Page 54 of The Maid's Secret

Angela, Mr.Snow, and I lead Detective Stark to the utility closet in the corridor outside the tearoom.

I open the door and point to the round canister in which all the grime vacuumed from the main floor collects. “The belly of the beast,” I say, for that is how Angela and I refer to the container I emptied daily until she took over my job.

The detective pulls the hinged door with her gloved hands, but when the chamber opens, there’s no Fabergé in sight. More disturbing is what is inside. Placed squarely on top of a pile of dust bunnies, miscellaneous crumbs, and a comingling of guests’ hairs sits a small white card on which the following message is neatly typed:

Dear Molly,

Find the egg and you die.

—

Chapter 16

Dear Molly,

Do you recall the bedtime story I once told you about a princess and a frog? Once upon a time, a princess was drinking tea by a pond when she accidentally dropped her favorite teacup into the water. A frog retrieved the cup, confessing to the princess that he was always looking out for her and that he loved her. Moved, she was about to kiss the muddy creature when her betrothed, a prince, intervened, warning the princess that if she so much as touched that frog, he would abandon her forever.

I paused in the story at that point. I asked you who the princess should choose—the frog or the prince.

“The prince,” you replied with certainty, citing the frog’s filth as the reason he was the worse choice.

“My dear girl,” I said. “We should always look past the grime, for what lies beyond it may shine more brightly than anything imaginable.”

You nodded sagely, but did you actually understand? I suppose itdoesn’t matter, because even if you didn’t understand then, when you read what I have to tell you now, you will.

—

The evening of the Workers’ Ball was soon upon us, and for the first time in a long time, the mood at Gray Manor was giddy and buoyant. There had been so much doom and gloom about the house, so many threats of financial ruin, but on that night, all was forgotten, and as the moon shone high, the manor was bathed in shimmering magic.

Inside the house, the band had set up in the ballroom and had begun playing jaunty tunes, awaiting the arrival of guests. In the guest parlor, the catered buffet graced long, white-linened tables—freshly polished silver platters heaped with shrimp cocktails and caviar, French cheeses and foie gras.

Mama, Papa, and I took our places in the keyhole archway at the ballroom entrance, ready to greet guests. Papa looked gallant in his midnight-black tuxedo, with satin stripes down the trouser legs. Mama wore an hourglass Dior, black to match Papa, complete with satin gloves and a freshwater pearl choker featuring a cameo—her portrait in miniature on her own neck.

Mrs.Mead had done my hair up, leaving a few tendrils falling gracefully and making up my face to accentuate my eyes and cheeks.

“My little girl is a young lady,” my father said the moment he laid eyes on me. He kissed me on the cheek and fawned over me in a way he hadn’t in ages. “Doesn’t she look elegant, Audrey?”

“At least she’s wearing the gown properly this time,” Mama replied as she looked past me into the ballroom, displeased with the tiered champagne display. She barked sharp orders to the footmen standing by, but when she noticed a procession of guests coming our way, her tone sweetened instantly.

“Oh look, it’s the Farquars! And the Petersons, too!” she enthused.

From that moment on, I greeted lawyers and litigators, brokersand bankers. I curtsied to CEOs and statesmen; I even bowed to a baron and a baroness who complimented my parents on their taste in furnishings.

“Your home is lovely,” the baroness offered as her tiara twinkled on her layered bouffant.

“Just a few family heirlooms,” said Mama.

“Was that a Limoges vase I spotted in the corridor?” the baron asked.

“Good eye,” said Papa.

The baroness followed her husband into the ballroom then, leaving us to greet the line of guests waiting patiently behind them. There were well-heeled matrons with sons and daughters debuting for the first time. There were the workers from our estate and from others nearby, too. Papa insisted we greet the workers with the same respect we afforded everyone else, a rule that applied but one night a year.

After a half hour, the procession of guests thinned as the ballroom filled. Then, down the entry hall, arms linked, came Uncle Willy and Mrs.Mead, with John walking tall between them. His wavy brown hair was combed neatly. He was wearing a black tuxedo with a straight bow tie. Even more arresting than his dapper outfit was the way he carried himself—without apology, always, shoulders back, face open, his smile inviting and real. I felt myself swoon a little as I watched him. I was glad we’d made amends and were no longer at war with each other.

“William, Mrs.Mead,” Papa said as they approached. “You both look dazzling.”

Uncle Willy was wearing his butler’s best, but he’d accentuated his black jacket with a plaid pocket square. Mrs.Mead fidgeted with the puffy organza sleeves on the gown she’d no doubt sewn herself out of old upholstery fabric.

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