Page 44 of This and Every Life
I keep quiet inside the dim pantry, the voices from within the kitchen having caused me to come to a halt. Arthur and I finished our breakfast upstairs only minutes ago, and he was to return the tray. His tone of voice, however, tells me he’s now engaged in a serious conversation with the staff.
The water for my bath will have to wait.
“The reason I asked for Ruby to step outside is because I’m unsure if this news will be welcome to her. Ella, once I reveal what it is I’ve come here to, I will ask your opinion on this.”
I suspect Ella nods because Arthur continues. My pulse hammers as I take a step closer to the kitchen door.
“I’ve known the three of you for years. Willard, Ella, you’ve been with me for over a decade. I consider all of you closer to family than staff, so I ask for you to not react harshly to my words. From now forward, within the walls of this house, Charlotte is to be referred to as Charlie. Or sir.”
There’s a pause in which I imagine Arthur is gauging the shock of his audience. My own breaths shorten, my pulse a steady drum I can hear within my ears.
“Mr. Kane would also suit.” Arthur’s voice is calm but firm. “Not Charlotte. Not ma’am. And not Mrs. If that is not something you feel you can do, I will pay for your time as you find a position elsewhere.”
There’s another silence, and then Ella speaks, her voice a lower register than Bess’s.
“Are you saying we’re to pretend Charlotte is a man?”
I swallow heavily, my breakfast sitting ill within my stomach.
“Heisa man.” Arthur’s words, so steadfast, nearly steal the breath from my lungs. “At the heart of him, it is who Charlie knows himself to be. And he’s never had a chance to be seen as such. Not until now. I don’t expect you to understand. Not fully. And mistakes may happen along the way. But so long as you are trying your best to treat him as he deserves, I will not chastise you for simply misspeaking. If you cannot accept him, that is another matter. So what say you? Will you try your best to make Charlie feel welcome in his home?”
I can’t stay to listen. I simply can’t. I pad quickly but quietly through the door into the dining room and then rush up the stairs to our chamber. My dress floats around my knees as I shut the door, sinking to the floor in front of it. Almost immediately, I stand again, pacing to the bed, over to the window, and then to the vanity stool. I sit, my back to the mirror, not wanting to see how I presented myself in order to go downstairs for hot water.
I’m up again in an instant, untying my dress with fumbling fingers. It feels too tight, my lungs battling for air, everything within me screaming to get out, get out,get out.
I nearly sob in relief when the fabric pools at my feet. I tug off my petticoat next and throw it as far as it will go. It hits Arthur’s wardrobe before the fabric sinks in a slow cascade toward the rug.
Naked, I drop to the floor, my knees up in front of me, my arms around them tight. I can feel myself shaking, but there’s nothing to be done for it.
The door clicks open before I’ve moved. The ache in my body tells me I’ve been in this position for quite some time.
“Charlie.” There’s alarm in Arthur’s voice. He comes quickly my way, warm hands settling on my arms as he drops to a crouch in front of me. “What on earth is the matter?”
I can feel his gaze sweeping over me, but I don’t know how to explain all I’m feeling.
He stills when he notices the dress on the floor nearby. “Did you put that on?”
I nod, my eyes stinging yet my cheeks dry.
He lets out the softest puff of air before reaching for the garment. “Should I fetch the scissors again?”
I let out an unexpected laugh, the sound like a pressure release. “I went downstairs.”
“Ah.” The single syllable is full of understanding. I have no doubt Arthur has already figured it out. He stands, bringing the dress to his wardrobe. He picks up the petticoat, as well, stuffing both inside.
“I may need those,” I point out.
“Then we will free them from their prison when the time comes.” Arthur returns to me with a shirt, holding it in front of me, a question, not a demand. I accept the cotton, tugging it on and drawing it over my knees as Arthur seats himself on the floor once more, inches in front of me. “Will you tell me?”
“I went for a pot of water for my bath,” I say, my throat feeling raw, as if I’ve been crying, when I know I have not. “I could have waited for you, I know that. But I wanted to do it on my own. I wore the dress because…”
“I understand.” Arthur doesn’t need me to explain it. The staff seeing me in trousers and his shirt would have been alarming, at best. “You will not need to do so again, Charlie dear. You heard me talking to them, I gather?”
“In part,” I admit, tugging the hem of the shirt at my ankle. “Did you discuss it with Ruby?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
