My Mid-Life "Writis"

Rachel, the house maid, was kind enough to run upstairs to get me a new dress and stockings. She was also kind enough to lace me up. I slipped past Jacques to grab a quick sip of his household cure-all tonic, and within an instant I felt almost normal again. The screeching cop’s siren, the whistle of magic, it was all cleared. I felt taller, and my vision was brighter. Even the pain in my knee began to slowly drip away.

I walked softly along the edge of the hall, keeping myself out of the glowing from the Mist piping. The floors reflected with a bright blue. I avoided eye contact with the guests, and my plain attire was not worthy of their notice. 

I should have been here twenty minutes ago, but now, the ballroom doors were wide open. The blue Mist flowed into a bright golden light. Crystals hanging from the ceiling flickered prisms across the walls and along the floors. The door to the inner garden was also open, and while the smell of the water flowed into the room, the waves were drowned out by the chatter of people that did not even pretend to appreciate how true beauty was a mere fifty feet behind them. 

A few musicians sat on the outer core of the garden. A flutist, two strings, and an empty piano bench. I smiled at them.

“You’re late,” the man behind the harp spat. My smile hardened.

“Mr. Grithword, it is a pleasure to see you tonight.” Normally, I would have curtsied, but my knee restricted me to a nod of the head. I turned to the flutist and cellist. “Mr. Turner, Mr. Randist, I am glad to play with you tonight.” The couple stood and bowed in unison.

“Why were you late? We do not have time for this! Was it your hair again?” Mr. Grithword continued. “I cannot believe they hired her,” he said to the others.

I tuned the three of them out to briefly excuse myself in search of a drink. The clock had not hit 8:30, and there seemed to be few people congregating towards the ball room. The guests were still pandering along the walls, inspecting artwork, or each other’s dress.

My eyes traveled to Miss Ester Clayworthe. She stood amongst a few other girls, each one covered in frills of lace and satin. Her hair up and beaded, looking oddly bright in the cool toned coloring of the garden. She would point her fan, then mouth something, eliciting a laugh from her flock.

I reached where the butler was stationed a plucked a glass from his tray. “It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?” I asked, trying to catch his eyes. He did not meet my gaze, but a grin flicked briefly. I took a sip and began to head back towards the group.

My dress caught on something behind me. I bit a curse, before forcing a smile and turned with an “excuse me” waiting on my tongue.

Instead of a snippety, poorly coordinated person, it was just Artie. The young boy gleamed up at me. I quickly skimmed the crowd around me, and repositioned the drink in hand.

“Why, young Master Clayworthe! It is an honor!” I took my skirts in my free hand and mimed the curtsy, leaning heavily on my right knee. “It is always such a pleasure to see you at these events.”
Artie giggled. He straightened himself, forced a low cough, and bowed low, to the point where he seemed inches from the ground.

“Miss Kinlan,” he proclaimed in a loud voice at as low of a pitch any eight year old could resonate. “Would you kindly honor me by allowing me to escort you to the dance floor.” He snapped himself back up, and the look in his eyes tore at me. 

“Artie— I’m working,” I said softly. The boy pouted, and unleashed his eyes on me.

“Please Gracie? You never play with me anymore,” his light eyes went wide with his family’s known shine. I wished he could understand how much trouble we would be in at any moment.

“Now Arthur, Miss Kinlan is working. We know she would join you if she could.” The boy twirled to the left, and I quietly released a sigh. Walking toward him in a simple, but beautiful, gown, was Miss Hazel. She stopped right beside us, where the rainbow of light was still dancing.

Our matching eyes met, and she smiled softly.

“I do not know why Mother insists he attends the parties this year. The closest boy to his age is fourteen, and that lad has not left his cousin’s side yet this eve.” Her curls did not shift when she bent slightly to extend her hand to her brother. “Is he being a bother?”

“Not at all, Miss,” I answered. She gave me a peculiar look.

“I am right here!” Artie injected and stamped his foot. I felt a set of eyes turn to us. “How inappropriate,” the group mind would chide, “A servant and a child conversing during a party.”

“Yes, I know,” Miss Hazel responded. Somehow, her addressing Artie seemed to relieve the audience. “But you and I need to be over there.” She gestured with an open hand to the side of the ballroom with the instruments. “Mother is having our sister perform prior to the hired pianist.”

“What?” I hissed. “She’s playing before me?”

