Page 63 of The Maid's Secret

Her face changes then, the softness mutating into cold, hard lines. “After what I just did for you, this is the thanks I get?”

She awaits a response, but I have none to give.

“Have it your way then,” she says as she kicks a crumpled pop can by her feet. “But watch your back. And beware of men in trench coats. You never know what they might do.”

She turns away from me then and gets back in her stolen car. A second later, the car squeals into reverse, and its driver, my long-lost mother, abandons me for the third time in my life.

—

Chapter 18

Dear Molly,

Everything can change in an instant. One chance meeting, one twist of fate is all it takes to change your path irrevocably. My entire life was different after the Workers’ Ball. Suddenly, Algernon Braun became my sole focus. Nothing I’d experienced before prepared me for the free fall I found myself in after meeting him that night.

If this sounds confusing, Molly, I can understand why. It’s true that I’d been allowing my heart to open to John Preston—a good man, a true and constant one, not to mention the fact that being near him made me feel safe and warm and complete. When we fell into lock step on the dance floor, I should have known. But, Molly, when you’re young, the heart is so easily deceived, and it’s common to mistake false love for the real thing. Innocent that I was, my girlish heart still belonged to my parents, and to my father most of all. I longed for their acceptance, and they’d made it clear that winning Algernon was the way to earn their love. I was desperate to please them, so when that daring young man with his outsize confidence and glamorousgood looks strode into the ballroom, he swept my parents off their feet first, then me. Despite any rumblings and misgivings in my gut—that feeling like falling off a precipice, some impending danger just ahead—I followed my parents’ lead blindly. I soon convinced myself that John was an illusion and that what I felt for Algernon was, like in a fairy tale, true love at first sight.

The feeling was heady and disorienting. After the ball, I was drunk with ecstasy at the notion that this boy—no, this man, for he was several years older than I was—might actually harbor feelings for me. It was as though something inside me had suddenly blossomed into being, unfurling into a longing I didn’t know I held within. Visions of Algernon swirled in my head—us twirling on the ballroom floor, his open shirt revealing a V of sun-kissed chest, those eyes—provocative, beguiling, and deep—a girl could enter them like a labyrinth and lose herself forever.

Molly, I became sick with thoughts of him, smitten to the point of obsession. And the more girlish yearning I felt for this virtual stranger, the more revulsion surged in me toward the young man who’d long lingered in my periphery—John. I soon forgot the surge of warmth I’d felt when he kissed my hand, and the safety of his arms as he held me on the dance floor, not to mention the many moments of kindness and generosity he’d offered me over the years despite the fact that I’d so often treated him poorly.

The night of the ball, after all the guests left, I lay awake in my bed thinking only of Algernon. When at long last the dawn broke and I heard servants preparing breakfast downstairs, I made my way to the banquet table, still floating on a dream.

I was pleased to see Papa sitting next to Mama for once, taking a meal with her. Both of them looked different. It was as though some weight had been lifted overnight. Papa was pouring coffee into my mother’s cup—a first, for certain—and when he finished, she touched his hand.

“Thank you, darling,” she said. “Darling”—an endearment that rarely issued from her lips.

“There’s my princess,” Papa said when I walked in. “Our little Cinderella, our belle of the ball.”

He stood then, assuming his full height, walked over, and hugged me. He even planted a kiss on my forehead the way he had when I was a wide-eyed and obedient toddler. It was more affection than I’d received from him in ages. I froze in his arms. When he released me, I hurried to my seat across from Mama.

Mrs.Mead appeared from the kitchen with a fresh coffee cup and added it to my place setting. “Good morning, Flora,” she said, her tone sharp and clipped.

“Why are you serving breakfast?” I asked, since this was an anomaly.

“I’m asking myself that same question,” said Mrs.Mead. “I’m not a cook and I’m definitely not a footman, but since the others have been dismissed, I’m left, as usual, to pick up the slack.”

“Mrs.Mead,” said Mama. “This egg isn’t poached, it’s boiled. Take it back to the kitchen and try again.” Mama held up her plate. Mrs.Mead grabbed it without a word, disappearing to do Mama’s bidding.

“Did you hear her?” Mama said the moment Mrs.Mead was gone. “She’s getting stroppier by the day. How many families would keep a nursemaid for a girl who’s turned seventeen? And to think we’ve been good enough to let her live in that old cottage, too. I’m this close to giving her a piece of my mind.”

“Leave it, Audrey,” said Papa. “She’s just tired from last night’s festivities. You know how hard it is to get good help these days.”

“You’re right, darling,” said Mama, patting his hand for a second time. She took a sip of coffee and smiled deviously at me from across the table. “Someone made a good first impression last night,” she said.

Papa was decapitating his soft-boiled egg. “Not only did you bait the hook, you got the fish to bite,” he said as he dipped his toast in the runny yolk.

“Let’s not celebrate Flora’s victory quite yet,” said Mama. “Bigger fish have wriggled free.”

Mrs.Mead returned to the breakfast room carrying two plates—Mama’s poached eggs and my scrambled ones, which she knew were my favorite.

“Thank you,” I said as she set my plate in front of me.

“Madam, sir,” she said. “Might I have a word after breakfast?”

It was a highly unorthodox request, so much so that Papa put down his fork and gaped at her.

“If there’s something you need to say, just say it,” said Mama.

---