Chapter Two

“Ileana!” A shrill voice called from the stairwell. The voice wove up the stairs, through the hall, paused for a moment to bask in the afternoon sunlight that spilled through the stained glass windows, and then finally slammed into my skull at such a high pitch, I winced in pain.

“Coming, Lady Margaret!” I called as loud as my oxygen-deprived lungs would allow. I rose painfully from my crouch over the soapy wooden floor, the soap bubbles clustering together in a shade of murky brown. I had been given the wonderful task of scrubbing all the floors and windows of Lithstone Manor that day, a task I did not find so easy to accomplish. There were one hundred and twenty nine windows in the great house, and there were two parlors, a den, three dining halls, two latrine areas, forty two bedrooms, one spacious breakfast room, three drawing rooms, and nearly six different hallways. The house was a three story. The splendor started on the first floor, and faded into the third. The last floor contained the attic and storage. That's where I lived, as a servant to my own aunt.

Of course, I was not always been her charge. I had parents once, but I remembered so little of them, I did not know if I had been happy with them, or if they had loved me. They had died when I was two. My aunt, Lady Margaret, told me that they had traveled to India and picked up some strange diseased that killed them in a manner of days. I was as lost as ever on the subject, I did not bother with it. If they had died, there was no reason to speculate over how they came to be that way. They were gone, and no manner of questions or research would bring them back.

After my parents died, my Uncle Theodore, a kind, strapping businessman, retrieved me from my parent's house in London and brought me to Lithstone. He was always been a kind man, benevolent, and wise. He gave freely to charities and orphanages, and had even purchased the fifty stained glass windowpanes for the great house. They had been a birthday present for Lady Margaret. He did dote on her, though none of us could ever understand why.

Two years after bringing me to Lithstone, my Uncle Theodore died of heart failure. He was a nice man, but he did like sweets, and I suppose he had too many of them in his lifetime. After he was gone, I was stripped of my fine silks and frills, taken out of the privileged rooms, and forced to sleep in the servant's room. The attic was cold in the winter, and dreadfully hot in the summer, so one could never be completely satisfied. I remembered the first day Lady Margaret cast me aside as a servant. She didn't even explain, she only demanded. I did what I was told, though obedience was something I hated with every part of my being.

“Ileana!” My lady called again. I sighed and rushed down the stairs quickly, and flung myself through the doors of the small parlor.

The room was quiet, and the curtains were open to the sun and breeze. And there, sitting straight as ruler on her cream sofa, was the Lady Margaret Benson, black hair pulled back into a reserved bun, dark eyebrows lifted high over her cold raven eyes. Her cheekbones were high and proper, her arms thin and her structure feminine. She was the complete essence of a lady, though sometimes I had my doubts.

She held a porcelain teacup in her clean fingers, eyeing it as if the devil himself had drank from it. She glanced over me quickly, and wiggled her nose a bit, as if smelling the filth that must have followed me from the attic. I allowed her to gaze leisurely over my attire, cringing at her obvious disgust at the rips, stains, and holes that were planted like mines all over me.

“There you are.” She said in her angry tone. “Come here.”

I stepped closer to her, with my hands clasped tightly behind my back, so as not to accidentally strangle her mid-lecture.

“Do you see this cup, here?” She asked, throwing a disgusted glance at the dish. I nodded. “Did I not order that every miniscule dish and piece of cutlery be scrubbed twice, near shining?” I nodded again. “Then how is it that this particular cup,” she began, providing a horrendous emphasis on the word “particular”, “Is defected?”

I searched the cup once, twice, and then a third time, but found no such defect. Seeing the loss in my eyes, Lady Margaret gestured to a small, insignificant water spot residing on the handle of the cup. Reader, how I longed to snatch the teacup from her hands, smash it against the floor and have done with it! But I maintained my countenance, as I had always done, and bowed my head in a mask of shame and guilt.

“I apologize, Lady Margaret.” I said quietly.