Miss Hazel nodded. “Mother had asked your harpist a few moments ago. He thought it would be a wonderful idea.” I turned to look at the group. The Missus was standing with Grithword, him nodding at every other word out of her mouth.

I felt betrayal. How would I play without tuning the poor thing?
I looked back to the lad. “Tomorrow, Artie. I promise.” I assured him. He sighed.

“Tomorrow, then.” He said. I quickly patted his shoulder before anyone looked. He gave my leg a quick hug, eliciting a wince.

Miss Hazel caught my expression. She gave me a silent question as she looked at my leg. 

“Good evening, Miss Kinlan.” She said formally before escorting her brother away; we both knew he would not be responsible enough to deal with the oncoming terror.

It would not be a good evening for roughly five minutes. I could only watch, my fingers itched at each note hit. I felt parched and my drink sat only a few feet away.

The audience quieted, and several pairs of men and women lined up. Curtsies and bows were exchanged. The opening notes sounded, followed by a few more. A few moments passed while the crowd listened to the first player of the evening. As the second verse began, the strings added the harmony to the songs, and did the dance. Colors whirled around their black counters, the patterns on the floor nearly mirroring the dancing light on the ceiling. They stepped together. They spun together. Even I enjoyed the harmony, until Grithword shot me a grin.

A note was missed, so obvious I winced. The dance was disrupted. The living Renoir that was night at Newport nearly vanished. But, unlike two years ago, the music continued. Everyone readjusted, and the dance returned.

I watched Miss Ester. I had to. I saw her lower lip caught completely between her teeth. A flush from her neck slid under the powder on her face. Her eyes were not subdued, but wide. Another error, a flat played in place of a sharp. The dance did not heed. The final verse began, and the accompaniment slowed. The piano did not. A few more measures sounded, and the piano ended a half measure before the final salute in the dance.

A polite clap rang once the dancers stopped to turn to look at the performers. The young woman’s smile was hard as she curtsied. I kept watching as she paced quickly towards the powder room.

“Miss Ester Clayworthe, ladies and gentlemen,” the Missus said to the crowd, as if anyone was unfamiliar with the girl. A second, muted clap sounded.

“And now, may I introduce Bellevue Avenue’s own string quintent.”

I smoothed my dress, took another sip of my drink, and walked softly to my place, and with a nod to the Missus, began to play. 

Hours later, and the party drew to a close. My accompaniment played one last waltz, and a polite applause sounded when the final measure ended. 

Like all of Mrs. Clayworthe’s events, the evening was a success. The guests lined up to praise her as they left, with compliments hiding the envy the women held towards her taste, and the men held towards his success. “This will be talked about for weeks!” was a frequent comment. “We are relieved our party is not until autumn, how can the Mason Manor compete with this?” was a more honest answer. “You must tell us who designed your tapestry. They look like they are Turkish, but the room still feels so airy and light! The down fabrics never allow the walls to breathe so well.”

I continued to listen to what the Missus said, playing softly in the background. My company had began to pack, subtly passing a tin flask between them.

“Thank you,” Mrs Clayworthe continued to feign modesty. “My Ester was essential in the planning this year.” 

“I was leaning towards more of a Renaissance theme,” she recited to another family, “but my Ester insisted we use our Greco-Roman decorations.”

“Where is Miss Ester?” the woman asked.

“I told her to check the progress of the servants with their head mistress. One day she herself will be planning te parties. I expect possibly by next summer.”

“What I responsible young woman!”

I kept my face stiff, but I felt the urge to scowl at the false pleasantries repeated with each farewell. They grew exponentially with the power of the family with she spoke. Ester could not stop fearing the rejection of her mother to make any of those plans on her own. Until she could, she would continue to surround herself with the bullying Old Money Mrs. Clayworthe taught her to be like.

My company nodded their good-byes to me, recognizing we would be meeting the next day to discuss tonight’s performance. I could not wait to spat about allowing a novice like Ester to play without practicing alongside the company first. They exited quietly along the side door. I began to play softly a final sonata to close the evening out. There was only one family left at the main door.

Even though I had spent the last several hours sitting, the ache in my knee had returned, and the now cold blood had formed a damp stickiness that settles between my slip and my hose. The perfumed scent that clouded the air in the ballroom had started to fade, and the slight copper rust smell could reach my nose again.

But somehow, I could smell much, much more blood than my clotted cut should have generated. My neck felt hot. My melody, the last bit of empty praise from the corner of the room, and the quiet chatter of the cleaning servants was sucked from area around me. The screams of the road returned, along with the loud screech of the E-flat 5.

