Maeve Kelleher
July 10, 2020 10:08 AM
It Was A Dark And Stormy Night (1/4) by Maeve Kelleher
Great forks of lightning split the black sky, drowning out the rushing sounds of wind and rain with a great crack, loud as a tree trunk snapping in two, even before the thunder rolled like a cascade of boulders behind them. They lit the nursery more efficiently than the remaining candles in the lighting fixtures, all mounted high and encased in unbreakable glass for safety. Leaning over her small patient, Maeve held her breath, but the little boy in the cot did not awaken at the noise. Relieved, she reached down to smooth his dark hair away from his forehead, wincing to feel how hot it was even after yet another dose of fever syrup. His closed eyes were sunken into unaccustomed shadows, and he slept with his mouth open, gasping a little now and then, and moaning faintly in his sleep even as Maeve pushed herself back to her feet and tiptoed out into the playroom to check on his brother and their mother.
His brother’s eyes were mostly closed, but his eyelids flickered and he clearly still had a firm grip on the shoulder of his mother’s housedress; he was not out yet. Mrs. Pierce was humming something, her cheek resting on top of her son’s head as she rocked him back and forth in a glider-chair. She looked up, though, as Maeve approached her, her dark eyes mere glints in a mess of shadows.
“I can take him now, ma'am,” she whispered.
She put out a hand, but Mrs. Pierce shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve got him. You should get some sleep, Maeve.”
There was, truthfully, little Maeve would have liked better, but she shook her head just the same. “I don’t know how anyone can sleep tonight,” she remarked, looking out the window. “Who ever knew such a night!”
“All honest men,” said Mrs. Pierce, and Maeve turned back toward her mistress in surprise. It was not quite bright enough to be sure she saw the expression she knew was most likely on Mrs. Pierce’s face, but she could hear the twisted smile in Mrs. Pierce’s voice. She rocked back and forth in silence for a moment. “Don’t worry about the weather,” she resumed after it. “I went out, a little while ago, and walked as high as I could, without wandering into the boundaries of anyone else’s parks – its bark is worse than its bite.”
Maeve stared at her. “You shouldn’t play bluffs with Mother Nature, ma'am,” she warned before she thought about it. Mrs. Pierce studied her curiously.
“Do you believe the weather means anything then, Maeve?” she asked.
“If it does, then weather like this is a warning,” said Maeve firmly.
“Quite,” said Mrs. Pierce, sounding amused now. “A few hundred years ago, they would have said that weather like this was a herald for the deaths of princes.”
Maeve did not know how to respond to that, and so dared a slight shift in the topic. “Do you believe such things, ma’am?” she asked.
Mrs. Pierce was silent for a moment, stroking her son's hair – Maeve could tell because what little light there was had caught on one of her wedding rings. Maeve sensed that she was considering something. “To an extent,” she said finally. “Oh, there’s not much point in an average person taking Divination in school – but sometimes there's patterns, for those who know how to spot them. Sometimes. And then – sometimes, a thunderstorm is just a thunderstorm.” Faint gleams of light moved – Mrs. Pierce shaking her head, the light reflecting a bit on her hair. “They say that even Seers can’t truly control their ability, though. For the most part, we have to decide for ourselves, where to stand - where to run.”
Maeve was again at a loss for much of a coherent response to make to what she'd just had said to her. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take him, ma’am?” she asked instead.
“No,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Go try to get some sleep. I may have to leave you for a while tomorrow, you’ll need your rest.”
She made the (short) journey to her own little room, but did not immediately try to go to sleep. Instead, she looked around at the walls, and picked up a book - one from the house library. One of the first things Mrs. Pierce had ever mentioned about the job was that Maeve could use the library in her free time, if that didn't coincide with the Pierces using it to entertain their close friends and family. There wasn't a great deal there that she found terribly interesting, but the history books had their moments, and if nothing else could help lull her to sleep.
Looking at the history, though, she couldn't quite concentrate on it. Instead, her mind was drifting through more recent history - history that wasn't very likely to find its way into the books, or anywhere else.
People like us should take a leaf from the house-elves' books, her mother had told her about their shared profession. We keep their secrets and our silence, and we never speak ill of them.
The odd thing was, Maeve had never really wanted to speak badly of her employers. They were quite reasonable, as far as people of their class went. She was treated fairly and respectfully; the pay wasn't bad, the children were not allowed to be mini-monsters, and she was not even required to behave excessively like an automaton. There was a clear boundary between her and the family, of course, a point beyond which she could not push, but she could not recall ever feeling particularly demeaned or dehumanized by her employers. The trouble was, though, that she didn't know what other people would think of what she did want to say sometimes, regardless of whether she felt it was speaking ill of them or not....
She put the book away and took out the sheaf of paper she kept for writing letters. Instead of writing a letter, however, she began to write about the past.
OOC: Multiple allusions to Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, Act I Scene iii.
16
Maeve Kelleher
It Was A Dark And Stormy Night (1/4)
0
Maeve Kelleher
1
5
Maeve Kelleher
July 15, 2020 5:11 PM
It Was A Summer Of New Beginnings (2/4) by Maeve Kelleher
The first thing I think I remember learning about Mrs. Pierce, she wrote, is that she has a sense of humor.When I came to interview with her, I was left alone in the library – no doubt, I think now, just to see what I would do. When I apologized after she caught me looking at the books, I remember she said ‘whatever for? What’s anyone supposed to do in a private library if not judge its owners?’ Or something very close to that.
I didn’t think the first month or so of the job was going to be very onerous, seeing her that day. Some women flourish when they’re expecting. Mrs. Pierce was not one of these. Around the middle of course she was enormous, but her face was thin and pale, with all the bones showing – I always thought of a sick hawk in a cage. I thought she would sleep a great deal, really. This, however, was not the case….
Maeve had always thought of libraries as quiet places, but it had been apparent from the moment that she had noticed the sitting area in this one that the Pierces were perhaps a bit unconventional about theirs. This impression was solidified on her first morning of work, when she reported to the library to find the room full of sunlight and movement, so busy that it took her a moment to register that all the movement was from tables – five or six little wooden tip-top tables, all carrying different books, all enchanted to dart around or change places at a gesture from the hand occasionally visible from within the ocean of pale blue pleats propped up on a chaise lounge.
The pile of blue silk was, of course, Mrs. Pierce, though she currently looked very odd with all her thick dark hair completely concealed beneath a pale blue turban that matched her robes. The shadows beneath her eyes were almost a color match for the dark purple lacquer glittering on her fingernails, but her eyes were as sharp as ever as she looked up from copying a line from a book into a manuscript notebook perched on a slope which seemed to have opened from one arm of her chair.
“Oh, yes,” she said, sounding slightly surprised, as though she had forgotten something. “You’re here. Good morning. Would you like some tea?”
A table she had not previously noticed scurried forward, bringing with it a teapot and a plate of pastries; a clean teacup formed in thin air and landed gently on the table with the rest before Maeve could quite manage “Oh, no thank you, ma’am.”
“Are you sure? Ah well, more for me, then.” The table darted back to Mrs. Pierce’s side, and she filled the teacup before raising it to her face, inhaling deeply with her eyes closed before taking a sip.
