Chapter 4 - Whispers in the Servants' Quarters
|
By five o'clock that evening, the story of Beatrice’s dismissal had spread through the three-story estate like wildfire.
Down in the lower basement where the staff took their tea, the air was thick with nervous tension and whispered debates.
Meline sat on a wooden bench near the laundry entrance, an ice pack pressed against her bruised knee.
She had changed out of her soiled apron into a clean gray cotton work dress, but her heart had not stopped hammering all afternoon.
Rosa, a seasoned cook who had worked the estate stoves for twelve years, slid a mug of sweet chamomile tea across the zinc table.
“You shook the whole foundation today, little one,” Rosa said, wiping flour from her thick forearms with a striped cloth.
“Beatrice has been terrorizing this household since the late Mrs. Moretti passed away seven years ago.”
“I didn't try to get anyone fired, Rosa,” Meline whispered, staring down into the amber tea.
“I just thought the old gentleman looked like my grandfather when his arthritis used to flare up in October.”
“My grandfather spent his last six months in a rented room with no radiator, waiting for people who never came.”
“I promised myself when he died that I would never walk past someone shivering if I had the power to hand them a bowl of soup.”
Rosa’s dark eyes softened with maternal sympathy, and she reached out to pat Meline’s shoulder.
“That heart of yours is going to cause you a lot of trouble in a house like this, child.”
“This isn't a normal family estate.”
“Mr. Alessandro isn't just a businessman who owns dry docks and import warehouses.”
“Men lower their voices when his black car rolls down Michigan Avenue because he controls every shadow in this city.”
Before Meline could answer, the heavy fire door at the end of the corridor clicked open with a sharp mechanical snap.
Frank, the chief of private security, stepped into the basement with a heavy leather garment bag over his arm.
The chatter among the maids instantly died, every woman sitting up straight with rigid discipline.
Frank walked directly to the bench where Meline was resting her leg, stopping with a crisp, professional nod.
“Miss Pierce,” Frank announced in his flat, military cadence.
“Mr. Moretti has ordered your immediate relocation from the garage quarters to the south suite on the second floor.”
Meline nearly choked on her sip of tea, setting the ceramic mug down with a clatter.
“The second floor?” she gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief.
“Those are guest suites for visiting dignitaries and family relatives!”
“I have a cot above the motor garage, and it’s more than fine for me, Mr. Frank.”
“The order came directly from the boss, Miss Pierce,” Frank said without blinking.
“Your belongings have already been packed and transferred by the junior porters.”
“And this,” he added, placing a dark navy woolen coat with a genuine silver-fox collar across the table, “was sent down from Mr. Giovanni.”
Meline brushed her fingers against the butter-soft wool, feeling a lump rise in her throat.
The coat cost more than six months of her wages, yet the note pinned to the lapel was written in an unsteady, spidery hand on torn yellow legal paper:
“To replace the scarf you gave a stranger in the rain. Wear it with pride, my dear.”
Two younger maids sitting across the room whispered behind their hands, casting envious, resentful glances at the luxury garment.
“She thinks because she has pretty eyes and a kind face, she’s going to become the lady of the manor,” one hissed quietly.
Frank turned his cold, hard gaze toward the whispering girls, and the corner of the basement fell into absolute silence once more.
“If anyone in this household has a comment regarding Miss Pierce’s new assignment,” Frank warned, his hand resting near his holster, “you are welcome to explain your thoughts to Mr. Alessandro in the study.”
Nobody breathed.
Meline slowly stood up, supporting herself against the edge of the zinc table, her knee throbbing with dull, persistent pain.
May you like
Frank offered his arm with surprising gentleness, guiding her toward the private elevator that bypassed the back stairs entirely.
As the steel doors closed on the basement floor, Meline knew her life as an invisible scullery maid was gone forever.