I felt a hand on my elbow, and it tugged me gently. I had no choice but to follow. I could not count the steps, track my breathing, or or identify my lead. The whistling continued to echo in my mind. It vibrated directly behind my left eye. I then felt a slight shove, and I sat.

I watched a familiar face talk to another man, this one with a darker complexion. His expression grim; he opened a drawer and pulled out a vial, A few drops were added to a small cup, and then mixed with what I could still smell was gin.

“Drink, cher,” the distant voice echoed.

I did. The noise amplified, and I dropped the cup. Both my ears popped, and then hollowed out.

I blinked a few times, and looked around the kitchen. Jacques was kneeling on his good knee before me, reflecting light off a spoon into my eyes. He poked my cheek. My mouth opened, and the dryness caused me to cough. He motioned to Mr. Turner, the man who must have escorted me back here. It was like I was still watching from a distance, as the sound was not registering until a few moments after the words were said. I tried to smile as I took the glass of water from Mr. Turner’s hand.

“–Lord yes. It is a shame. Her mother told me about this condition years ago, but it was only until recently we found cher a doctor who doesn’t just dismiss this as hysteria,” his southern voice soothed. “They think she heard the train to much as a child. Something just ain’t right in her ear, and it messes up her knowing where she be.”

“And yet the young lady still can play multiple instruments? I have known few women to be so proficient at piano, especially at her young age.” Mr. Turner’s soft voice replied.

“Madness, or genius?”

“I can hear you now, Mr. DeGruis,” I retorted as I stood, slowly. My legs still felt shaky. “Thank you for the escort, Mr. Turner.” He nodded toward me before looking for the door. I followed his eyes with my own to the copper and silver scattered along the ceiling, tuned out the oncoming chatter, and tried to focus on the world around me until the constant pulse within me calmed.

The volume of chatter amplified as Rachel was the first to enter the door, followed by several women carrying buckets of dishware, and men dragging bags full of linen in one hand, and the bottles of left-over liquor in the other. The chatter stopped once the group noticed Mr. Turner, standing awkwardly.

“Ah–”he shuffled, “my apologies, but is that the exit?” 

A chuckle sounded from one of the men, and Rachel shushed him.

“What in Heavens are you doing down here, sir? Are you lost? Miss Kinlan, what is your friend doing here?” She did not allow me to answer. She shoved her bottle into the arms of another seving girl, and promptly gestured to the door across the way. “If you would follow me, sir, this will lead you to where I am sure your company is waiting.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Turner said, before tipping his hat toward me. “I hope you feel better tomorrow, Miss Kinlan.”

Rachel’s eyebrow arched. 

“Yes, thank you Mr. Turner. I shall see you tomorrow afternoon.”

The two left through the front door that lead into the main hall, and back towards the front entrance. Instantly, the chattering resumed. Corks popped out of bottles. The pinwheel of people began to sort crystal from porcelain from silver, from silver coated copper, from ceramics. The bags were dragged one room over into the open laundry room, and silks were carefully hung separately from the linens and wools that were let on the brick floor until the morning crew woke in about five hours.

“I cannot believe the chits spend so much money on those jewelry! Did you see what that one girl was wearing? The one with Miss Ester had on three necklaces. With pearls!” A new girl spoke. She looked to be maybe fifteen.

“If I had that much money, I’d send it home and bring my mama over here.”

“We’ll find something lost we can probably sell off.”

“No, we will not,” Rachel cut in when she returned. “We will not be ‘selling’ anything. If anything is found, tell me immediately or Master Thomson, the head butler. One of us will report it to the house masters, and they will alert their guests. The good name of the Willows and the Clayworthes will not be sullied because a kitchenmaid had greedy fingers.” She locked eyes with the young girl. “Is that clear?” The girl cowered, and nodded.

“Very well.”

My heart had steadied as this exchange ended. I sipped the last of my water, then stood to grab one of the cleaner plates and joined the line. In the washroom, the untouched portions of the courses sat out on display. Hams, chickens, breads, sauteed plums, vegetables from the gardens, and even a vase from upstairs with a full bouquet. The voices met the clacking of utensils and pouring of ice as we prepared to eat after a long, long night.

I was among the last in line, and Jacques entered behind me. They stopped eating to applaud as he entered.

“This is delicious!”

“Great dish tonight!”

“DeGruis, you’re the best on the island!”

“Balderdash! Best chef of the Atlantic!”