“I know you can multiply it, of course,” she said, with her eyes still firmly closed. “Refilling Charms…but it’s not the same. Or maybe that’s just in my head, after my last year of school, but – “ she took another sip. “No more conjured tea, if I have anything to say about it.”
“Your – last year of school, ma’am?” asked Maeve, puzzled; she was pretty sure there were no schools in America, anyway, so cheap that they had to give their students tea stretched by refilling charms or food multiplied by Transfiguration.
“Hm. Some Charms facility had something go badly wrong – we were cut off from the outside world for almost four months, just the students, without the staff. I was Head Girl at the time – Mr. Pierce was Head Boy.” Suddenly she looked up and smiled and added, “the first thing I told him when we got married was that we’d always have a vegetable patch and enough dried goods to keep us alive two years, just in case. The second was to tell him never to imitate Mortimer Brockert’s haircut again.” Maeve chuckled politely, and Mrs. Pierce shifted her teacup to one hand so she could flick her wand with the other. A photograph in an elaborate frame crossed the room; Maeve caught it in surprise. “Our engagement announcement,” Mrs. Pierce explained. “See what I mean?”
Maeve had to admit that the hairstyle did look a bit severe on the teenaged boy in the photograph, but that hardly seemed the most significant aspect of the photograph to her. She’d seen plenty of engagement announcements from pureblood couples, and they tended to look rather formal and reserved. The significantly younger version of Mrs. Pierce, however, looked almost terrifyingly happy, what Maeve could see her expression; she did not seem to want to look at the camera, only at Mr. Pierce.
“You looked very happy, ma’am,” she said, passing the photograph to its owner.
“A diplomat,” she said, and Maeve was confused before she realized Mrs. Pierce was describing her as a diplomat. “I like it. Useful trait. But yes – we were. Are, really. We’ve been lucky.” She gave the photograph a soft, fond smile. “It’s going to be dreadfully annoying trying to convince myself not to haunt my replacement, if I die,” she added.
“If you – what?” asked Maeve.
“Die,” repeated Mrs. Pierce, without emotion, as she sent the picture back to its proper place in the sitting area. “Oh, of course, it’s not likely – but it’s one of the things I have to take into account for my backup plans. Luckily I’m almost done with those…” She looked vaguely around at her tables full of books. “Well. Is that the time already? Almost time to go have my hair washed – it’s taking a treatment right now. While I’m doing that, could you write thank you notes to respond to all those cards on that desk for me? The notecards are in a box in the drawer along with the quill I’d like you to use.”
Maeve meant to point out that she was supposed to be a private nursemaid, here to keep an eye on Mrs. Pierce, who was supposed to be resting, and to be where she could be called into service in an instant once the babies were born and needed taking care of. She was not a private secretary. As Mrs. Pierce looked at her expectantly, though, she found herself saying instead, “Of course, ma’am.”
Mrs. Pierce smiled at her. “Excellent, thank you. I’ll just finish this note….”
Mrs. Pierce’s quill resumed scratching slightly against her notes. Maeve took out the stationery set, looking warily at the prescribed quill, but nothing happened when she picked it up, nor when she dipped it in ink. Carefully, she began to write, trying to think like a lady – and almost immediately froze in shock and dropped the quill after the first word formed on the paper. She turned her head back toward Mrs. Pierce and was surprised to find the woman watching her, looking faintly satisfied.
“A useful little charm,” she said calmly. “At least in the right contexts. I invented it myself – I’m guessing that it works?” Maeve had held up the card she had been writing mutely, whereupon Mrs. Pierce had nodded, now very clearly satisfied. “Ha – I couldn’t tell I didn’t write it myself,” she said. “Thank you, Miss Kelleher – let me make a note here…”
“Shall I sign them too, then, ma’am?” asked Maeve, realizing the import of what Mrs. Pierce had just said.
“Hm? Oh, yes, that would save time. My first name is Alicia – nothing unusual about the spelling. I’m glad you thought of that,” added Mrs. Pierce with a warm smile, and Maeve was mildly perturbed to find that she felt rather like a schoolgirl who had just been praised for doing her lessons well. “Thank you, it’s a great help to me.”
That was another thing I noticed about Mrs. Pierce, early on - she uses her face like an instrument. I've seen that woman go from being welcoming to looking like she'd like to cut them - all while smiling. At least, I learned to see it. When I first met her, it just seemed like she was always smiling, always serene - but the more you study her face, the more you realize you could have a whole conversation with her, and you do all the talking. Like one of those languages of fans, or flowers, but a language of smiles.
It was always different with her family, though. She always had trouble smiling when it came to them. I noticed that the day Miss Rachel and Miss Kate and Mr. Isaac brought her the greenhouse.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?” Maeve asked.
Mrs. Pierce sighed, fingering the pinkish moonstone drop she had affixed to one of her usual earrings. Her robes were a warmish shade of peach today, which Maeve thought suited her better than her usual cool tones, though they did not necessarily go well with the purple padding on her floating chair. “Yes, thank you, Miss Kelleher,” she said. “Just thinking – my sisters are planning to visit me this afternoon.”
Maeve blinked. She had seen other parts of the house, now, and while Mrs. Pierce seemed to have a liking for photographs of her husband and friends, the absence of portraits of obvious relatives had made Maeve assume the mistress had very little family of her own, never mind plural sisters. “That’s very nice, ma’am,” she said.
Mrs. Pierce glanced up at her, her eyes half-obscured by her angle and their heavy lids, and smiled. It was hard to say why, but she suddenly had the impression she had said the wrong thing. “Yes,” she said. “I haven’t seen them in some time.”
The sisters proved something of a surprise. They were both, on closer examination, actually fairly similar to Mrs. Pierce in appearance – both were tall, with the same shape to their faces – but at first glance, she would not have assumed either was related to Mrs. Pierce at all: one woman was golden-haired, the other mousy light brown, and they had pale eyes and fairer complexions than Mrs. Pierce’s.
“Who’s your shadow, Alicia?” asked one of them, looking at Maeve.
“Miss Kelleher has the enviable job of making sure I don’t do anything,” said Alicia. “Rachel, Kate – Miss Kelleher. Miss Kelleher – my sisters, Rachel and Caitlin Bauer.”
The mousy-haired woman waved when Mrs. Pierce said the name Caitlin and gave Maeve a friendly smile. The golden-haired woman – Rachel – nodded to her. “Nice to meet you, Miss Kelleher,” said Rachel. “I do not envy you your job at all. I’ll jinx her for you if you like,” she added, gesturing toward Mrs. Pierce.
“No, ma’am,” said Maeve, utterly baffled.
Mrs. Pierce sighed theatrically. “Rachel, if you want me to Transfigure you into a legume, you can just ask,” she said. “There’s no need to make a production out of it for the nurse.” She waved her wand and an extra chair appeared, making room for everyone to sit down. The woman called Caitlin grimaced sympathetically as she took a place.
“How long are you supposed to be stuck like this, Ali?” she asked.
