A Sense of Entitlement (3 page)

Now I knew why Lady Phillippa was so eager to oblige Mrs. Mayhew. Lady Phillippa was taking advantage of an opportunity. Having the socialite call on her at Fairview alone was a coup, but to have Charlotte Mayhew in her debt would do wonders for Lady Phillippa’s social standing. And didn’t Charlotte Mayhew have a daughter the perfect age to marry one of Lady Phillippa’s sons? I had thought her displeased with me. I was relieved that that wasn’t so.

“Now since you’re here,” Lady Phillippa said, indicating for me to sit at the secretary, “you can write the invitation for me. And then you can write the necessary recommendation letter from Sir Arthur.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I gladly took my seat, picked up a pen, and dipped it in the inkwell.

“And Hattie, when you do come to tea, wear your most modest suit, if you would.”

I looked down at my dress, made of broadcloth and dotted swiss, in pale green with beige accents to show off my eyes. I had saved up a month’s pay to purchase it for my time in Newport. Miss Kyler had helped me pick it out, saying I’d need a stylish summer day dress to properly represent the Windom-Greene household. She owned an identical one in pale yellow.

“I admire you trying to look presentable and staying up with the current trends,” Lady Phillippa said, “but we wouldn’t want Mrs. Mayhew to think you have aspirations beyond your station.”

“C
an you believe it, Lady Phillippa? A strike during the

Season?”

“No, it’s ridiculous. Isn’t there something that can be done?”

“Gideon would do something. I know he would. But he’s in New York and the irony is that because the operators are striking I can’t wire him and tell him about it!”

After changing into my navy blue dress skirt and blue-striped shirtwaist as Lady Phillippa had requested, I waited to be summoned in the Servants’ Hall watching the kitchen staff prepare for tea. This was a special event: Mrs. Mayhew was coming, and they wanted it to be perfect. I’d never seen a tea like it. The silver, lace-covered trays were laden with plates of thin slices of buttered bread, a small dish each of daintily cut slices of ham and tongue, little pots of preserved pineapple and gooseberries, a porcelain dish of honey in the comb, and several desserts, a cream cake, a rich, dark fruitcake, and little Dresden china cups filled with custard. Oh to be able to sample one of the cakes! The summons came a few minutes after the tea trays had arrived again, slightly less full, downstairs. I snatched up a leftover piece of fruitcake from the tray and ate it on the way. It was as good as I thought it would be. I brushed my skirt for crumbs and was poised to knock at the parlor door when I overheard Mrs. Mayhew mention the strike.

So the telegraph operators went on strike after all,
I thought as I knocked. The shaggy man on the docks this morning was right.

“Come in, Miss Davish,” Lady Phillippa said, only using my formal title for the third time in our acquaintance. Neither woman stood when I entered the room. Despite protocol, my eyes immediately stopped on Mrs. Mayhew the moment I entered the room. I’d seen sketches of Mrs. Mayhew in the newspaper but couldn’t reconcile those with the woman sitting before me. In her late forties, with graying blond hair and draped in purple silk, everything about Mrs. Mayhew was round, her round face, her round blue eyes, and, most notably, her large bulging torso. I quickly shifted my glance to the floor. “This, Mrs. Mayhew, is Miss Hattie Davish, my husband’s private secretary. But as you know, Arthur was called back to England on urgent family matters, and she is free to devote herself to another employer at this time.”

Mrs. Mayhew waved me closer, took out a pair of solid gold spectacles, and regarded me with the same scrutiny as she might a prized horse, with discernment and, despite her attempts to hide it, obvious interest.

“Well, Lady Phillippa, she certainly is presentable.” Lady Phillippa smiled at me encouragingly. Mrs. Mayhew picked up the recommendation letter I’d typed this morning and scanned the contents. “And she certainly comes highly recommended.”

Lady Phillippa nodded. “Yes, Sir Arthur has been most pleased with her performance. He trusts her even to attend to tasks beneath his notice.”

“Not too independent, I hope, Lady Phillippa?” Mrs. Mayhew said, glancing at me again.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Mayhew, simply reliable and loyal.”

“And her penmanship? I can’t have a secretary with poor penmanship.”

“Certainly not. See for yourself, Mrs. Mayhew.” Lady Phillippa handed Mrs. Mayhew a sample of my handwriting, the recommendation letter I’d written out before typing.

Mrs. Mayhew nodded her head approvingly. “Very acceptable. Yes, she should do nicely.”

“To be fair, I must warn you she has no experience as a social secretary,” Lady Phillippa said. “She’s mainly a typewriter and takes dictation.”

How little Lady Phillippa knew what I did in her husband’s employ,
I thought.

“Really? You should’ve told me first thing, Lady Phillippa,” Mrs. Mayhew scolded.

“I apologize, Mrs. Mayhew, but I—”

“Don’t worry. I like the look of her. She’ll do,” the lady said, smiling at me for the first time. “When can you part with her?”