Jacques walked to his position at the head of the work table. I went instead to a side seat in the back. A plate was set for him. He leaned his weight on his cane, and raised the unpolished silver that someone had filled with rum. 

“Well, my fellows of the lower caste,” he began, “what a night we have had!” We cheered again. “And despite the gilded smiles and the glass egos, we have made it into another year. Summer has started, my friends. As the chef who taught me what I know said– The goat may cook it, but the rabbit always eats it! We’re the rabbits now!”

With those words, the remaining plates filled with food and were passed along. It occurred I hadn’t eaten since before the shop closed. A serving of ham, with different cheeses and breads, settled before me.

“Eat, cher,” Jacques said, before adjusting to sit next to me.

A few prayers were muttered, thanks were giving to a night that, compared to most, was confrontation free.

Until the door opened.

The door opened, and Miss Hazel walked in with a pile of glassware in her arms.

The brassy lighting of the room hollowed out even Miss Hazel’s naturally cool complexion. The bin of forgotten plates balanced effortlessly on her right hip, and the train of her evening dress rested gently in her left hand. She smiled, but the room’s chatter ceased.

“Good evening,” she started, and nodded her head. “My apologies for interrupting. I caught this,” her hip cocked, “upstairs, and did not wish to leave it there until morning. Please, do not mind me.” Her namesake eyes filtered around the room until she spotted the assortment behind the tables and headed over.

“Miss Clayworthe, you did not have to do that. Madame MacLeod would have made an inspection before dismissing the folks for the evening,” Jacques said. I got up from my corner and rushed as well as I could to Miss Hazel as she began to sort the stained glassware from the soiled silver.

“I know, but I could not just leave this out for someone to have to struggle with scrubbing at later. My word, how crystal has become the new place to spit!” Each item had been split up by catagory, and I tried to collect the silver from her.

“I’m sure they appreciate your assistance,” I turn to look at one of the many kitchen maids, still muted, and gestured with my shoulder. She scurried up to move the porclein from Miss Hazel’s reach.

“You played wonderfully tonight, Miss Kinlan. Thank you for being so accomofating for my sister. She really admires how well you play, and would be absolutely terrified to perform after you.”

“Her perfomance was well considering the abrupt notice my company had.”

“Mother keeps stressing how we need to be closer to your level in both piano and violin by next season for the full debut. She is torn whether to debut us at the end of the summer here in Newport, or by mid-Autumn up in Boston. She may approach you for to observe us during practice.”

Miss Hazel’s eyes were still on the glassware, the few that had not been cleared from her reach had been gently wiped with a cloth, one far too dirty for her pale hand. I picked it away.

“If she talks with my mother during your fittings mid-morning, I am sure something can be worked out.” I said. “I’m sure it is late and you must be tired. I will see you and your sister then.”

Miss Hazel curtsied to me, before turning to Jacques.

“Your dinner was on par with the finest chefs of all of France, monsieur. We are honored to host your meal.”

“Thank you, Miss Clayworthe,” Jacques replied with a nod. She curtised and left. “Now get out of my kitchen.”

The maids that had been hustling to look busy dropped what they were doing to return to their food. A few gave me looks. I sighed, looked at the sorted dishware, and shoved it into the steamer.

“As I started this, I guess I’m in charge of clean up.” I said. That elicited a laugh from the newer workers. The ones older than me, rather, the ones who know who I was, stayed silent.

“I’ll help, cher. I’m finished anyway.” Jacques stood and grabbed his cane. He walked over to the door Mr. Turner had initially looked to open. “Everyone knows how this works. Shield your eyes,” he called out before unlatching it.

A loud humming reached my ears, and the pulsing blue glow of the Willows’s own Mist Mechanic’s generator splayed out, clashing with the yellow coloring of the bulbs Jacques insisted were used in his kitchen. A few valves were checked, and the pressure gauges were recorded. 

“We look good, cher,” he said, before exiting and closing the door. I blinked a few times to adjust the sudden darkness.

One by one, I moved the sorted metal bins of dishes to their designiated sinks. A single kitchen maid, the one who had quiped about looking for lost jewelry, joined me. We hooked hidden hoses to the base of the bins, then sealed the metal lids of the sinks.

“Could someone double check for me?” I asked. I glanced about the room. There was a tight silence.

“Miss Kinlan, you really did not need to do this, but Mr. Gerald shall,” Mrs. MacLeod said. She had returned from doing the final walk about as I had latched the silver steamer.