Mrs. Pierce’s eyes closed as she lay back on her pillows. “September, technically,” she said. “They don’t think it’s likely to actually go on that long, though.”
The sisters exchanged nervous looks. “Is everything...all right?” asked Rachel, awkwardly.
“Yes. Apparently twins just almost always come early. They should live, though, if they’ll just stick with me a few more weeks now…just a few more weeks,” said Mrs. Pierce, suddenly sounding utterly exhausted. Rachel and Caitlin exchanged looks again.
“Should be fun for Thad if astrology’s accurate,” said Caitlin with what seemed like an attempt at humor. “Trapped in a house with three of whatever you are.”
Mrs. Pierce’s eyelids raised slightly. “Thad has never seemed to mind the company of whatever I am,” she said quietly. There was no overt hostility in her voice, but the temperature of the room seemed to be dropping alarmingly. “And went to some trouble to have it.”
Maeve wondered what, exactly, that was supposed to mean. She had been under the impression that the Pierces were one of those families who arranged marriages when the parties involved were teenagers at the oldest; the photographs of what had clearly been Mr. and Mrs. Pierce's wedding made her think her employers had been at most in their very early twenties, but more likely still in their late teens….
“Yeah, but there’s such a thing as too much of a good thing,” said Rachel.
“Debatable,” said Mrs. Pierce, a faint smile playing around her lips now. “What of love, then?”
“That reminds me,” said Caitlin. “Are you ever planning – “
“Kate!” snapped Rachel, flushing. Mrs. Pierce, by contrast, seemed to have gone pale, the smile vanishing abruptly.
“Don’t ‘Kate’ me,” snapped Caitlin in return.
“She's doing you a favor," said Mrs. Pierce, very coldly. "I have told you before that I don't wish to discuss that. I haven't changed my wishes on that topic."
“Ali…” said Rachel.
“Don’t ‘Ali’ me,” said Mrs. Pierce.
A deeply uncomfortable silence fell, so that Maeve started when it was broken, not by any of the three sisters, but by a drawling male voice from the door.
“I see I showed up at a great moment,” the voice said, and was followed by a male person – a young man with the same coloring as Caitlin. He might, Maeve thought, have been handsome, had he not had the kind of smug expression which almost seemed part of his face.
Mrs. Pierce looked at him, her dark eyes still alight with annoyance. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Telling them they can stop distracting you now, your present’s ready,” said the young man.
“My what?”
“We brought you a present,” said Rachel, with a sort of forced cheeriness. “From the whole family – it was Mom and Jeremy’s idea. Isaac’s been overseeing the installation – “
“Installation?” said Mrs. Pierce in alarm. “What have you – “
“Look out the window,” suggested the young man, presumably Isaac. To Maeve’s alarm, Mrs. Pierce did not levitate her chair as usual, but instead swung her feet to the floor and dragged herself up with her hands on the high back before walking to the indicated window. Maeve was surprised to note how tall she was, and seemingly strong; her movements maintained a surprising degree of fluidity for someone who was supposed to have been on bed rest for weeks, now.
“It’s – “ said Mrs. Pierce, peering out the windows and looking puzzled.
“Everyone says you’re getting a bit too into the orchids,” said Isaac. “So you’re a good person to test the new greenhouse model on – highly customizable, extendable as your collection grows, and you can easily transport most of it with you when you inevitably have to change houses.” Mrs. Pierce turned sharply to face him, her face inscrutable, until he hastily added, suddenly in a much more forced voice, “to move further up, of course.”
Mrs. Pierce studied him a moment further and then smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “That’s very thoughtful of you – send me the blueprints and the enchantments used?”
I can't say for sure that I know yet what Kate Bauer was talking about, but I think I do. I think I learned what that was about three years later. Sometimes I wonder if it would have mattered, had I known it then? Had I known any of the other things I know now? Would it have changed anything?
Truthfully, I doubt it. Perhaps I would have looked at her differently, but there were still two babies who needed looking after - and a contract. A job is a job, and children aren't to blame for the sins of their parents, if they are sins at all.
Every woman approaches her time in her own way. Mrs. Pierce - it was hard to tell how much was an effort, and how much was simply her nature. She was frightened at first - of course - but she kept working on her notes for the longest time - you could tell when she had contractions, because she would stop writing for a moment, so she didn't lose control of her quill - before she suddenly folded up her papers, shoved them in her handbag, and began pacing - she kept that up for the longest time. I remember when someone had rounded up Mr. Pierce - she kissed him soundly (we all very shocked and pretending we didn't notice that) and then shoved that bag in his hands, told him that she did not plan to die, but to open her handbag immediately if she did die by some chance because there were specific instructions that could not be put off - and then she went back to walking up and down, sometimes seeming to chant to herself in some other language, a charm I suppose.
All that was deliberate enough, but another thing - at the worst of it, just before Alexander was born, she kept apologizing every time she made a sound, or lost her breath, or even grimaced. "I'm sorry I'm making such a fuss." The same words, over and over again. It seemed such an odd thing to do; I recall the attending Healer telling her she really was making very little fuss compared to some, and she looked back, and almost smiled - her hair had gone quite black with sweat by this time - and said, "then I am very glad I don't have your job."
There was one even odder thing - most women demand their babies straightaway. Even society ladies are mothers, after all, however little they might act like it in later years. Mrs. Pierce, though, seemed strangely reluctant to touch hers at all at first, though she was obviously concerned for them; when she demanded a bath, she also said Mr. Pierce was not to allow the infants out of his sight until she could return, and she watched them a great deal, as though afraid they might take it into their heads to leap up from their cradles and run away....
As Mrs. Pierce, looking somewhat long-suffering, settled herself in a high-backed armchair positioned precisely so she could see both of her sons at once and began to read the first of the daily parent-read stories, Maeve couldn’t quite help taking a glance around at her surroundings. Since Mrs. Pierce had spent most of the last weeks of her pregnancy in the library during the day, and much of her time in the past two weeks either receiving well-wishing guests, popping into the nursery unexpectedly to stare at the children and make the staff nervous, or pottering around in her greenhouse, Maeve had only ever caught glimpses of her private office.
She was not sure what she had expected, really, but she didn’t think it was what she had got. It was a narrow room, rectangular but for one oddly-angled corner, and the way it was arranged only accentuated this. One of the two long walls, as in the library, was mostly comprised of tall windows, the difference being that these had heavy reddish-purple drapes tied back from them instead of green damask. Opposite this wall, where she supposed she might have expected bookshelves, there were instead glass cases, which seemed to form a sort of private museum: many photographs and objects apparently acquired on a period of travel immediately after her marriage, and what looked like notable occasions after, seemingly arranged chronologically. Near the door, there was a small sofa, presumably for anyone who had to wait to speak with her; over the door was a strange painting, a copy of a famous rendition of the Death of Cleopatra VII. At the far end of the room was a writing desk set at an angle to the last window and cluttered around its edges with more knickknacks than Maeve would have expected of its owner. Behind it was another case, this one seemingly holding mainly accounts books; opposite it was a mirror that showed only shadowy, undetailed reflections.