"Yes, well, go and tell the servants of my dissatisfaction. And tell Grace I would have a fresh set of tea things. These are not to my liking." She ordered solemnly, and resumed her post, staring blankly at the mantelpiece.

I was obviously dismissed. It was clear to everyone that she hated me. She had never loved me, nor would ever. I assumed it was because my uncle had favored me over her, and jealousy had consumed her, even 12 years after his death.

I hurried out of the room, rushing away from the woman I was forced to call family.

I found the other servants in the kitchen, hurriedly wiping things down with damp rags and stuffing a few birds with all manner of savory bits and pieces. I wondered who Lady Margaret was having for dinner—she never ordered geese unless she had guests visiting the house. I found Grace, a tall young woman, about nineteen, who had been an indentured servant at Lithstone for a good whole of her life. She had been sent to the horrid place by her own family, who owed debts to Margaret. They hadn’t the funds to pay them, so they sent their daughter to work them off instead. Grace had a slim build, and long, flowing, dirty-blonde curls that seemed always to be perfect, even if she did nothing with them. Her dark blue eyes knew more than their years, and she was my only friend in Margaret’s house.

“Grace,” I called. I motioned her to the side of the kitchen, out of the way of the silver platters and the vegetables that were being tossed back and forth between the kitchen crew.

“What’s happened this time?” She asked, always concerned for me, above everyone else.

“Apparently, she would have new tea things; the current ones are not to her liking.” I said quickly.

“A water spot, again?” Grace cried with emphasis. Everyone knew of Lady Margaret’s constant demands, and never-ceasing list of complaints.

“She seems even more vexed today than usual. Did something happen?” I asked.

“Master John is bringing home two gentleman from London. They are coming to stay for a total of five days. A very short stay, for fine businessman, but nevertheless, Margaret hates guests.” Grace explained solemnly.

John was Margaret's son, whom she spoiled and fawned over with every luxury possible to her small fortune. John was a fat, thick sausage of man, with no more respect for his mother or her servants than a lion for its prey. He had a mean fondness for bottom-pinching, and was always after a five minute “roll in the hay” with a scullery maid or kitchen girl. We all hated the very ground he walked on, but as women, and women servants at that, we were forced to acknowledge him with a slight curtsy and a “Greetings, Master John, sir.” Every time we came into contact with him.

It was torture.

“Is that what the geese are for?” I asked, “For dinner? They’re coming tonight?”

“Yes. That’s why she is so distressed. She always fears her accommodations are not…commodious enough.”

I giggled slightly. Lithstone was one of the most wonderful houses in the county, though cold and foreboding. Very few people who came to it for a stay, ever came there again. Lady Margaret was a lonely, aging woman, and sometimes I found myself feeling slightly sympathetic toward her, even if her cruelty extended furthest to me.

“Let’s just hope these gentlemen are something to behold, aye?” Grace said, nudging me with her elbow. The girl had the manners of a tavern maid. It was one of the many reasons I cherished her as my dearest friend.

“Oh yes, I’m sure there must be good looks among the two of them.” I winked.

We laughed, and struggled to catch our breath afterwards. I was just beginning to ask Grace if she’d heard from her family recently, when a loud call filled the whole of the ground floor.

“Ileana! Where are my tea things! I don’t have all day!” Margaret was a desperate sort of person, and very impatient at that. Grace jumped at the screeching call, and snatched a clean tray from the counter and began mounting it with Margaret’s afternoon tea time articles. I smiled at her as she grabbed the tea pot and the sugar bowl.

“Stay strong, Ileana.” She said quietly. “God know she’s hardest on you than any of us.”

I smiled long after she had gone. Henrietta, the cook, barked at me to stuff the last bird, which made my stomach turn with unease. I had never liked raw meat. I picked up the limp, skinned bird with disgust and slowly proceeded to shove the contents of the stuffing into it by handfuls. How completely revolting.