“Ah, yes. I can.” Mr. Gerald, an assistant butler, stood. He nudged each connection with his foot. Then after hearing Mrs. MacLeod clear her throat, he looked at the connections closer. “They look sound.”

I shut the last sink, and went back to the start to click each individual pedal. A whirling noise began, indicating the hot mist would be rolling through the hoses and soak the dishes. If it was the morning crew, the dishes would be ready to be scrubbed and set away in ninety minutes. For tonight though, they could be set aside and wait until sunrise.

It was one of the things that made The Willows the best manor to work on the island.

I looked around at those I was going to eat with. Most sets of eyes were locked on now empty glasses and plates. A few simply avoided my direction.

It was the same that they did with Miss Hazel, who had washed every dish by hand while in the finest satin. I looked down at myself, still in my own evening wear. 

“Thank you for the opportunity to dine with you tonight,” I said to Jacques.

“Cher–”

“Everyone, enjoy your evening, I will say hello from you all to my mother.” I nodded, and headed back into the kitchen.

“Cher, wait” Jacques limped after me. He struggled to carry the plate with my food, mostly still untouched, while walking without his cane. I huffed and sat myself on the chair that had previously been used to regain my sense of awareness as he closed the door behind him.

“Why?” I asked. I felt petty. When he reached the table, he set the plate down and pushed it until it was within my reach. He walked over to his cupboard, and plucked out a few things before returning to sit next to me. 

“Because you are not the rabbit.” He said simply. I looked at the dish, my hunger pretty much gone, but picked at the bread.

“I’m not them.” I said.

“I know.” We both stared into the fire burning in the brick fireplace. Even Mist Mechanics could not replace the heat from wood and coal needed to char meat properly. The smokey smell of pine mixed with the dust of old soot tickled, but not uncomfortably.

“They all have seen me when I’m not dressed for the Missus parties. They see what I wear upstairs on nights like tonight. They saw Mother when she had to live upstairs when the shop was constructed. A dressmaker’s daughter is not a guest at the house. Victoria’s Balls, I was not even introduced with the company.” I shook my head.

“The kitchen folk did not hear any of that, cher. They were sorting things as they came in, and the butlers doing the serving were too focused on staying invisible. All they know is who you used to be.” Jacques said to me.

“Only the headmistress and the chief butler still know that.” My ears felt hot.

“Non, child. A few of my people have been around long enough to remember. And gossip is like the waters of the bayou. It may receed, but it always returns.”

“Where in Heaven’s did you learn all these ridiculous phrases?” 

“The chef who taught me. He was a very good man.” Jacques’s voice had a note of finality to it.

“Oh–”

Jacques sighed.

“Cher, you have a good life. You get to do what you love. Do not pretend you can be one of them just because you did not get to eat from the fancy table.”

“Jacques! That’s not the point! The point is they look at me like–” The heat that had built outside my ears rushed inside. It flicked at whatever had allowed me to tune it out before, but now, a B-flat 3. The low note reverberated throughout my skull, and down into my throat. I felt choked.

“Cher!” Jacques shook me. “Can you hear me?” He recognized what I was going through. 

“Water?” I asked. The comforting smell of soot was rushed with the copper scent of blood. Good God, would this Hell of a night ever end? I began to cough.

“Tip your head and open your mouth,” Jacques instructed me. I complied. A fluid– not water– trickled down into my throat. “Now breathe.” I inhaled. My lungs burned, and my head spun briefly. Then, the vibration faded. The whistle that had pierced through my body was reduced to a poke behind my ear.

I laughed, and wiped the tears from my eyes.

“Wait– Jacques, what the hell did you just do to me! What kind of magik is this?”

“Not exactly magik, Grace. It’s not what I’m great at. And it’s not something for you to take often. It’s a potion to protect yourself from malignant spirits that I use.”

“Why the hell are you protecting me from malignant spirits?” I accused him.

“You’ve been going about this ‘sealing’ business for the past year, and you have yet to learn anything! Child, you are putting yourself and those around you in so much danger!”

“I have learned the one person I confided in might also be a damned witch as well!” I struggled not to shout.

“I am going to bed. Here,” he thrust a small bottle into my hand. “Take one, I repeat, one eyedropper of this next time you suffer so badly you cannot function. Do not take anymore. You need to inhale the medicine. Whatever you do, do not swallow it. You can apologize, and thank me tomorrow.” He left to his personal quarters.

I scowled, but did not respond. I could still hear the B-flat three, but I could focus. That meant there was a witch I could hunt.