Page 83 of The Maid's Secret

There were eulogies by the various townsfolk, and the last person to speak was her beloved nephew, John. He walked up to the podium and looked out at the crowd. The ladies fanned themselves and dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs. Something he saw gave him strength, and his shoulders drew back. He became the proud, tousle-haired boy I’d first encountered long ago outside his aunt’s cottage. He summoned a smile for the congregation, and when his eyes landed on me, I held them, sending all the love I had left in me his way.

“You knew her as well as I did,” he began. “Aunt Maggie was a walking heart. She was capable of one thing only—giving of herself. She asked for so little in return, apparently fueled by vapors or whatever mysterious energy she received in exchange for so much giving. She was no withering daisy, though. She railed against injustice of all kinds, reserving her blistering tongue for those who deserved a dressing-down. Most of you never saw that side of her, but a few of you did.” He glanced at my parents, and they shifted in their seats.

“My aunt Mead defended the working class. She believedwholeheartedly in education, something she never had. When her husband died in the war, she made a dwelling out of an abandoned stone shed in the woods, proving that a home can be forged from anything. She knew that no matter how grand a lodging might be, if it has no heart, it is nothing.

“But perhaps the quality that made Margaret Mead so remarkable was her ability to see the suffering of others. She was drawn to it, and she was called to ease it. There was no pain that Aunt Maggie couldn’t make better or sometimes heal entirely. It was as though she was brought into this world to comfort all who sought solace.

“She wasn’t my mother, and yet she became that. From the heads nodding, I know I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. I ask you now to keep a corner of your heart for Margaret Mead’s spirit. Let it lodge there, for in that humble dwelling, generosity will take root and provide hope to many. Thank you.”

John left the podium and went straight to Uncle Willy, holding him tight. I felt myself rise from the pew, every instinct in me propelling me toward them.

“Sit down,” said Algernon gruffly as he gripped my wrist and held me back.

“They’re not your family,” Mama hissed between gritted teeth.

I sat back down in our pew, doing as I was told, obeying as I always did. To this day I regret it.

—

After the funeral and the burial, the Brauns escorted us back to the manor. Uncle Willy and John arrived as we were seated in the parlor, excusing themselves to go to the cottage.

I intercepted John in the conservatory. Uncle Willy was already out the door and heading to the garden gate. I grabbed John’s hand before he could leave. “Thank you,” I said as I looked into his gentle brown eyes.

“For what?” he replied.

“For knowing exactly what to say and how to say it. And for sharing Mrs.Mead with me for all these years. I never deserved her. And I never deserved you. I’m so sorry,” I said, erupting into tears.

Something in him shifted then. It was like he suddenly saw me again. He drew me to his chest, and I wrapped my arms around him. He nestled his face into my hair, his mouth so close to my ear. “Of course you deserved her, Flora,” he whispered. “And she had enough love for the both of us and for many others besides.”

Crying, we held each other for a long time, and I sensed that feeling return—the feeling I’d felt on the ballroom floor, of John and me falling into lock step, as though not everything between us had to be expressed out loud, for so much could be said without words.

Eventually, I pulled away. “You should be with your father,” I said.

He put his hands to my cheeks. He wiped away my tears and planted a single, warm kiss on my forehead.

He walked out the door and headed toward Mrs.Mead’s cottage. Everything in me told me to follow, but still, I let him go.

—

When I returned to the parlor, drinks were being served by Penelope, who’d suddenly found herself catapulted into Mrs.Mead’s role. Without a head maid’s guidance, she had very little idea of how to do the job. Her hands were shaking as she set glasses on a tray.

“Where’s the ice, Penelope?” my mother asked. “We can’t have whiskey without ice.”

“Apologies,” Penelope said as she ran from the room.

Algernon wrestled his tie off and threw it on a sofa, then plopped himself down. “That funeral service was unbearable,” he said. “I thought it would never end.”

“Audrey, if you’re looking for a new maid, I have a few names,” said Priscilla.

“Ideally, I’d like to hire a chef and a general maid,” said Mama, “and get rid of you-know-who.” She whispered the last part as she pointed to the doorway through which Penelope had disappeared.

“I’m going to check on her,” I said. “Penelope’s struggling without Mrs.Mead. We all are.”

Mama merely shrugged.

I looked at all of them—my parents, my fiancé, and my in-laws-to-be, and a bitterness rose in my gorge. I couldn’t leave the room fast enough.

In the kitchen, Penelope was removing ice from the freezer.

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