Chapter 4: Retreat to the Service Quarters
The heavy mahogany doors of the dining room muffled the clink of silverware as I let them swing shut behind me, plunging back into the cool, fluorescent-lit corridor of the service wing. My breathing came in short, ragged gasps that hitched in my throat. I hurried through the swinging doors into the dim service pantry, pressing my back hard against the cold metal of the stainless steel prep counter. My fingers trembled so violently I could barely grip the edge of the marble slab.
The silver tray felt as though it had weighed a hundred pounds, and every muscle in my left arm throbbed in delayed protest. Julian’s low voice still echoed in my ears, carrying that quiet, measured weight that made it impossible to dismiss. He knew something was wrong. He had seen past the stiff fabric of my black maid uniform, past the white collar trim and the freshly ironed apron, straight to the makeshift white athletic-tape bandage wrapped securely around my left wrist.
I looked down at my arm. The stiff, coarse fabric of the athletic tape cut into my skin where I had pulled it too tight during my hurried shift change. Without thinking, I caught the loose edge of the tape with my right fingernails and began to peel back a small corner. The adhesive groaned softly as it unpeeled from my skin, releasing a faint, medicinal smell of antiseptic ointment. Beneath the wrapping, a raw, angry purple bruise bloomed across the pale skin of my wrist, swollen and tender to the touch. The thumping of my pulse beneath the damaged tissue made the whole forearm burn.
"And just what do you think you're doing, Clara?"
I jerked my hand down, slapping the loose tape back against my wrist with a sharp gasp.
Mrs. Gable stood in the doorway connecting the pantry to the main scullery, her sharp eyes boring into me over the rim of her wire-rimmed glasses. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun even tighter than mine, and her dark dress rustled with an austere authority that always made the junior staff stand a little straighter. She crossed her arms over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line as she took in my flushed face and the trembling of my fingers.
"I asked you a question," Mrs. Gable repeated, stepping further into the pantry and letting the swinging door click shut. "Mr. Julian's guests are still at table. You were instructed to clear the sideboard after the main course, not hide in the pantry clutching your apron like a frightened rabbit."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Gable," I murmured, keeping my left hand tucked securely behind the folds of my black apron out of her immediate line of sight. I forced my shoulders to drop, dragging in a slow, steady breath to quiet the shaking in my voice. "The heat from the roasting tray got to me for a moment. I just needed a breath of fresh air."
Mrs. Gable stepped closer, her critical gaze raking over my appearance, searching for any sign of slovenliness or insubordination. "This house does not run on delicate constitutions, Clara. Mr. Julian expects absolute precision from everyone on this floor, down to the last fork placed on the mahogany. If you cannot maintain your composure during a simple dinner service, we will have to reconsider your placement in the front of the house."
The threat hung in the air, cold and heavy. Losing this job meant losing the small room on the third floor, the steady wages I had managed to squirrel away in a rusted tin box, and the thin shield of anonymity this grand estate provided against the life I had fled.
"I have it under control," I said, meeting her gaze with as much steadiness as I could muster. "It won't happen again."
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Mrs. Gable studied me for another long moment, her expression softening just a fraction, though her standards remained immovable. "See that it doesn't. Fix your apron, straighten your cap, and get back in there. Mr. Julian dislikes waiting, and the last thing any of us needs is for him to start asking questions about the household staff."
She turned on her heel and marched back toward the scullery, her starched skirts whispering against the linoleum floor. I let out a long, shuddering breath, pressing my thumb against the taped wrist one last time to dull the stinging ache before tying the apron strings tighter and turning back toward the dining room doors.