“I am sorry to have dragged you up here,” said Mrs. Pierce abruptly, mildly startling her. “I’m waiting on a delivery in here…They don’t seem to mind changing locations,” she added, peering at her sons. “Oh, that one’s asleep, but the other one is awake - I’ve read it’s only an old wives’ tale, that they are blind – only that they see very poorly.”
Maeve nodded. “If you’re holding a baby their size, ma’am, it can see your face,” she said.
“Mm,” said Mrs. Pierce. “One of those books said that, too – something to do with learning to recognize the person who feeds them.” She reached down to pet one of them on the head. “Though that isn’t fully consistent with one of the others – one of the others said that they may not quite understand that they exist separately from me, despite also enjoying it if I talk to them…do you think they realize they’re separate from each other, though?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am,” said Maeve. “Most babies do like being talked to, though – it helps them learn, even if they don’t understand anything at first. And they recognize your voice best, so that makes them feel safer.”
“Hm. I suppose if they think I’m part of the unit, hearing me at least implies that our vocal chords are close enough to the rest to use,” Mrs. Pierce speculated. She carefully picked one of the infants up, patting him uneasily, as though afraid she might break him. “In your defense, you do look like you might have my nose,” she informed the baby. “I don’t know if you should try to outgrow it or not…it’s much nicer than the Pierce nose, but if the others say anything about it, I’ll have to turn your cousin Caitlin’s just enough further up that she might drown in a rainstorm.”
.
Maeve choked down a laugh, and could have sworn she saw Mrs. Pierce glance at her with half a grin. Just then, there was a knock on the door.
“Yes?” said Mrs. Pierce.
It turned out to be the delivery men, who had something large wrapped in canvas. Mrs. Pierce glanced uncertainly at the baby she was holding, then very carefully adjusted to hold him in one arm only, seemingly holding her breath until she was sure she wasn’t going to drop him, before beginning to direct the workers on where to mount what turned out to be a triptych.
Maeve knew little about art, so all she could say was that the images, though painted on wood, seemed realistic enough. She also thought she could follow something of the story shown on it: on one side, there were three people. A handsome but cruel-looking young man stood between two others, an older man and an older woman, who were less grandly dressed than himself, and who seemed to be speaking to him; a beautiful young woman languished on a sort of sofa, looking pitifully up at the trio. On the center panel, an older, proud-looking woman seemed to be in bed, looking defiantly at a group of men entering from the left of the panel, all holding weapons. In the third, the foreground was occupied by the young man and the beautiful young woman, who were painted so they seemed to be looking out beyond the right border of their panel; in the background, much smaller, a figure which resembled the center panel woman was being placed on a funeral pyre.
“What’s this, ma’am?” she asked uneasily once they were alone again.
Mrs. Pierce was running the tip of her finger down her son’s tiny nose when Maeve asked this. She lifted her dark eyes to Maeve at the question, and her expression was impossible to read.
“The Death of Agrippina the Younger,” she said.
16
Maeve Kelleher
It Was A Summer Of New Beginnings (2/4)
0
Maeve Kelleher
0
7
Maeve Kelleher
September 16, 2020 3:02 PM
It Was A Long, Calm Interlude (3/4) by Maeve Kelleher
The children were frail at first, as twins often are, but they grew rapidly, and caught up quickly enough with children of the same age who had been born stronger than they.From the time they started to show any real character, they were bright, active, stubborn little things; by now, I suspect all of us in the household would find them intolerable if Mr. and Mrs. Pierce were the types to allow their children to heap scorn on us simply because we are servants, but this was never the case. Mrs. Pierce used to laugh and remark that if they were spoiled, they’d never learn to get what they wanted by cunning; as is often the case with her, I still don’t know if I think she was joking. In any case, though, they remained lovable, and all of us, I think, love them.
Mr. and Mrs. Pierce do also, and are rather interested in them, for people of their stations, especially her. At first, she was almost mannishly incompetent with them – I do not think nurturing is precisely in her nature – but she was persistent in trying to be, as she put it, a ‘proper mum.’ She liked to have them with her, and with Mr. Pierce, and it did not take her long to welcome Mr. Pierce’s parents around them, but she kept them away from the rest of the world as much as she could – whether from caution or jealousy, of course, it’s hard to say….
In September and October, Maeve had fancied that she had been blessed with unusually easy charges. She had been prepared for a lot of trouble, with two of them, but the tiny, slightly bony-looking little things had seemingly preferred sleep to all other activities. They had begun to wake up a little more often in October, to be sure, but they had still largely seemed easy to pacify.
So much for those days.
At some point, she had found time to read a little out of those Books Mrs. Pierce always anxiously cited when appraising her sons, and it seemed this was to have been expected: at roughly three months old, they were going to start showing some awareness of the world around them, along with glimmers of proto-personalities and preferences. With one baby, this would have been challenging enough; with two…! And the weather was not helping. Maeve had already learned which shrieking pattern meant one or the other wanted to go outside, but going outside was a tricky business when they were still tiny infants and outside for them was winter, in New Hampshire.
Mrs. Pierce was talking about conjuring them a garden to see if they could trick one who wanted outside into thinking he’d been granted his wish; Maeve only hoped it worked if she did. She was quite confident in Mrs. Pierce’s magical abilities, but she was beginning to suspect that the twins were uncannily intelligent for such little creatures. Certainly they seemed to know if the person holding them was not the person they wanted just then; there had been one memorable occasion, miserable for everyone involved, of the two being passed around like hot potatoes until they found some combination which each boy was content with.
At the moment, neither was being held, but both seemed content, and it was possible to think of them as sweet little things. Maeve was playing peek-a-boo with Alexander, who had recently learned to laugh; Nicholas was opening and closing his hands and staring at them, seemingly fascinated by his newly-discovered talent. Alexander stopped smiling when Maeve stopped her mechanical repetitions of ‘peek-a-boo, I see you’ in order to catch the note which flew into the room to her, but he didn’t start fussing until she started to stand up.
“Shh, shh,’ said Maeve, quickly reaching to pick him up, bunding him into a bassinet and trying and failing to get to Nicholas before he too started whining. “Don’t cry. We’re going to go see Mama. Maa-maa,” she emphasized, knowing that they (naturally enough) seemed to like their mother, though she had no clue if they understood the concept of names yet, much less that ‘Mama’ was the word which went with that specific person, especially since they were occasionally present when she went by at least two other monikers as well….
If they understood that she was taking them to see Mrs. Pierce, they did not seem to regard this as any reason to stop fussing. Maeve bit her lip as she floated the bassinets down toward the room where Mrs. Pierce was hosting the other ladies involved in one of her charity boards for tea, willing the angry noises to cease before she got there, then realizing there was a solution. She bit her lip again, unsure of the ethics of what she was about to do, but desperate times called for desperate measures; she put Silencing Charms on both of them before knocking on the door.
Gaining admittance, she dropped her eyes to the carpet at once, intimidated by the sight of all these women dressed richly enough to put half of her siblings through school. Glancing up through her eyelashes, she was surprised to see that Mrs. Pierce did not look entirely pleased, either; she was smiling, of course, but Maeve had spent too much time observing her in the past few months to believe that she wanted to right now. There was a slight tension about her as she gestured for the children to be brought to her, something subtle about the set of her jaw, or perhaps it was the line of figure.
