Page 20 of The Maid's Secret

“Can I take this gown off now?” I asked.

“As long as you wear itexactlyas I showed you on the day of the ball,” my mother demanded.

“Fine,” I said, then I disappeared behind the Venetian screen to change back into my comfortable clothes. Once done, I popped out and announced, “I’ll be in the library. I’ve got books to read before classes begin.”

“Don’t study too hard or you’ll need glasses,” my mother called out, “and what boy on earth will want you then?”

—

I can tell you, Molly, that it was a relief to leave my mother and enter my father’s hallowed library, surrounded by perfect, cloistered silence and custom-made shelves of leather-bound volumes that reached from the floor all the way to the pudgy cherubs frolicking on the frescoed Renaissance-style ceiling. There was even a sturdy ladder on wheels that could be moved along an interior brass track, giving access to books on the highest shelves. And the scent of that room, Molly, I’ll never forget it—old ink and parchment paper; worn leather; polished, lemony brass.

I removed the headmaster’s reading list from my pocket and began searching for the tomes I required. But no matter what the category, no title listed could be found. I was certain I’d putGreat Expectationsback on the Dickens shelf just a few weeks earlier, and most definitelyRomeo and Juliethad been amongst the other Shakespearean tragedies not long ago, so where was it now?

A galling thought occurred to me. Was my father behind this? Had he granted me permission to study only to then remove all the books I’d need to be successful? Was this some sort of cruel joke? A fiery dragon awoke in my belly, and youthful rage propelled me down the corridor to my father’s office.

The door was open a crack, and through it I saw Mama perched on the side of his sprawling banker’s desk while Papa, clearly distressed, paced the room, raking his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“You can’t just let that man walk all over you,” my mother hissed.

“What choice do I have, Audrey?” my father spat back. “It’s bend backward or lose it all.”

I slowly opened the door and stood in the entrance. “What are you talking about?” I asked, looking back and forth between them. “Is something wrong with Gray Investments?”

“Since when are my business affairs your purview?” my father replied. He then took a seat on his Capital Throne and drilled me with his judgmental eyes. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Flora. What is it you want now?”

All of my boldness suddenly left me. I could barely gather strength to pose my question. “Did either of you remove books from the library?” I asked as gently as I could.

“Do you really think your father and I swan about on settees immersed inPride and Prejudice?” my mother retorted. “It’s bad enoughyoufill your head with that literary rot.”

“I just granted you permission to study whatever you want,” said Papa, “and now you accuse me of stealing books from my own library?”

“I’m not accusing you,” I replied. “I merely asked where they were.And if you haven’t touched the books, someone has. Many are missing, the very ones I need,” I said.

My mother looked at my father. “That boy,” she commented.

“What boy?” I asked, already perturbed.

“The butler’s son,” said my father.

“You mean Uncle Willy’s boy?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon,” Papa said. “How many times do I have to remind you: you will call my butler ‘sir’ or nothing at all.”

My mother shook her head in dismay. “Flora, you know it’s dangerous to get too familiar with the servants. It confuses them. They forget their station.”

“If you’re concerned about them forgetting their station,” I said, “you should have the boy arrested for stealing books.”

“God help us all,” my father muttered as he cradled his head in his hands. “Before you draw and quarter the lad, you should know I gave him permission to borrow whatever he wanted frommylibrary.”

“You what?” I asked. “Why?”

“Because he’s this year’s Gray Scholarship recipient, Flora,” my mother said.

Suddenly, what Uncle Willy had told me earlier became clear. His son had been awarded the Gray Scholarship, a yearly bursary my parents offered to a child of one of the servants working for us. Between the scholarship and the Workers’ Ball, my parents believed themselves to be the greatest benefactors on earth.

“Flora, I’ve been financing that boy’s schooling for years,” Papa said as he smoothed his lapels. “Quite generous of me, I’d say.”

“Quite clever is what it is,” said Mama. “The headmaster of that boarding school owed you a favor. And in return, your butler dropped his ludicrous petition for staff raises.”

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