“I mean, what do you do as a tweeny? We, ah, don’t have that position in America.”
Rose appeared to find that difficult to comprehend. “’Tis a between maid. I ’elp Cook and the kitchen maids, and the upstairs maids with their duties. ’Owever do your grand ’ouseholds go on without tweenies?”
“I have no idea.”
Kendra remembered that there’d been a line yesterday for tweenies, but she hadn’t known what they were. Could her brain access information that it didn’t have? Assuming, that is, the information was correct, and she wasn’t simply making it up along with the girl who was supplying the information. This kind of thinking would drive her crazy—if she wasn’t already there.
She could feel her chest tighten, the flutter of hysteria in the pit of her stomach. With an effort, she pulled herself back from a full-scale panic attack, and concentrated on breathing. In and out. Keep calm. You’re not crazy. There has to be a logical explanation.
She focused on her surroundings. They’d entered the servant’s wing, where she’d been yesterday. Like the study last night, the area was both the same and different. The same walls, the same flagstone floor, the same flurry of activity with people running around. But the fixtures and furnishings had changed here, too. The faces had changed.
She paused abruptly in the doorway of the room that yesterday had been converted into the temporary girls’ locker room. Today, it had cupboards and shelves filled with what looked to be pressed linen, a long table, and a few odd looking pieces of equipment.
“What’s this room?”
Rose glanced back, frowning. “’Tis the linen room. Don’t you ’ave that in America, either?”
“Not where I live,” Kendra answered truthfully.
A moment later they entered the room that yesterday had been ground zero for Stark Productions. Today, it was exactly what it once had been: a dining room. There was still no fire in the enormous fireplace. The long sweep of table was covered by a crisp white tablecloth, which probably had been in the linen room only minutes before. Two maids, dressed in a similar style as Rose, were in the process of setting the table.
“And Oi ’eard, as bold as brass she was, calling ’is Grace Duke,” one of the maids was saying.
“Go on!” The other girl sounded deliciously horrified.
“’Tis true! And she ’as hair as short as a boy’s—” She broke off suddenly as she spotted Kendra and Rose in the doorway. A fiery blush swept up her cheeks. “Oh, Oi didn’t see yer there, Rose.” Her eyes met Kendra’s, and then flitted guiltily away.
“Good morning, Tess, Mildred,” Rose greeted easily. “This ’ere’s Kendra Donovan. She’s a lady’s maid ’ired for the party.”
“Mrs. Danbury’s looking for ’er.”
“Thank you, Tess.” Rose cast Kendra an apologetic look once they were out in the hall. “Never you mind them. Tess is an ’orrid gossip.”
Kendra suspected it wouldn’t only be Tess gossiping about her, but kept quiet as they walked down the hall to a short flight of steps. After descending, Rose stopped to knock at the first door on the right. Mrs. Danbury’s crisp voice invited them inside.
Again Kendra was reminded of her former college instructor. Dressed in similar attire to that which she’d worn the night before—white cap and black gown—Mrs. Danbury sat behind a large oak desk, its surface polished and everything on it arranged in such a precise way that it made more of a statement about the housekeeper than anything else in the small, tidy office. They stood waiting while she ignored them as she carefully dipped a quill pen into an inkstand, scribbling on a thick sheet of paper. Silence pooled in the room, broken only by the scratching of nib against parchment paper, and the slow, steady tick of the pendulum clock in the corner of the room.
Kendra found herself holding her breath. Mrs. Danbury finally laid the pen down in a wood stand. Still she didn’t look at them. Rather, she picked up a small glass vial, tipping it and lightly sprinkling the parchment with sand, before blowing the grains away.
Ritual done, she lifted the sheet of paper to Rose. “Please give this to Monsieur Anton, Rose. We have a change in the dinner menu.”
Rose went pale. “Ooh, ’e’s not gonna like that one bit, ma’am.”
“No, he’s not,” Mrs. Danbury conceded. “The chef is temperamental and difficult. One must expect such a disposition from the French, Rose. Nevertheless, Lady Atwood herself made these particular changes. Monsieur Anton must accommodate the countess’ wishes, regardless of his own personal desires.”
Rose did not look any happier with that announcement, but appeared resigned. “Aye, ma’am.”
Mrs. Danbury nodded. “Thank you, Rose. You may go—close the door behind you.”