“Thank you, Miss Kelleher,” she said, using the honorific for the first time in quite some time.
“Of course, Mrs. Pierce,” said Maeve, making a suggestion of a curtsey and stepping back, watching warily. There was, she had quickly discovered, a way things were done around here, and Mrs. Pierce only saw the babies at this time of day if a meeting was cancelled, or more rarely, had never been scheduled at all.
“Well, here you all are, then,” said Mrs. Pierce, picking up Alexander. He seemed to have been startled half out of his temper by the realization that he was no longer making sound, though his face was still creased and red. “This is Alexander, the elder – and there is Nicholas, his brother.”
The women flocked about, and Maeve worried about how the children would react to this, having never seen such a crowd before. She could not see them clearly through the thicket of backs, though was relieved, at least, to hear mostly what sounded like approving cooing noises from the women.
Mostly, anyway.
“They’re awfully red-faced, to be this big already,” one woman observed. “Mine had already gotten better complexions.”
“It’s not a permanent feature,” said Mrs. Pierce. “They have the Pierce complexion. The least bit of a flush shows up.”
“Pity that blood doesn’t always so easily show itself – don’t you agree, Alicia?” asked another.
Mrs. Pierce did not have the Pierce complexion – on her own, she looked fair enough, but her husband and sons were pale enough to make her seem dark by comparison – but Maeve still saw a flush rising along the narrow strip of neck visible between her collar and the bottom of the loose chignon she had arranged her dark hair into today.
“It certainly would make some things simpler,” said Mrs. Pierce, her tone light and casual in stark contrast to her rigid posture. “It’s a pity we can’t see all of everyone’s qualities on their faces, really. It would make guest lists so much simpler.”
There was a ripple of polite chuckles and a shift to complaining about the difficulties of arranging parties around difficult personalities. Maeve was relieved when she was instructed to take the twins back to the nursery.
Should I have known? I wonder that still.
It just seemed so incredible – when I finally heard the facts of the matter, that morning after Master Winston finished school, I couldn’t believe it at first. Nobody ever discusses blood, of course – it’s rude – but everyone knows how it is. Mr. Thesius Pierce at that time was living in the Heir’s House (as they call it) and my Mr. Pierce was his only child – one simply doesn’t think of someone like that marrying someone far enough from the same caste for the likes of that Dolores woman to dare make barbed comments right to her face.
It did make sense, of course, after I thought about it. I’d always wondered at why Mrs. Pierce – despite her devotion to Mr. Pierce and the children – seemed barely cordial with her own family; at the general implications that she and Mr. Pierce had been in love before they married; even at the oddities of what I could puzzle out of how she handled money. Afterward, too, I began to recall other incidents, her preoccupations and superstitions, the odd comments she would come out with at times about the children and their futures….
“Come along, Maeve!” exclaimed Mrs. Pierce, walking half-backwards so she could look back at Maeve, who thought she might actually die before they got back to the house. “You’d think you were the one coming off three months of not using your legs!”
Maeve scowled involuntarily before she caught herself, and then was in the odd position of being relieved to see that someone was clearly laughing at her. Mrs. Pierce’s mouth always smiled, but her eyes were dancing too with amusement beneath the brim of her broad sun hat.
“I’m…fine,” Maeve managed, wiping her forehead with her sleeve for lack of better options.
“If this is fine, you’ll be marvellous on the way back up,” said Mrs. Pierce lightly. Maeve scowled again, now at her mistress’ back, as the other woman had turned to more properly control the baby stroller. “We’ll stop for a moment.”
Maeve thought she ought to protest, in the interest of getting out of the heat sooner, but also wasn’t entirely sure how up she was to taking her own suggestion. Instead, she went over to the stroller herself, bending down and looking under the sunshade to touch each baby’s forehead, checking that they were not overheated. Mrs. Pierce was rummaging in the baby bag for some reason; the reason became apparent when she straightened up and tossed a bottle of water to Maeve.
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said, fumbling to get a good grip on the bottle so she could twist the cap off and partake of the blessed relief within.
Mrs. Pierce (Maeve no longer quite recalled when she had stopped being ‘Miss Kelleher’, but she knew when Mrs. Pierce would stop being Mrs. Pierce: likely never) had a bottle in her hand too, but seemed more interested in looking around at the woods and paths around them.
“Go that way,” she said softly, looking in one direction, “and in a moment, you’ll be at Malcolm’s. That one – “ she pointed another – “and you’re on your way to Marcus. And of course, up there – “ she looked back toward the direction from which they’d come – “is my house, and the Heir’s House beyond it. And the Original House, I suppose, if you want to go a little further.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Maeve, a little confused why Mrs. Pierce was describing the geography of her own family property.
“Things happen at places where three roads meet,” said Mrs. Pierce. “Do you know your Sophocles, Maeve?”
Maeve shook her head, and thought she would have flushed, had all her blood not been in her face already. “I don’t think so, ma’am.”
“The thing that never made sense to me in Oedipus Tyrannus was how Jocasta told the story of King Laius’ death. Why didn’t she just say that Laius was killed by robbers instead of his son? Why did she add that they killed him where three roads meet? Except, of course, that it was what needed to happen in the play.”
“I suppose that’s enough for people who write plays, ma’am,” said Maeve, and Mrs. Pierce’s dark eyes darted sideways toward her for a moment, gleaming with amusement.
“You think of a crossroads as a place where a decision’s taken,” she continued as though the interruption had naturally led her to it, “but we only hear about the crossroads after the fact, after Oedipus has already killed his father. The oracle at Delphi never said that there was a way to avoid that, or that it would be due to any desire of Oedipus’ – just that it would happen. They were all completely helpless – and a whole city was struck by plague because of a sin they had no choice but to commit, really, with the way Jocasta was promised to the man who killed the sphinx.” Mrs. Pierce half-smiled, apparently blackly amused by the irony of whatever thought she was having. “I read once that a Greek had as much of a duty to harm his enemy as he did to help his friend, but I can’t see how that could be true. If it were, he’d have raised armies against his gods.” She glanced around suddenly. “Though I perhaps shouldn’t say that here,” she added wryly. “They also said witches should sacrifice to Hecate at crossroads.”
“I suppose people have a right to their religions, ma’am,” said Maeve, at a bit of a loss.
“That’s true,” said Mrs. Pierce amiably. “I don’t have any myself, to tell you the truth – or anything as far as ties go. It’s why you see so few really great American wizards, you know. There are things…you need ties. And even the oldest of the European wizarding families here have only been here a couple of hundred years. The Pierces are smart, though, as far as it goes, to stay here in one place – I think Mr. Pierce told me once that it belonged to One’s wife’s family, too, before One married her, so that’s even further back…maybe one day.”
She seemed slightly gloomy, then, so Maeve said, “I’m sure the young masters will be exceptional wizards, ma’am,” and was pleased when Mrs. Pierce’s smile snapped back into place after she heard this remark.
