Francesca stood on the step outside the Lancasters’ home, trying to steady her racing heart. It would be all right, she reassured herself. Mr. Lancaster might change his mind about employing her, but he had already given her the thing she needed most—entry into the country, and that couldn’t be taken away. She peered up at the gleaming building, one of a whole row that faced an equally elegant series of buildings across the street. A budding tree shaded a portion of the first-story window, and a curled iron railing ran along a set of steps leading to the front door. It was early still, so early as to be rude to knock on that magnificent carved door for first introductions, so she decided to go for a walk, see a little more of the neighborhood, and get her bearings.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, she walked up Park Avenue, careful to count the number of city blocks so she could find her way back to the Lancasters’ home. Her new place of employment! She smiled at her good fortune, and the fear and pain that had knotted in her chest for weeks began to ease a little. Sunlight spilled over pedestrians in the street and turned windows into mirrors that reflected the golden light. Newspaper boys bustled down the walk, shoving pages into anyone’s hands who would take them. Hundreds of people streamed along the street on foot, on bicycles, or in fancy carriages that looked far superior to the hackney cabs she’d seen in Alma’s neighborhood.
The streets were pitted from continuous wear so that rainwater collected in murky puddles. The air smelled of cool damp tinged with soot. As she passed city block after block of homes and storefronts, her head dizzying at the sight of them all, she felt the city’s weight to her very bones. The immeasurable expanse of stone and brick and steel, of people. And, if one had money, the endless array of choices. She’d been overwhelmed by Napoli when she and Maria had arrived in the city for the first time, but it couldn’t compare to the vast modern infinity of her new home.
Soon she made her way back to the Lancasters’ home. Gathering her confidence, she took the steps to the entrance. As she reached for the knocker, the door swished open.
A butler assessed her with a cold stare, his brow wrinkling when he noted her dress, her clear lack of status. “This is the Lancaster residence. What can I do for you, miss?”
“I am Francesca Ricci. The new cook.”
Mouth twitching, he opened the door wide. “We were expecting you, but next time, use the servants’ entrance.”
“Yes,” she replied, blushing. It hadn’t occurred to her there would be two entrances. She’d never been to a house like this one.
She followed the butler inside, gaping at the splendor of the ceiling in the front hall, rising at least fifteen feet. Overhead, sunlight bent through rectangles of beveled glass etched with flowering vines that threw patterns on the floor. In every nook, vases burst with flowers, and on the wall opposite the door there was a large oval mirror encased in a gilded frame. Francesca’s gaze traveled over the marble staircase leading to the second floor with its shiny railing dipped in gold. Her head reeled at the grandeur before her.
A poor fisherman’s daughter had traveled thousands of miles to find herself in a beautiful home fit for a queen. Her heart felt like it might burst. Fingering her medallion, she followed the butler through the foyer to a set of stairs hidden by a door. As they descended, the smell of yeast and baked fruit rushed her senses. The kitchen spanned the entire basement floor. An assortment of copper and cast iron pots hung in neat rows from hooks over a grand stove and along the wall. There were two ovens, two sinks, a large prep table, and one long table with chairs, presumably for staff dining. The rich aroma of brewed coffee wafted around her, and she felt her stomach rumble in spite of the breakfast she’d had with the Brauers a couple of hours earlier.
“I’m Charles Smith, valet to Mr. Marshall Lancaster,” the man said. “Meet your direct supervisor, the housekeeper, Mrs. Maryanne Cheedle.”
Mrs. Cheedle nodded curtly but said nothing. She was too busy assessing Francesca’s frayed overcoat and dirty hem.
Charles waved his hand at a young woman beside Mrs. Cheedle. “This is Miss Janie Ward, lady’s maid to Mrs. Lancaster.”
The woman was pretty, with soft brown hair pulled into a chignon at the nape of her neck and clear brown eyes, but fatigue had settled in the lines around her eyes, and her mouth was drawn into a shrewd pout.
“Hello,” Francesca said.
Janie didn’t reply and promptly gave Francesca her back.
Francesca stiffened. Neither the maid nor the housekeeper seemed particularly overjoyed she’d joined the staff. In fact, they ignored her while she was introduced to two other maids and a footman whose names she instantly forgot.
A woman burst into the kitchen then, tray in hand, her cheeks aflame. As she set down her tray, she hastily wiped her eyes on her apron and hustled to the sink to wash her hands, and perhaps to hide the fact that she was crying.
“And this is Miss Claire Deveaux,” Charles said. “She’s the head cook.”
As he kept talking, Francesca strained to understand, making out something about the Lancasters and also the word utensils.
“Miss Ricci,” he went on, “the staff lives here, in house in the servants’ quarters. In a couple of days we’ll have your bed ready. Until then, I trust you will find your own accommodations.”
Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected to live here! Trying to suppress her obvious delight, she said, “Thank you, sir. That is good.”
Janie the maid joined Claire at the sink and patted her on the shoulder in a comforting gesture, whispering something in her ear.
Claire shrugged off Janie’s hand. “I’m fine, really. I need to go to the market.” She turned to face Francesca and introduced herself properly, after which she gathered a basket and pulled on her overcoat. When Francesca remained awkwardly in the middle of the room, Claire led her to the door. “Market, Francesca. Food. We need a new menu for supper tonight. Madame isn’t happy.”
Francesca wondered if that was the reason for Claire’s tears. A trickle of dread wound through Francesca’s limbs. Their mistress must be as difficult and unpleasant as she’d feared.
“Yes, the market,” Francesca said, and they barged through the staff entrance door into the street.
As the cold air hit Francesca, she wondered what her sleeping arrangements would be like. She’d have to travel to the Brauers’ again that night, and she suddenly wished she’d written down the directions. Her worries grew as another thought occurred to her. When would she be introduced to the Lancasters? It struck her then that Mrs. Lancaster might not even know Francesca had been hired. But she could worry about that later. For now, she had a job to do. A faint smile touched her lips as she walked apace with Claire.
She had a job to do.
*