“Whenever you prefer, Mrs. Mayhew,” Lady Phillippa said, smiling, relieved and triumphant. “Name the time and she’ll be at Rose Mont.”

“Delightful!” Mrs. Mayhew clapped her plump hands like a little girl. “I’ve been ever so busy, what with the garden party coming up and Cora’s ball and—”

“I don’t know how you do it, Mrs. Mayhew,” Lady Phillippa said.

“Well, one must do what one must, Lady Phillippa,” Mrs. Mayhew said.

I had remained silent for the duration of the exchange, knowing that was what was expected of me. I’d been in many situations before where my opinions and feelings were not considered or required by my employers. And many where I’d been discussed as if I weren’t present in the room. But I didn’t mind; besides Sir Arthur, who actually asked my thoughts on a matter on occasion, most of my employers had been fair but of the same kind. A servant was there to serve, not to pontificate or add to the discussion. I was used to this. I had to be. Lady Phillippa had every right to offer me up on a platter for her own benefit and I had no occasion to decline the assignment. But why would I? As Lady Phillippa had pointed out, one didn’t get a more prestigious position than being in the employ of Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew, even for a short period of time. I would be forever linked to one of the most powerful families in the country. Unlike many assignments I felt obliged to take due to Sir Arthur’s intervention or recommendation, I gladly accepted this one, despite Lady Phillippa’s ulterior motives. This would be one of the most exciting assignments of my career. So despite appearances, I was getting the better of the bargain.

“The servants take tea at five. If she wants tea today, Miss Davish should be settled into Rose Mont by then,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I’ll tell Mrs. Crankshaw to expect her.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll send her over in my carriage by four thirty.”

“Oh, no need. I’ll send a carriage for her,” Mrs. Mayhew said.

Lady Phillippa beamed. “That’s generous of you, Mrs. Mayhew,” Lady Phillippa said. Then she waved her hand at me without looking in my direction. “You may go now, Miss Davish.”

“Ma’am,” I said to Mrs. Mayhew. “My lady,” I said to Lady Phillippa, and turned my back. I kept my composure with difficulty. My heart pounded as I forced myself to walk slowly when all I wanted to do was run. In less than an hour I had to pack and prepare for my new assignment. The familiar thrill of anticipation threatened to overwhelm me. What would working for Mrs. Mayhew be like? Would I be acceptable? Would I learn my new role quick enough to stay on the whole Season? Would I fit in with the existing staff? What would Sir Arthur think when he came back?

“What do you think of the concert schedule at the Casino, Mrs. Mayhew?” Lady Phillippa said before I was out the door. My mind was racing in preparation while the ladies having tea had already forgotten about me.

Oh well,
I thought, my fervor slightly quenched.
At least some things will be the same
.

“You’re getting off on the wrong foot here, miss. We’ve already begun our tea!” The housekeeper, Mrs. Crankshaw, a tall woman, taller than me, with a back as straight as a board and a tight bun of dark brown hair that did nothing to conceal deep furrows across her brow, shook her head. “Right! Now where are your things? Never mind, I will have James take them to your room when, and only when, he is finished eating. Normally, I would have time to show you to your room, make sure you are settled in, before I explained to you the rules of the house and certainly before tea, but we don’t have time to do anything of that now if you expect to eat. You should be eating in your sitting room, not here among the maids, but we aren’t going to interrupt our tea for you. The mistress mentioned that you were expected, which we did at half-past,” she said, referring to the timepiece at her waist, “and now it is ten past the hour. Your tardiness does not become one of your level of service, I can tell you.” I opened my mouth to interrupt her and defend myself, but she simply held up a hand and continued. “No more discussion. Find a place at the table and we’ll see to the formalities afterward.” Mrs. Crankshaw took a breath, about to begin again. I took my chance.

“I apologize for my inconvenient arrival, Mrs. Crankshaw. I pride myself on my punctuality, but Mrs. Mayhew’s carriage, as promised to Lady Phillippa, never arrived. I had to walk and came as quickly as I could.”

“Sounds like her.” One of the young girls at the table snickered. “She forgets everything.”

“Probably can’t remember her own Christian name,” another added. Several girls giggled at the jest.

“Enough!” the housekeeper said, instantly silencing the maids. “I don’t take well to girls who don’t respect their betters.” Then the housekeeper looked down her nose at me, her thick eyebrows scrunched close together. “You mean to tell me you carried your trunk”—she pointed to my typewriter case—“and other things all the way from Fairview? I don’t take well to girls who embellish either.”

“No, Mrs. Crankshaw,” I said. “My trunk and hatboxes are still at Fairview. I’ll have to arrange to have them brought here somehow.”

“Then what is too important to leave behind, your powder and cold cream? I can tell you right now I don’t take well to women in my staff who spend too much time on their appearance.” She glanced to one of the maids, causing that woman to blush.

