Page 19 of The Maid's Secret

“You were always a clever one, Flora. When you were a wee lass, you used to school everyone on vocabulary. I used to laugh and laugh—all those big words coming out of such a tiny mouth. You do us proud. You really do.”

“If only they would see it that way,” I said.

“See it what way?”

I turned to find my mother behind me, a manicured hand on one hip of her Parisian culottes.

“Never mind, Mama,” I said. “The gown is here.”

“It’s about bloody time,” Mama replied as she marched over to the clothes rack by Mrs.Mead and began surveying the dress from all angles. “Honestly, that couture house is a complete disappointment. This gown is one week late, no explanations.”

“Well, it’s here now,” said Mrs.Mead. “And we’ve still got time before the Workers’ Ball. Your daughter is such a natural beauty, she could wear a paper bag and still be the prettiest girl at the party.”

“I doubt that,” said my mother. “Your father has worked all year long to court the right families, Flora, and the RSVP list is a veritable who’s who of the nation’s best and brightest. There’s even a baron and baroness coming this year. I’m not saying you’re unattractive. I’m just saying you’ll have stiff competition.”

“I didn’t realize the ball was a beauty contest,” I replied.

“Please don’t start, Flora. You’ll give me a headache.” Mama dabbed at her forehead with the back of her hand.

The Workers’ Ball was a special event my parents held once a year. It was the one social engagement that mixed the workers in the region with the well-heeled owners of the estates they served. My father had held the ball for a decade and counting, and I don’t know who dreaded it more—the workers or us. Still, it was a necessary evil, and for my parents, it was a chance to gossip with the other elites while sizing up the generation to come.

“That dress is fit for a princess,” said Mrs.Mead as she took the gown off its hanger and gingerly passed it to me.

I ducked behind my Venetian dressing screen and put it on. I barely recognized the reflection looking back at me in the mirror. In an instant, I’d transformed from a studious, bookish girl into the belle of the ball. A light pink, the color of a damask rose, the fitted satin bodice hugged my torso and waist. Billowing skirts fell in a blushing cascade all the way to the floor. I secured the tulle straps on my arms, covering my shoulders as much as possible before stepping out from behind the screen.

Mrs.Mead began to cry the second she laid eyes on me. “My littlegirl. My wee babe, all grown up. And to think I once changed your nappies.” She pulled a hankie from her bosom and honked her nose.

Meanwhile, my mother surveyed me like a lioness sizing up prey. “It fits,” she said, “and the color is right. If only you knew how to wear it properly.”

She pulled the tulle straps down my arms.

“There,” she said, once my shoulders were bare. “Never cover your best assets. Remember that.” She tugged at the bodice until my chest was practically heaving out of the heart-shaped corset.

“Mama,” I said. “Do I have to show everything?”

“Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative,” she replied. She stood back to appraise me again. “With good makeup and the right shoes, you might turn a head or two.”

“Goodness gracious, she’ll have the boys fighting for a chance to dance with her. Just you wait!” said Mrs.Mead.

“That’s not really the goal, is it? To make boys fight over me?” I asked.

“Of course it is,” Mama replied. “Courting these days takes forever. It’s not like in my time. Back then, your parents decided for you, and you were married within a month. Now there’s the dating, the family meetings, the engagement, the financial arrangements behind the scenes. Marrying off a girl is worse than going through a merger.”

“Who says I want to get married?” I replied.

Mrs.Mead and my mother exchanged an amused look.

“Always hold on to your dreams,” said Mrs.Mead as she patted my bare arm.

“As long as you hold on to your husband,” my mother added.

“You’re a relic, Mama,” I said. “Nowadays, women can dare to be so much more than wives.”

“Oh, here we go with your ‘women’s liberation’ and ‘equal rights.’ Honestly, Flora, I’m on your side. I do wear pants, you know,” my mother retorted, as she strutted in her recently acquired culottes.“Women these days have it better than ever, so why does this young generation insist on rocking the boat?”

I looked at my mother, so full of false bluster. All I could think about was how a month earlier, I consoled her when I found her lying in her bed with the curtains drawn, drunk on vodka, mascara and tears staining her cheeks. I didn’t ask her what had happened because it was always the same—my father, caught in some dalliance with a woman half my mother’s age.

“Are we sorted?” Mrs.Mead asked. “Is our Cinderella ready?”

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