“It’s certainly the standard I’ll hold them to,” she said. “I like to think I’m more than usually talented myself.”
Modesty, certainly, is rarely counted among Mrs. Pierce’s virtues, unless you mean in the sense of not wearing her skirts very high or her necklines very low. In that sense, she is quite modest. In the other…if pride goeth before a fall, she may be on her way to an even worse one than the one she had after Nicholas’ second escape from the nursery.
Still – for three years, we were all, I think, as happy as any household has a right to be. The children had their share of the usual childhood illnesses, of course, and sometimes passed them back and forth until I thought we might all go to dust before they were past ‘em, and they had their bouts of bad behavior, but on the whole they flourished. Perhaps they talked a little later than they might have – it seemed they could understand each other before any of us could make heads or tails of anything they said – but Mrs. Pierce never became excessively anxious after consulting the Books, and that was good enough for the rest of us.
It often seemed to be Mrs. Pierce who set the mood of the household, in retrospect. When she was in good spirits, it was as if the whole place was bathed in sunshine; when she was not, I fancied even the boys picked up on it. In those years, though, the weather was good far more often than not. She was generous almost to a fault with me, at least: by the time the twins could walk and talk, I did know my Sophocles, and also that some of what I had assumed were fripperies of hers actually served purposes: the silk scarves she wrapped her hair in at night, for instance, was to protect it from pulling out in the night. I found this out when she gave me one of my own for Christmas. And all those little bottles on her dressing table, the ones ordered from Japan and Hungary – baffling though those still are to me, they are apparently procured and used because those are the best things which, combined just so, she found to preserve her complexion, keep it free of blemishes and wrinkles alike. I know about the structure of banks now, and have advice about what to do with such money as I have – all without having to interact with the goblins myself much, as she knows I have never been comfortable with them, and cannot fathom how she seems more comfortable with Rancart (her main contact at the bank) than with the women who are her peers….
It was, I think, just about the time Mrs. Pierce turned thirty that things began to change, though I didn’t notice it clearly at the time – only that she became even more unnaturally busy than usual. She had always been involved with any committee or society in Society, capital-S, that would have her (this was her own phrase; at the time, I thought it peculiar; why wouldn’t they have her?), but that became far more intense, along with everything else – her exercises, the gymnastics, the interest in her appearance, the interest in the children, her work…I don’t know when she slept. I don’t think she did sleep enough, because often enough I would hear something from the children’s bedroom and find their mother in there, just watching them as they slept.
I heard that other people noticed her busyness too, outside the household, and mostly found it amusing – thought it was about her turning thirty – but they didn’t live with us.
There’s very little I’ll ever be able to control – I remember Ma telling me that, about taking care of other people’s children, and it’s true. I can’t help but love these children, but I can only do so much for them. I cannot protect them from all the sharks and snakes that call themselves a society. I cannot take their mother by the shoulders and shake her and tell her that while she perhaps cannot help her personality, she still must remember that she has two little children who need her, and she must not do reckless wild thoughtless things like whatever she did after that trip to Munich –
Or perhaps reckless isn’t the right word, if there even is a single word. I’ve tried for five years to understand that woman’s character – why she goes to the trouble of ordering all those little bottles from Japan and Hungary for her skin and hair, and insists her infant sons have more books than most children who could read for themselves, but only buys clothes when she cannot find any way out of it. Why no matter how much she reads, how many languages she learns, it never seems to be enough. Why she seems to actively dislike half the things she is involved in, or at least the other people involved in them, and yet always tries to force one more thing into her schedule.
At one time, I thought it was all vanity, especially when she would drag me along on those long walks up and down the mountain to help her get her figure back after the twins were born. After all these years, I think it is something else: a compulsive pursuit of physical and mental excellence. It is embarrassing, though, to think that it could all be for something as far beneath her as trying to obscure the things I heard her say to Mr. Pierce that June:
“If you’re thinking about saying that I’m a stupid half-blood et cetera et cetera…” and then, later, with one of those sudden shifts which can make dealing with her so dizzying: “I’m sorry I let you down.”
16
Maeve Kelleher
It Was A Long, Calm Interlude (3/4)
0
Maeve Kelleher
0
7
Maeve Kelleher
September 16, 2020 6:50 PM
It Was The Conclusion Of The Story, Finally (4/4) by Maeve Kelleher
Perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed the shift so soon, if I hadn’t overheard what Mr. and Mrs. Pierce said to each other that morning, but I think noticing eventually was inevitable. My job didn’t change, of course, and most of the routines surrounding me in the household didn’t change, but Mrs. Pierce did.It began slowly. She perhaps spent more time holed up in the basement, or sitting in silence in the nursery very early in the morning, but most of the time – at first – she continued with her routines just as the twins and I continued with ours. She helped me give the twins their breakfast most mornings. Morning meetings, if she had them, exercise or working with her orchids otherwise. Teas and luncheons, either as hostess or guest, evening parties from time to time. Even her meticulous skincare and haircare rituals continued unabated. But suddenly, all of her sparkle was gone, replaced with a sort of hard, focused glitter of determination.
I think the children sensed it too. It seemed to make them anxious, at times – fussy, disagreeable. When she first started taking trips away from home, Nicholas on a few occasions tried to scream himself sick when she didn’t appear for her usual visits, or when it was time for the twins’ bedtime stories, even though it was not as if obligations had never kept her away before. She grew irritable with them more easily, too, as she grew more focused on whatever it was she was working on – but she still did like to have them with her. I was uneasy with it, though, at least after I began to suspect she was somehow using them as pawns in whatever game she was playing….
The air was so full of steam (smelling vaguely of lemon, with a trace of lavender, though it was difficult to tell against the singing heat of the steam in one’s nostrils) that it was hard for Maeve to see as she waved her wand, lifting the children’s sheets out of the cauldron in which they had been washing themselves. Another flick made them wring themselves out, and a flowing movement sent them over to the long, wide frames which they spread themselves over to dry. Once they were settled, the frames began to walk toward the back door of the kitchen, out to allow the sun to speed up the drying process.
“Keep an eye on the sheets for me, Diney?” she called, casting another charm to dispel the steam before she Vanished the wash water.
The walls of the alcove off the kitchen in which the washing was done still looked faintly damp, she thought, but it would do them no harm. Her hair was another matter; even without a mirror, she could tell it was a frizzy disaster now. Admittedly, past experience with laundry days did inform her certainty. Still, there was no time to deal with it beyond twisting the worst of it back behind her ears; she had to get the twins’ lunch finished and out to them. Perhaps they were old enough to tolerate such changes to their routines as eating outside today, but Maeve could not imagine that anything good could come of feeding them later than they expected to be fed.
Mrs. Pierce had had them with her in the greenhouse while Maeve washed, but was supposed to have been ready for a picnic by the roses by lunchtime. The roses, however, showed no signs of having anyone near them, so she went on to the greenhouse, wondering if perhaps the children had taken a fancy to stay there for some reason, and wondering why they’d done that if it was the case. Mrs. Pierce really did not like having them around her collectible plants very much, as they could be somewhat destructive, and Nicholas was afraid of some of the orchids besides.
