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