“It’s my typewriter,” I said, trying to keep my tone civil. Mrs. Crankshaw couldn’t know she was calling into question the one thing in my possession that I cared most about. My livelihood had depended upon it since the day my dear, deceased father presented it to me upon my enrollment at Mrs. Chaplin’s school. He must’ve saved for months to afford it.

“Typewriter?” the housekeeper said. “What does a social secretary need with a typewriter? You do know your position, don’t you?”

I wasn’t about to admit to Mrs. Crankshaw that I had no practical knowledge of my new position. “To serve Madam,” I said.

“Right, very good,” the housekeeper said, giving me her approval for the first time since we met. “That’s why we are all here. To serve to the best of our ability.”

“My thoughts exactly,” I said, although I had several other thoughts running through my head as well:
What will Sir Arthur think of my taking a new position? Why didn’t the carriage arrive? Did Mrs. Crankshaw always live up to her name? Why would one family build a house this enormous, this grandiose?
I’d never seen anything like it. Made of limestone, with a red tile roof, Rose Mont dwarfed even Fairview in size. With Greek Revival columns three stories high in front and over a hundred arched windows and French doors, it sprawled across almost half an acre among the several acres of mowed lawn and rose gardens that gave the house its name. And the Mayhews only lived here six weeks out of the year!

“If I wanted your thoughts, I’d ask for them,” the housekeeper said in a tone much like that of an employer and not like a fellow member of the staff. “I don’t take well to cheek, Miss Davish.” Was there anything this woman did take well to? “Now take your place so we can all finish our tea.”

A young blond-haired woman with porcelain skin and big blue eyes smiled and waved at me. I set my typewriter case down and took the chair next to her.

“I’m Britta,” she said in a very strong accent, reminiscent of a Swedish maid I’d met while working for Mrs. Kennedy years ago.

“Hi, I’m Hattie.”

“I will make the introductions if you don’t mind, Britta,” Mrs. Crankshaw said, sitting at the right side of the butler, who sat at the head of the table. Britta’s cheeks flushed. She pulled at her left earlobe while concentrating on eating her cold roast beef and crumpets.

Mrs. Crankshaw proceeded to introduce me to the other people sitting at the longest servants’ dining table I’d ever seen. Besides the housekeeper and the young maids, my dining companions consisted of Mr. Davies, the gray-haired butler with bushy eyebrows and round green eyes, Monsieur Valbois, the short French chef with a pointed nose and long black drooping mustache, Issacson, Mrs. Mayhew’s lady’s maid, who was as blonde as Britta, slightly younger than me, and wearing a most fashionable lavender tailor-made suit, Britta, the parlormaid, James and Leonard, the footmen, both well over six feet tall and strikingly handsome in their morning livery, and the coachman, Elmer, a portly man of middle years who never looked up from his food. I wondered why the table was so large but then remembered this seating only represented the upper servants. The other servants, the additional footmen, groomsmen, laundresses, housemen, and kitchen assistant and maids, ate later. I’d never worked in a household this large. I hoped that I would soon find my place among them.

I had expected questions for me after I was introduced, but instead Mr. Davies, Mrs. Crankshaw, and Monsieur Valbois spoke to one another over the bent heads of the rest of the staff. No one else added to the discussion and few even showed interest. After the strained dinner, Mrs. Crankshaw led me up the back stairs into the Grand Hall.

“You can close your mouth now, Miss Davish,” she said as I stood, slack jawed at the single most opulent room I’d ever seen. The floor was gleaming marble, carpeted in Persian rugs, the walls, hand-painted with platinum and gold leaf, were covered with fifteen-foot-tall panels depicting Greek myths, and the ceiling, soaring thirty, maybe forty feet above, was a glittering mosaic of stained glass depicting a rose garden with an immense crystal chandelier that would fill the room I shared with Kaarina at Fairview, dangling from the painted sunburst at its center. The red-carpeted marble staircase, on the other side of the room, was wide enough for a dozen people to stand side by side on its bottom step and swept up to meet the second-floor hallway, an open balcony that encircled the entire hall. And here and there tall pedestals displaying priceless objects of art, tables holding porcelain vases filled with flowers, or life-size statues of Athena or Venus dotted the room.

“Is that water I hear, Mrs. Crankshaw?” I asked.

“Yes, there is a fountain behind the stairs. Now follow me.”

She led me through several smaller rooms, all with priceless paintings, gilded furniture, vases filled with fresh bouquets, mahogany moldings, Persian rugs, and priceless bric-a-brac, and yet, with the exception of the library, no apparent purpose, back to the servants’ stairs and up to the second floor. I followed as she maneuvered through a series of inner hallways, opening an occasional door and commenting, “This is Mrs. Mayhew’s drawing room, right?” or, “This is Mrs. Mayhew’s bedroom, right?” Finally Mrs. Crankshaw opened a door and motioned for me to precede her inside.