The answer to her wondering became apparent as soon as she found them in the Mediterranean room, but it did not decrease the amount of wondering she did, as it was a very surprising answer: they had a novel playmate. Or at least, conversation partner.
Mrs. Pierce was hovering, but for once, Maeve was not entirely sure she blamed the woman for seeming unsure of the wisdom of allowing the children to interact with the wider world. The person they were speaking with was an unfamiliar man, perhaps fifty, and a single glance at his shoes was enough to confirm that he was Not Their Sort Of People. In fact, everything about him seemed resolutely normal, as alien to this place as some of Mrs. Pierce’s orchids looked to Planet Earth.
Mrs. Pierce glanced up at Maeve’s entrance and clapped her hands at once. “Boys, you’ve kept Mr. Jacob too long,” she said. “It’s time for lunch now, and to say good-bye. Go outside with Maeve, go on now.”
The man smiled kindly at the children. “It was very nice to meet you two,” he said, and Maeve was struck by the note of sadness underpinning the pleasant child-speak tone – though not as strongly as she was when he stood up, and she got a good look at his face.
“I’ll be right with you,” said Mrs. Pierce, waving her out. Her tone changed as Maeve led the children back out, as she spoke to the man. “Well. There you are, what you wanted – “
Maeve did not hear the rest of the exchange, and did not see the strange wizard leave; Mrs. Pierce must have allowed him to disapparate from the greenhouse, as she was alone when she swept out of the greenhouse a few minutes later to join them, looking annoyed. “Who was that, ma’am?” asked Maeve, though she had more than a suspicion.
Mrs. Pierce smiled smoothly. “Just a workman,” she said. “From the company, helping me with an issue with the lighting systems.”
“Oh,” said Maeve, assuming that Mrs. Pierce thought Maeve hadn’t seen the man’s face for that one moment, or noted that he and the woman who had just lied to her had exactly the same the eyes.
Of course, I could have been wrong. It’s possible that that man was simply some Douglas Construction employee, that it was merely a coincidence, that he had exactly the same coloring as Mrs. Pierce – that he was not, in fact, Mr. Bauer, her father. But I do not think I was.
It had, of course, occurred to me that it was odd, that she never, ever mentioned her real father. I knew her mother, Mrs. Douglas, and her stepfather, Mr. Douglas, and her half-brother, the other Mr. Douglas – but Mr. Bauer was not someone who was ever discussed. I had assumed he had died, perhaps when Mrs. Pierce was very young, and that this was why anyone who did not know about Miss Rachel and Miss Kate might have assumed that the elder Mr. Douglas was Mrs. Pierce’s father, until she actually called him Jeremy in front of that someone. I am not sure other reasons occurred to me, though, despite what I had found out, until I actually saw him that day.
It frightened me. Not because of him – he seemed to have been very pleasant to the children, and had not, after all, ever launched any attack against his daughter or son-in-law, which he might have, it seemed, easily done – but because of her. What was she playing at, I wondered? Why, after four years of never acknowledging his existence, had she seemingly chosen now to introduce her children to their grandfather, all without telling them he was their grandfather?
Some people might think it could have been simple sentiment, a shift in her hormonal state as she aged. I know better. Mrs. Pierce rarely does anything without a reason, and I would have known that even if I hadn’t heard her talking about what he wanted – as though they had made some kind of bargain. What could such a person have to offer that Mrs. Pierce would want? I understood, I suppose, when she started seeing more of her young cousin Amelia (such a name, Amelia – doesn’t everyone have a cousin Amelia somewhere?) and her uncle Geoffrey – the potions master and apothecary, and his apprentice. They had something to offer, and I think she hopes to purloin Miss Amelia to establish a closer connection between herself and the Misses Ann, through their boarding house. She had, though, at least received Miss Amelia once a year before that, with their grandparents. What could she possibly have wanted from Mr. Bauer, a man she had so thoroughly turned out of her life at some time before I entered her employment that I had never realized in four years that he existed?
I still don’t know, but I have my suspicions, in hindsight. It was after that that Mrs. Pierce’s interests seemed to become more focused. She had never, to my knowledge, had much interest in Germany before, but suddenly she was reading histories, trying to teach herself German, slowly going through untranslated works of theory from the territories of the former German empire with a dictionary. She went to Berlin first, I think, and then to Munich for the first time later last year, then twice more in quick succession, before that last trip, this past April….
She had her doubts about the propriety of it – there were so many rules of propriety in the society to which her employers belonged that Maeve did not believe it was truly possible for anyone to really learn them all, much less remember them all and apply them all at all times – but on clear nights, Maeve liked to leave the shades rolled up away from the windows in the nursery for as long as possible, so she could see the stars. There were, she thought, some advantages to this rural living besides all the benefits that fresh air was supposed to convey upon one’s health, and one of them was the sky. Growing up in Baltimore, in close quarters with her parents and eight siblings, Maeve had never really understood what all the fuss about stars was until she had come to live on Mt. Pierce.
Sitting by the window, gazing out at the view while the children played some game of their own invention with their toys, she felt almost perfectly content. There were times when she liked to pretend that there was no Mrs. Pierce – that this house was hers, and these children were hers, and that there was never going to be a day when these children outgrew her so thoroughly that she’d have to leave them forever – but at the moment, she was too much at peace with Maeve Kelleher to wish herself anything else. She had a good position now, after all, with kind employers and generally a very good pair of children to look after. Since no-one was guaranteed a tomorrow, it would be nothing short of foolishness to wish herself out of existence because of something which might not happen for another four or five years.
A rush of footsteps from the corridor was all the warning she got; almost as soon as she realized what the noise was, the door burst open, admitting a tall form wrapped in a traveling cloak. It was one of the children who recognized the intruder first, with a squeal of delight: “Mama!”
“Hi!” Mrs. Pierce dropped to her knees, extending her arms to allow the twins to crash into her. As they did, the hood of her cloak fell back, revealing her face, though Maeve would only notice it a moment later, once she got past the shock of seeing the state of her mistress’ hair.
Mrs. Pierce took almost as much care of her hair as she did her children. She was proud of it, almost oddly so, even considering that it was very beautiful. She might have adjusted points of her skincare here and there over the almost five years Maeve had known her, but she had had the same hairdresser for all that time, and was so attached that Maeve wouldn’t have been surprised if the twins had thought the hairdresser was kin. When she had had the twins, one of the first things Mrs. Pierce had wanted to do after delivering them had been to wash her hair. Even when she was doing gymnastics, it was exceptionally rare to find her with her hair anything other than sleek and shining.
Now, though, it was neither of those things. She seemed to have braided it back at some point – a sensible decision for traveling – but she appeared to have fallen through five or six trees since, with loose locks sticking out strangely and clinging to her face and neck. Noticing those, Maeve was startled again to notice scratches along them, contrasting sharply with the rest of her skin.
Nicholas noticed, too, putting one of his little hands on his mother’s cheek. “you got boo-boo,” he said.
Mrs. Pierce smiled. Her eyes were brilliant, glittering with a sort of wild joy which was not at all reassuring to see. “Just a little one, precious,” she said, kissing him, and then Alexander. “How are my poor boys? Mama missed you so much!”
