amy down to give you a hand.’
But Amy wasn’t in the dining room. The candelabra, the tea service, the chafing dishes on the sideboard, all gleamed in the late afternoon light, so I figured she’d moved on to other tasks. ‘Amy!’ I called, but she didn’t answer.
When I reached my own bedchamber, I unhooked my stomacher and slipped out of my gown. I carried the gown over to the window where the late-afternoon sun would illuminate my work, and began to give the stain some serious attention with the damp flannel I usually used on my face. After a few minutes of careful daubing, the biscuit-colored stain had only spread. About the size and shape of a cinnamon bun, it stared up at me, mockingly. I realized that its only hope was a trip to the wash tub on Monday – our usual washing day at Patriot House. I’d turn it over to French. Laundry was her job.
I folded the gown neatly, stain uppermost, then selected a fresh gown from my trunk, a dark wine color that harmonized well with my pale pink petticoat. ‘Where’s Amy when I need her?’ I grumbled as I struggled to fasten the stomacher in place. Eventually, I succeeded, checked my reflection in the looking glass – not bad – then let myself out the hidden door that led to the service staircase.
Somebody was already there, hiding in the alcove to my left.
I stopped short, stifling a yelp of surprise.
But the man was paying no attention. His back was to me and, judging from the pale arms wrapped around his neck, Alex – or so I deduced from the ink-blue suit and the ringletted blond ponytail – was engaged in a serious necking session with some saucy wench he’d backed into the corner. As I watched from the shadow of my doorway in stunned fascination, Alex moaned softly, wrapped his hands around the woman’s waist, and lifted her up gently. As her white stocking-clad legs eased around his waist, I caught a glimpse of the pale blue piping I’d seen earlier that day on Amy’s petticoat. ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes,’ she breathed.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! No wonder Amy was so eager to get Drew declared officially dead, I thought. She’d obviously moved on, rushing past the till-death-do-us-part section of the marriage vows and headlong into her new, post-Drew life. I wondered whether Alex Mueller was to be the destination along that road, or just a comforting stop along the way.
Slowly, I backed into my room and closed the door silently behind me. My face felt hot, flushed with embarrassment. I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
What Amy and Alex did on their own time wasn’t anybody’s business but their own, I thought. But in Patriot House, we had no time of our own; we’d signed contracts that proved it. Amy and Alex should thank whatever god they prayed to that LynxE hadn’t installed a camera in that stairwell.
ELEVEN
‘My legs are all hairy, and before long, I’ll be able to braid the hair sprouting out of my armpits. Oh. My. God. It’s disgusting.’
Melody Donovan, daughter
I rang the bell for breakfast half an hour early on Saturday. The children arrived promptly, bursting with excitement over George Washington’s visit. They inhaled their ham and biscuits and were excused from the table a good five minutes before the rest of the family managed to straggle in.
Before long, Melody was back, hovering at her father’s elbow as he buttered his bread. She rolled her eyes, outlined in black like Cleopatra. ‘Daddy, do something about Gabe. He’s out in the garden teasing the rabbits.’
Jack Donovan, whose own eyes bore the unmistakable traces of an intemperate evening of food, wine and song, smiled indulgently. ‘Boys will be boys. Have some patience, Melody. He’s only nine years old.’
She stamped her foot. ‘Well, I’m tired of running after him. Why don’t you get one of the servants to do it?’
‘You’re seven years older than he is, don’t forget.’
‘How could I? He’s a total brat!’
Donovan looked up from his scrambled eggs and noticed his daughter for the first time. ‘What on earth have you done to your eyes?’
Melody blushed, tucked her chin to her chest. ‘It’s charcoal. From the fire.’
‘And your lips?’
‘Beet juice. Karen gave it to me.’ A single tear ran down her cheek. ‘I have to do something to make myself pretty for the party.’
Jack reached out and took his daughter’s hand, sandwiching it between his own beefy paws. ‘Melody, you are beautiful just the way you are.’
‘No, I’m not!’ she blubbered. ‘Nobody’s going to want to dance with me.’
Alex Mueller rested his fork on his plate. ‘She’s a fine dancer, Mr Donovan. You’ll see that for yourself tonight.’ To Melody, he said, ‘I’d be honored to partner with you, Miss Donovan.’
Melody swiped at her eyes, smearing the charcoal until she looked like a panda. ‘You’re not just saying that?’
‘I am not.’ The corners of Alex’s eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘And I’m sure Colonel Washington will be delighted to dance with you, too.’
I put in my two-cent’s worth. ‘Melody, back in the eighteenth century, fashionable women would have killed to have skin as white and pale as yours. Do you know how they got it?’
Melody shook her head. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘They poisoned themselves with lead-based white face powder and rouge.’
‘And they looked ridiculous, like clowns,’ her father harrumphed.
‘They decorated their faces with little black patches shaped like half moons, stars and hearts to cover up smallpox and acne scars,’ Michael, the schoolmaster, added. ‘And you know what else?’
Melody shook her head.
‘Some women even had false eyebrows made out of mouse fur.’
Melody’s eyes grew wide. ‘Euuuuw!’
‘Absolutely true. As Jonathan Swift once wrote, “Her eyebrows from a mouse’s hide, Stuck on with art on either side.”’
It was my turn to say euuuuw. ‘After Amy gets you dressed, Melody, come see me. There’s a makeup box in my room. LynxE has stocked it with the modern lead-free equivalents of the makeup women used to use back then. I’m not sure we can do much to improve on your natural beauty, but it might be fun to experiment. Are you good with that?’
Melody’s ear-to-ear smile told me all I needed to know.
Founding Father had warned us to expect Colonel George Washington, late of the Virginia Regiment, sometime after noon on Saturday. I didn’t expect the great man to suddenly materialize on our doorstep with a quiet rap-rap-rap of the knocker, but I was totally unprepared for the eighteenth-century equivalent of the half-time show at the SuperBowl.