Francesca winced at the slight she’d heard used against Italians when she’d first arrived at Ellis Island.
“What’s going on in here?” Mrs. Cheedle joined them, carrying a ledger of what looked like a list of household expenses. Her gray bun sat crookedly on top of her head, and she looked as if she’d just awoken from a nap. “Are you stirring the pot again, Janie?”
Francesca frowned at the expression. The only one stirring was Claire.
“We’re all quite tired of your complaints,” Mrs. Cheedle continued. “You really are so boorish almost all of the time.”
“Oh, leave me alone!” Janie stormed from the room in a huff.
Mrs. Cheedle scowled. “Really, Claire, you mustn’t start trouble with Janie. I know you enjoy prodding her, but it only makes her act out. You know how hard it is to find a lady’s maid these days. We don’t want to have to replace her.”
Claire hugged the mixing bowl to her middle with one hand and stirred vigorously with the other. “If she were a child, I’d give her a good paddling. Swat her right on the bottom.”
Francesca bit back a laugh.
When Mrs. Cheedle had gone, Claire leaned in. “I think it’s time we played a little prank on little Miss Rainbows, wouldn’t you say?”
Francesca shrugged. “What does this mean?”
Claire cackled at her expression. “You’ll see.”
Later that night, as the kitchen closed and the house retired for the evening, Francesca shuffled to the servants’ quarters off the kitchen, her feet throbbing from the long day. The house changed shape in the dark. Shadows turned furniture into monsters, and a scraping noise or a creak became something sinister. She relaxed a fraction as she realized those were instincts she’d learned from her time at home—to listen to every foot fall, every thump in the night—and that things were different now. Very different.
When she reached the tiny bedroom she shared with Claire, the door flew open. Claire yanked her inside, closing it swiftly behind them.
“What—”
“Shhh!” Claire pressed her finger against her lips. She was already dressed in her nightgown and cap.
“What are you doing?” Francesca whispered.
“I’ve left a gift for Janie in her room.”
Francesca frowned. “A gift? I thought you didn’t like her.”
Claire grinned and turned off the gas lamp. “Precisely. Now, hurry and put on your nightdress and get into bed. We mustn’t be caught.”
Francesca giggled softly and did as her friend asked. They lay silently in the dark for some time, her eyelids growing heavy. Soon, she felt the weight of fatigue dragging her toward sleep.
The floorboards at the end of the hallway creaked.
Claire jumped to her feet and opened the door a crack. In an instant, she raced to the bed and dove back into it. “She’s coming!”
Francesca suppressed another giggle. Claire was acting like a child, and it was nice to feel young again for a change.
Janie’s door swung open and closed behind her. She hummed softly, and the faint sounds of her dresser drawer opening floated across the hall.
A terrified screech split the air.
Francesca gasped and sat up. “Claire! What did you do?”
“Lie back down!” her friend hissed. “Pretend you’re asleep.”
Another bloodcurdling screech split the air, and Janie’s bedroom door flew open, crashing against the wall with a loud bang.
They couldn’t ignore such a noise without seeming suspicious, so Francesca joined Claire in the hallway.
“What’s going on?” Claire demanded. “Is someone being murdered?”
“There’s a rat in my drawer!” Janie’s hand cupped her mouth. “I h-hate rats!”
A tiny squeak of laughter escaped Francesca’s lips. Claire pinched her elbow to remind her of their secret.
From the hall, they could hear the sound of nails scratching against wood followed by a crash.
“Get it out of my room!” Janie squealed in terror. “Get it out!”
Claire crossed her arms over her chest. “If you hadn’t been such a witch the last few days, I’d consider helping you. But forget it. Trap the rat yourself.”
Janie’s shoulders sagged. “But what if it bites me?” She gripped Francesca’s arm. “Please, I can’t sleep in there!”
Francesca had seen her fair share of rats at home and on the ship when crossing the Atlantic. They were disgusting, but they didn’t frighten her. Perhaps a good deed would soften Janie’s resolve to make Francesca’s life miserable and the maid would stop being so hateful.
She shrugged. “I’ll help you.”
Janie clasped Francesca’s fingers in hers. “I can’t touch it. I’d”—she shuddered dramatically—“I’d lose my dinner.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Francesca, she’s a miserable cow. She doesn’t deserve your help.”
Janie didn’t deserve it, but in Francesca’s experience, it was easier to make peace by being helpful—or making herself indispensable.
“Let’s have a look at him,” Francesca said.
In Janie’s room, many of her underthings lay scattered on the floor. It looked as if the rat had leapt out of the drawer and scrambled over the night table, knocking a book to the floor.
“It’s on the loose now,” Janie wailed, throwing her arms into the air. “I’ll never be able to sleep with that rodent prowling around my room.”
An irritable Mrs. Cheedle opened her bedroom door and joined them in the hall. She wore her nightcap, reading glasses, and a cotton nightdress in blue floral print floated around her ankles. “What’s going on here?”
The rat emitted a tiny squeak and darted out from under the bed to the door. Francesca lunged for the book and slammed it atop the rat—hard—once, twice, three more times, with decisive fury. When she stopped to catch a breath, she peered down at the enemy. It was dead all right, and she had made a bit of a mess.
“There. It won’t bother you,” Francesca said triumphantly, dropping the book on the floor.
Three pairs of eyes stared at her in shock.
“I’m going to be sick.” Janie darted out of the room.
“That’s disgusting. Clean that up at once!” Mrs. Cheedle slipped into her bedroom and slammed the door.
Claire grimaced. “I think you might need to toss that book into the wastebasket.”
“I think Janie can clean that up, but now she owes me.” Francesca winked.
“Clever girl,” Claire chuckled.
Far more clever than anyone gave Francesca credit for, including Claire. She returned to bed, whispering prayers, hoping that somehow things would work out and she could stay on at the Lancasters’ and that the hard work she’d done the last months would be worth it, until the darkness closed in around her and she drifted to sleep.
39
Alma finished her duties in the detainees’ quarters and threaded through the hall to the matron’s room to gather her things. Maybe she’d sneak upstairs from the bierhaus tonight and go to bed early. Yawning, she passed a group of men on a bench, arguing about something in a language she couldn’t understand. Sometimes it felt like a losing battle—trying to keep up with the crowds, and trying to help them.