Just Call Me Rosemary

Sprawled out across the window seat in the now quiet kitchen, in a rather unladylike pose that her grandmother would have scolded her for, her chin resting in the palm of one hand, the young woman used her other hand to lazily write her name on the misted windowpane.

“Rosemary.” Just Rosemary.

Using her sleeve, she wiped her signature away to reveal the lazy September rain falling from a gray sky. Martha, her cat, every bit as gray as the clouds, sat beneath the coppery green-stained birdbath, claiming whatever shelter it offered.  Rosemary smiled. One lone, adventuresome sparrow was frolicking in the bath, taking advantage of the warm rain. The sweet little bird had no idea that the “mistress of bird catching” sat just inches below. Clueless.

Rosemary sighed deeply. Clueless and naïve, but happy nonetheless; sometimes, she thought, it is better that way.

A quick, rather quiet knock at the kitchen door shook her away from her thoughts. Rising from her perch, knowing she was the only person home at the moment to answer it, she quickly smoothed out her wool crepe gray skirt, straightening her simple black peplum blouse. Catching her reflection in the large tarnished mirror, recently moved down from the attic for repair, Rosemary gave her dark brown hair a quick smoothing, catching it back into a low chignon. Pinching her cheeks for a little more color, she remembered her Grandmother Helena saying, “a spit and a shine and you’re good to go.” Tears threatened to well up at the memory and Rosemary, using the sides of both hands, swiped at her eyes quickly as she made her way to the door.

Now is not the time for tears, she thought, as the visitor knocked again, three precise raps, more insistent this time as if the owner’s mind had been made up. Rosemary breathed in once, then again to regain her calm, then pulled the door open.

There, holding a black umbrella with one of its spines broken was a woman wearing a rather shapeless dark brown dress. Not an old woman, Rosemary thought, but one that looked old within the depths of her eyes. A flash of recognition sparked briefly in those same eyes before becoming guarded.

Rosemary, briefly unsure of why a visitor would be knocking at the worker’s entrance to the home, suddenly remembered that an advertisement had been placed three weeks prior, the day before her grandmother had become gravely ill. Their cook, who always had been loyal, had eloped quite unexpectedly with Mr. Penrose from the next town over, leaving the household in a bit of chaos. A Help Wanted notice was posted, but then in the days that followed, everyone was caught up in caring for Helena and quarantining the home as a precaution as her illness was so sudden, severe and undiagnosed.

After her death eight days ago, the remaining staff, consisting of one housekeeper, one maid, one butler/chauffeur, and one gardener, had been busy cleaning the entire house from top to bottom. Today, Rosemary had just needed it to be quiet, even for just a little while, and had sent them out to purchase needed supplies. All of them had orders to eat out at the cafeteria on the corner of 5th and Main. She had just wanted to be alone in the house. Now, this interruption

Grinning politely, though she didn’t feel it, she offered her hand saying, “Good day, I’m Miss Wells. What may I do for you?”

The women timidly shook Rosemary’s outstretched hand, and then from the pocket in her dress, she pulled out the cutout advertisement, neatly folded into a tiny square. “I’m here about the position, the cook’s position, if it’s still available.”

Knowing that her time of reflection was over for now, Rosemary invited her in. Shaking the droplets off the umbrella, the women closed it, and then placed it in the corner, behind the door. That’s odd, thought Rosemary. That was exactly the same way Grandmother always did it.

"It is a pleasure to meet you Miss Wells. My name is..." the woman paused briefly, "It is Violet Simms. Just call me Violet."

"Yes, the position remains open. We've had a recent death…" Now it was Rosemary's turn to pause. "I'm sorry, I am just not put together very well today, but yes, we can talk. We do need somebody and we have all just been doing what we can do get by. I’m afraid I am not much of a chef. Neither is Fields the butler, although he can scramble eggs and Mrs. Riley, although a marvelous housekeeper, cooks rather blandly, and then…” her voice tapered off. “I’m sorry, you really didn’t need to hear all that, did you? I’m just out of sorts today, that’s all.”

Without a word, Violet Simms got to her feet and busied herself at the stove, getting water on to boil in the kettle. Then opening a few cupboard doors until she found what she was looking for, she set about making a pot of tea.

Rosemary watched in silence, then in relief. A genuine smile bloomed, this time truly felt, and she said, “Violet, the job is yours if you’d like it. And please, just call me Rosemary.”

(To be continued…maybe…hopefully…a little nervously….)

Love,

Dianne