The first few days of work, Francesca watched the servants on the Lancaster staff closely to learn their way of addressing one another, their tasks, and the pace of the household. All the while, her stomach knotted with each disdainful look thrown her way, each measured comment said within earshot. She didn’t belong here, they said, in every way but directly. She tried harder, worked longer, scrubbed the pots until they gleamed, and hoped one day soon they would welcome her as one of their own. For now, she had to begin in the only place they offered to her—at the very bottom.
As the other staff busied themselves with various tasks, Francesca followed Claire around, preparing for lunch. Sometime well into their chores, Mr. Lancaster—exactly as she remembered him, with a round cheery face and kind eyes—bounded down the stairs quickly, despite his thick middle.
The staff scurried to and fro to their posts a little faster than usual.
“Hallo, Miss Ricci.” He smiled broadly and smoothed the front of his silk suit in a way that appeared to be a habit. “Welcome to my home.’”
“You are kind, sir. I am happy to be here.”
“I’m rather looking forward to your dishes.” A cloud passed over his features. “But I hear condolences are in order. I was sorry to hear about your sister.”
She caught just enough to understand his meaning—her sister.
“Thank you, sir.” She swallowed, her eyes roving from face to face as the others took in the exchange. They knew nothing about her and nothing about what she’d sacrificed trying to make her way to this very kitchen. No one had asked, and she hadn’t wanted to share a precious memory of Maria with people who didn’t care one way or the other what Francesca had suffered.
Your sister is gone. A voice echoed in her head and pain gathered in her chest, creeping up her throat. Not now, she told herself. This wasn’t the time to let the sorrow engulf her, and she shoved it away, sealing it behind a door.
Mr. Lancaster kept talking, and Francesca struggled to keep up with her limited English. When he paused at last, she said, “Thank you.”
A look of confusion crossed his features, and she felt herself go red.
“Well then, carry on, everyone,” he said. “And Miss Ricci, it’s lovely to have you. We’re thrilled you’re here.”
This, she understood and smiled.
As he retreated upstairs, she turned to find several envious pairs of eyes on her.
Perhaps he hadn’t welcomed everyone to his household in such a way. She didn’t know why her circumstances moved him to treat her differently, but she was glad of it. At least she had one ally in the house, and it was best that it was the master.
Janie crossed her arms and openly glared at Francesca. “‘We’re thrilled you’re here,’” she said, mimicking Mr. Lancaster. “Aren’t you just a catch.”
A catch? Francesca wondered what that meant. Whatever it was, the maid hated her for it. The last thing Francesca needed was an enemy, so she ignored Janie, trying not to let the woman intimidate her.
“Wipe that sour look off your face or it will get stuck that way, Janie,” Claire said and sent Francesca into the larder for some flour.
As she ducked inside, she smothered a smile, until she heard the sound of heels clacking on the stairs and a voice she hadn’t forgotten, even after hearing it only once before. She froze, hiding in the safety of the larder’s shelves, out of sight.
“Claire,” Mrs. Lancaster said, “the Armstrongs will be dining with us tonight. I’d like to change the menu to a lamb roast with mint jelly and dauphinoise potatoes. You may choose the vegetable and a first course. And perhaps a Victoria sponge? Unless you have time to make those cream puffs I so enjoy.”
“Yes, of course, madame,” Claire said. “Tout de suite.”
Francesca saw Claire glance nervously at the clock. They’d already created a menu and been to market, so now they would be tight on time.
“And you’ll tell Mrs. Cheedle when she returns from the post office?” Mrs. Lancaster said. “I want the house to be spotless.”
“Yes, madame, of course.” Claire smiled.
“Very good. Janie,” Mrs. Lancaster snapped at the maid, “come with me. There are things to be done.”
Janie cast a smug glance in Francesca’s direction, happy to be relied upon by her mistress, and followed her upstairs.
When they’d gone, Francesca exhaled and stepped out into the kitchen. She’d have to face Mrs. Lancaster eventually, but today wasn’t that day. Thankfully.
She joined Claire at the stove. “I can help?”
“Oh, you’ll help all right. We don’t have a moment to waste, chérie. Mrs. Lancaster won’t stand for anything less than perfection, especially with guests.”
Francesca had a feeling she wouldn’t stand for less than perfection at any time.
22
Alma walked back from the cafeteria after lunch, debating whether or not she should report Inspector Miller. She’d watched him all day, and it was a good thing, too. He’d taken money from two other immigrants in as many hours. She’d seen the new commissioner flit in and out of the registry office all day and willed him to notice the inspector’s activities, but his timing was off. Perhaps she should do as Inspector Miller had asked and mind her own business. She made another slow turn through the room, noticing the queues were longer than usual and every bench was filled. Two ships had arrived that morning, one with Greeks and the other with Russians. People congregated in every inch of space; the cafeteria was jammed, and the lines at the other food vendors wound through the baggage room. It was going to be a long afternoon.
An inspector waved Alma over to his desk. She elbowed her way through a large cluster of men whose weary expressions mirrored how she felt. In front of the inspector’s desk stood a husband-and-wife couple and a daughter who couldn’t be more than five. They all had dark hair and eyes, and ivory skin, except the little girl, whose honey-colored locks were in braids. She clung to her mother as if afraid she might slip away. Their clothing was colorful and neat, if frayed around the cuffs and collars.
“Do you speak Russian?” the inspector asked Alma as she approached.
“A little,” Alma said.
Relief washed over his face. “Tell that man to shut his trap. No one understands a word he’s saying, and he keeps going on and on.”
She didn’t state the obvious to the inspector: the immigrant didn’t understand him either, and there was no need to be so rude about it. It accomplished nothing. She pulled a small notebook from her apron pocket. She’d translated most of the inspection questions into Russian a few days ago with Jeremy’s help, followed by a list of replies, but she hadn’t had time to memorize them yet.
When Alma greeted the family in Russian, the young wife looked as if she would weep with gratitude. Slowly, Alma explained they were to answer a series of questions, and once they were finished here, they could be on their way. Though she still found the language awkward on her tongue, she worked slowly through the list.
What is your occupation?
Who paid for your passage?
What’s your final destination in America?
Are you deformed or crippled?
Who was the first president of the United States?
How many stripes are in our flag?
Are you a polygamist?