By midday, I decide that whoever coined that phrase never toiled as a nineteenth-century housemaid. I don’t mind the cleaning. Don’t mind the hard work. But it never ends. Scrub this. Polish that. Haul hot water. Empty dirty water. Make the beds. Sweep. Dust. Clean. Oh, and don’t even get me started on the chamber pots.
I suppose I should be thankful that I’ve at least managed to jump into a time period with actual bathrooms. I have not, however, jumped into the era of flush toilets. What looks like a toilet has a basin under it, and Alice and I alternate the duty of emptying that basin and then scrubbing it. We’re allowed to use the facilities ourselves, as I discover when Mrs. Wallace reminds Catriona what a privilege it is for staff to be permitted to use the family “water closet.” I don’t even want to know what the alternative would be.
When I do complain—a bit—about the water hauling, I get a lecture on how lucky I am to be in a house that has the luxury of both hot and cold running water. At least I don’t need to heat the water on a fire and haul it the way Mrs. Wallace did back in her day, which was, I’m guessing from her age, only about five years ago. Yep, gas lighting, running water, it’s all fairly new, but when it comes to science the Grays have the best. Mrs. Wallace proudly tells me they’ve even been pricing out the possibility of central heating, coal-fired of course.
I work from sunup until sundown. No rest breaks. No lunch hour. Oh, I get enough food. Breakfast, a cold lunch after Mrs. Wallace returns from church, dinner, even afternoon tea with a piece of cake. No other downtime, though, and my meals are expected to be expeditiously eaten. Tomorrow, though, is my “half day.” According to Mrs. Wallace, we get three half days off each fortnight, which is apparently far better than the norm. To me, it just means that I can get back to that alley tomorrow and return to my own time.
By 8:00 P.M., I finally finish the list of tasks that Alice relayed to me. I didn’t dare admit my “memory lapses” to Mrs. Wallace. I rely on Alice, who seems surprised every time I speak to her, but happy enough to conspire. In return for her help, I offered to clean the water-closet chamber pot for the rest of the day. She’d looked startled—and suspicious. Maybe it’s a matter of pride, not wanting to be accused of shirking one’s duties.
I don’t know what to make of Alice. She’s a twelve-year-old kid, done with school—if she ever attended—and already in a life of service.
I know this isn’t uncommon for the time period. If there are child labor laws, they don’t apply to children like Alice, in relatively safe occupations. Yet is she really better off than working in a factory? At least there she could go home to her family at night. All she has here is a cranky housekeeper and a befuddled housemaid.
I get the feeling Catriona had been Alice’s friend. I catch her looking at me with alternating concern and wariness. Her “big sister in service” is acting odd, and she’s worried. If she’s lost her only friend, then I should be that friend, which would be so much easier if I had experience interacting with preteen girls. I will be kind. I can do that. The rest … Well, hopefully she’ll get her Catriona back tomorrow.
Tasks done, I detour to the kitchen in hopes of bedtime tea. Mrs. Wallace is madly preparing food for Tuesday, when the “mistress” returns. Something tells me the mistress is a harsher taskmaster than her brother. Gray hasn’t rung the service bell all day. He expects the household to run efficiently around him, leaving him to his work. From the way Mrs. Wallace and Alice are freaking out, the lady of the house is another matter.
“Do you mind if I boil water for tea before I retire for the evening, ma’am?”
She turns to me. “Retire?”
“Y-yes. I’ve finished…” I list my tasks. It takes long enough that I could have boiled that water and probably steeped my tea.
“And the parlor?” she says.
I nod. “Dusted it, swept it, and cleaned the silver.”
“I mean the funerary parlor.”
“The what? Oh. Dr. Gray’s place of business. Am I supposed to drop something off there?”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’re supposed to drop yourself off there. It hasn’t been cleaned in days, that being your job. Dr. Gray has two appointments in the morning.”
“You want me to clean it now?”
“No, I want you to clean it tomorrow night, after his appointments. Let the grieving families discuss their dearly departed amidst the dust and cobwebs.”
“Right. Okay.” At her look, I correct my speech to, “Yes, ma’am, you are correct, and I apologize for my confusion. I’ll grab—fetch—my coat and—”
“What do you need your coat for? If you’re cold, you’ll warm up as soon as you get working.” She waves a hand. “Now off with you.”
SIX
When Mrs. Wallace said I didn’t need a jacket, she meant I wouldn’t need to go outside. The funeral parlor is behind that locked door on the main floor. Entering through the front door, you can arrive in a foyer with two doors. One leads into a hall with a door to the courtyard, steps to the living quarters or a small “staff” door into the back of the funeral parlor. The second unmarked foyer door is on your right and leads into the funeral parlor.
I’m guessing that when Gray is expecting clients, they close the door into the main hall and open the one into the business. The lack of sign-age seems confusing, but we are in a residential neighborhood. Something tells me there’s also no sign out front either. Having a neighbor sell fresh-baked pies is one thing; having them store dead bodies is another.
When I step through that door, the first thing I notice is the endless black. Swaths of what I think is called crepe—a lightweight, crinkly fabric—wind around pillars and loop over doorways and cover almost every wrapable surface.
To my left, I find what must be a showroom, with small caskets that I first think, with horror, are for babies. Hey, infant mortality rates in this period are mind-boggling. Then I realize they’re samples. Miniature caskets. Or coffins. Or whatever they’re called. There are sample headstones, too, also in miniature. When I see a book of photographs, I expect mortuary photos—those creepy Victorian pictures of people posing with dead relatives. Instead, it’s sample photos of living persons with memorial dates.
Looking around, I don’t see any of the ghoulish stuff I associate with Victorians and death. No photos of deceased loved ones. No dolls made in the likeness of a dead child. Nothing more morbid than hair jewelry.
Up front is a sitting room. It looks like a formal parlor, though the colors are much more muted than the riotous ones upstairs. Other than the somber decorating, there’s no sign that this is anything except a sitting area, with a sofa and chairs and tables. I suspect that’s intentional, so curious passersby see only a tidy front parlor. Heavy curtains frame a window that looks out onto the street. There’s no lawn. It reminds me of New York brownstones, fronting directly onto the road.
I dust and sweep the reception area and showroom. Those take up more than half the floor space. There’s no area big enough for loved ones to host the visitations and services. I check, in case there’s a small chapel or viewing room. There isn’t. Odd. Services must be held elsewhere.
That leaves one other essential part of a funeral parlor: the preparation room. I find a locked door at the rear, which I presume is an office. But then another closed door opens to reveal an office, which is remarkably tidy. Not as tidy as I’d like, but more than I’d expect from Gray, with only one stack of books on the floor and a few scattered pages on the desk. Also a book that seems to have fallen from the overstuffed shelf. It’s lying open on the floor, pages folded. My fingers itch to pick it up, but I can hear him snapping that he put that book there, exactly like that, and I’d bloody well better not touch it.