She couldn’t seem to stay still; she was brimming over with energy, despite the late hour and what seemed to have been a rough journey. In no time, the twins were roused into a similar state of animation. Maeve made several attempts to intervene, but somehow, by the time it was time for bedtime stories, Mrs. Pierce was chasing the shrieking children around with a pillow, until she lost her footing and had to use her improvised weapon to break her fall.
“Oh,” she gasped, turning over, breathless and still half-laughing. “It’s so late already? I’m sorry – so glad to see them – but sorry I’ve got them so stirred up – “
It took me an eternity, that night, to get them settled down and off to sleep. I remembered I was so irritated with her; all well and good, I thought, for the lady of the house to swoop in and throw the children off their bedtime routine, with not a thought for those who could not have a lie-in the morning after it. Before I went to bed, I had already begun to think that I had been somewhat unfair – perhaps her work was different, dealing with real estate and finance and construction and her spell constructions besides the social things, but it would be hard to say that she didn’t work as hard as I, and I had rarely ever known her to lie in, or ever disrespect the children’s routines that way before. It was only much later, though, that I had the thought that perhaps she had done it deliberately – perhaps she had meant for the rest of us to lie in, to give her to the house more completely that morning….
Outside the door, Maeve hesitated for one last moment, wondering if she was really sure that she wanted to do this, and then squared her shoulders and knocked.
It was too much, she thought. She had to say something. It was not her place to correct Mrs. Pierce’s behavior, but it was her job to look after Alexander and Nicholas’ best interests. She needed to say something.
But there was no answer at the door.
She knocked again, and still got not response. Maeve frowned, wondering if Mrs. Pierce was lying in, rather than being present for their morning meeting. She opened the door cautiously, then froze when she saw Mrs. Pierce sitting there after all. “Ma’am?” she said, puzzled, and then confused, and then apprehensive.
Mrs. Pierce sat completely rigid, every muscle seemingly tense, the veins in her neck standing out grotesquely. A piece of old parchment was clutched in her hand, crumpled in a death grip. Her face was a study in contractions: her lips were drawn back from her teeth in what might have been a snarl or a grimace of pain or both, but her dark eyes, almost black against her colorless skin, were alight again with what looked like wonder.
“Mrs. Pierce?” said Maeve.
Mrs. Pierce did not so much as twitch in response, only continued to stare raptly into space. Maeve repeated her name again, more urgently, but still got no response. Rapidly moving toward alarm, Maeve turned back to the door, thinking to try to find Mr. Pierce. Her hand on the knob, she said, “Ma’am, I’m going – “ but broke off as Mrs. Pierce finally made a sound: “Oh.”
Maeve paused. The ‘oh’ did not sound surprised, or like an exclamation of anything. She sounded almost pleasantly surprised. “Mrs. Pierce?” Maeve repeated yet again.
Mrs. Pierce had begun to tremble visibly. Her voice, though, when she spoke again, was bizarrely, unsettlingly calm. “Oh,” she repeated. Her brows drew together slightly, her mouth relaxing slightly. “Yes. I see it now.”
“Ma’am? I don’t – “
Before she could finish that sentence, though, Mrs. Pierce jerked forward, as though to stand – and then collapsed to the floor with a crash, totally uncontrolled, beginning to spasm, her arms and legs jerking at random.
A seizure, it seemed. No real explanation, a freak occurrence, something that would most likely never happen again. A little rest and all would be well.
Later, she asked for me. It was strange and uncomfortable, being in her bedroom; I remember mostly only thinking how unnaturally small she looked, compared to usual, propped up on pillows – and noticing that someone had taken the time to wrap her hair up for her, if she had not done it herself, so that it would not pull on the pillows.
“They tell me you may have kept me from biting off my own tongue,” she observed. “I suppose it was a good decision, hiring someone with medical training.”
I had studied to be a mediwitch for two years before money got too tight to continue on, along with Ma finally deciding to retire. “I’m glad I could help you in any way, ma’am.”
“You didn't have to, you know.”
“Ma’am?”
“You’d be in an interesting position if I were out of the way,” said Mrs. Pierce. “There are those who would have tried to finish me off, would have thought they’d have a chance at snagging Thad, when they’re already so close to the children.”
It took me a moment to realize what she meant – not because she was unclear, but because she always called her husband “Mr. Pierce” when speaking to anyone other than other society people, even if he was in the room and she called him by name in the next sentence. “Those wouldn’t be very good people, ma’am,” I said.
I thought she smiled, a bit. “What do you think happened this morning?” she asked.
“They tell me you had a seizure, ma’am. Probably from stress, or too much traveling.”
“I didn’t ask you what they told you.”
And so I told her the truth: I thought she had been looking for something in Germany. I thought she had found it, and I thought she had tried it out that morning, and I thought something had gone wrong. She merely looked at me, mildly interested, the whole while I was talking, and then she nodded to herself.
“You’re a smart woman,” she said. “And loyal. That’s a good combination.”
She cancelled all her appointments for three days after that (I heard later that there were rumors she’d been poisoned), and then, strangely, she seemed to metamorphosize yet again. She seemed lighter, somehow, more at ease with herself; she reassumed her ridiculous workload, but seemed less stressed by it. She seemed delighted by her children again, and somehow began to read even more.
It must have been a spell, whatever she did that day. I wish I knew what it was meant to do, and if it did go wrong, and if it has anything to do with this great improvement. I cannot ask, or even guess; I found that out back in September, after that strange incident with the applesauce. Later that evening, I slipped into the kitchen, found the book she had had out still there, and charmed myself a copy of the page I recalled seeing, and the next time her book dealer came by, I made it my business to corner him before he could leave, and ask him if he knew what in the world it was I had.
He looked at it and frowned. “Interesting,” he said. “I can’t read it, but the lettering – medieval, but it’s strange…medieval Hebrew perhaps?” He shook his head. “De quoi vous mêlez-vous, Alix?”
I assume that last part was something he wanted to ask Mrs. Pierce, as I couldn’t understand a word of it. “Unless you can read it, Miss?” he asked me, seeming to remember I was there, raising his white eyebrows.
“No,” said I. “Just something I found. I thought a scholar such as you might know what it was.”
“Have you asked your mistress?” he asked shrewdly, and laughed at whatever silly look I had on my face.
I put it out of my mind until tonight, when she was behaving so peculiarly….
Maeve put down her quill, looking over the things she had written down. She had been surprised to recall some of the things as she’d gone through the past five years in her mind. Or rather, mostly the first year, and the last.
She’d need to burn the pages, she thought, when she had a chance. There was, after all, no real use for her reflections here, not unless she planned to leave the children, and she did not plan to do that, at least so long as she had the choice. Whatever happened, she supposed she’d had her chance to change it, as Mrs. Pierce had pointed out, and since she hadn’t, she didn’t see any choice but to try her best to trust the woman, and to forget what there was no use in remembering - and to get some sleep, before it was time to go back to work.
16
Maeve Kelleher
It Was The Conclusion Of The Story, Finally (4/4)
0
Maeve Kelleher
0
7