But it was.
Charlotte, lying on her side on the edge of the droopy bed, again opened her eyes. The hand was still before her, eerily like the one in her dream. Gently, she pushed the arm off her shoulder and scooted farther still, until she feared she might fall off the bed. Her back ached. Unable to get comfortable, she turned over again, the effort creaking the bed and taxing her more than imaginable a half year before. She found herself nose to nose with Mae, who had obviously eaten onions for supper. Another young woman clung to the opposite edge of the bed. Three women, six souls, in one small bed. Like sausages being turned, one after the other in a pan, Mae turned over to her other side, and the third woman followed suit without waking. Charlotte couldn’t recall the younger woman’s name. A girl, really.
Charlotte had met Mae not long after she had gotten into bed, plumping, then folding the pillow to try to get comfortable. The pretty, petite woman, near her own age, Charlotte guessed, had come in, mumbled her name, and promptly climbed in beside Charlotte as though they had been sharing a bed their whole lives. Charlotte surprised herself by falling asleep soon after. She did hear the second girl come in some time later, but was too tired to acknowledge her. All she wanted was sleep. Because in sleep she could return to her old life.
Charlotte was just drifting back to sleep when she heard a scream in some distant part of the manor. She sat up so suddenly that Mae awoke beside her and groaned.
“Lie still, would you?”
“I heard something.”
“What?”
“Someone screaming.”
“Better get used to it.” Mae turned over, her long auburn plait landing on Charlotte’s pillow. “Babies always gettin’ born in the night here.”
“What?”
“Never heard a woman in childbirth afore?”
“Oh. No, I haven’t.”
Mae didn’t respond, and Charlotte surmised that the woman had fallen back to sleep already. Charlotte sat still, listening. But she heard no more and lay back down for a few more hours of fitful rest.
In the morning, Charlotte awoke to find herself alone in bed. She arose and dressed quickly in her grey day dress, then followed the sound of footsteps and feminine voices through the entry hall and into the large room she had passed through yesterday on her way to Mrs. Moorling’s study. The room had doors on either end and was filled with tables—serving, apparently, as both dining room and workroom. At a long table against one wall, Charlotte followed the example of the others and filled a small plate with bread and a stringy hunk of cold mutton. She also poured herself a cup of weak but, thankfully, warm tea. She sat at a table alone, dreading the questions that would undoubtedly come from the other girls. She had barely eaten half her bread when Gibbs, the assistant who had shown her to her room the night before, stopped before her, a ledger of some sort in her hands. She spoke with cool efficiency, her dull eyes glancing only briefly at Charlotte before returning to the bound ledger before her.
“What use are you, then?”
“Pardon?”
“What are you fit for? Laundry, cooking, sewing ...?”
“I am skilled enough with needlework, I suppose. Embroidery and the—”
“Very well. Mending stockings for you, then. Second table—off you go.”
Charlotte took another bite of bread, skipped the congealed mutton altogether, and drank the rest of her tea. She took her time returning her cup and utensils to the sideboard and then, when she could think of no other excuse, stepped toward the table Gibbs had indicated. As she walked, she looked at the women’s heads, pulled in close like a tightly cinched drawstring purse. She heard their whispers and laughter and feared they were talking about her. The first to raise her head and look in Charlotte’s direction was a fair-haired woman with a long, angular face and surprisingly kind eyes.
“Here you are, love. Have a seat.” She moved her darning things, clearing a place for Charlotte beside her.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said quietly, eyes downcast.
“You’re a new one.”
“Yes.” Charlotte forced a smile and bent to her task, trying to find a stocking with enough sound material left to mend.
“I’m Sally. Sally Mitchell.” The blond woman smiled a toothy smile, her prominent front teeth protruding and not quite straight. Still it was a friendly smile. Unlike the narrow-eyed scrutiny she felt aimed at her from the others.
“I am Miss Charlotte ... Smith.”
“MissCharlotte, is it?” a second woman broke in.
Charlotte glanced up quickly and took in a mop of tight brown curls, a sharp nose, and thin mouth.
“And I’mLadyBess Harper.” The woman affected a haughty voice and dramatically extended her hand as though for a kiss.
The other women laughed.
