Thedra

I leave the chandelier gleaming in the early morning light and carry the heavy ladder back to the storage shed before heading to breakfast. I’m one of the few people up and the head cook Mrs. Agate, who’s always been fond of me in her own gruff way, lets me have a double helping of apple porridge and sausage links. I eat hungrily as I was forced to miss dinner last night as punishment for a stain Evelyn found in the carpet upstairs. Of course it had nothing to do with me, but who would I complain to? No one in this house is really on my side. I suppose I might talk to Mrs. Agate about it, but she always seems so busy. Besides, she’s not exactly the type one would confide in.

I eat on my own in a quiet corner of the kitchen while more and more servants filter in with sleepy expressions. No one talks to me or looks at me except to smirk or murmur a sarcastic, “Good morning, m’lady.” I hunch a little and keep my head down, hurriedly finishing the last of my breakfast. I’m carrying my bowl to the sink when Evelyn stops me.

“Is that chandelier clean?”

“Sparkling, Ma’am.”

“I’d better not find even a single speck of dust on it.”

“You won’t,” I say, confident in my work.

“Hmph,” Evelyn scowls down at me. She is a tall woman in her fifties, taller than half the men I know, with broad shoulders and mean little green eyes. As she glares at me, doubtless contemplating the next miserable chore she will assign to me, I wonder what I ever did to get on her bad side. The way she treats me, sometimes I think she wants me to quit. Maybe Mother put her up to it, I think a bit cynically.

“Then, if you’re finished with the chandelier, I want you to change all the drapes on the first floor.”

I blink at her a moment, confused. “But I just changed them yesterday, Ma’am.”

“You put the wrong ones up,” she accuses. “You changed them to the green drapes when I specifically asked for the gold.”

She did not. I remember confirming deliberately that she wanted the green curtains, thinking they did not match the rest of the autumn décor, and she struck my calf with her awful cane for my insolence. I could remind her of all of this, but what’s the point? She’d only hit me again if I did.

Lowering my head, I murmur, “Yes, Ma’am,” and hurry away.

“And remember,” she calls after me, “Master Bentham is set to arrive by noon today, so have the job finished by then and be prepared to greet him properly.”

Who could forget the master is coming? It’s all anyone has talked about in the month since I came to work here, and I’ve been reminded of his imminent arrival no less than fifty times in the last week.

The rumors about him are abundant, though few of the staff have ever seen him. They say he is ugly, that his face was disfigured in a knife fight. Some say the scars have made him a cruel man, a veritable ogre; others say he is quiet and shy, and prefers his books to dealing with people. Most agree he is a war hero, and certainly they all affirm he is very rich. How else could he afford a place so grand as the old Van Horn estate? Rather, I suppose it’s the Bentham estate now.

With a sigh I go to collect the ladder again. Since I did it only the day before, I know changing out all the curtains on the first floor is no small task. And it doesn’t help that my arms are aching from the chore yesterday, and from polishing the chandelier this morning.

Ignoring the pain I work with stoic efficiency, balancing heavy curtain rods and heaps of fabric atop a precarious ladder. Before I realize it I’m halfway though my task, and half the morning is gone. I’m just starting to change the curtains in the entryway when I hear a knock at the front door. Looking around, I see no one is here to answer it. I wait a few seconds, and the knock sounds again. With a heavy sigh, I descend from the ladder to open the front door.

A young man stands on the threshold with a covered cart behind him pulled by a tired looking horse. He smiles brightly at me, cap in hand. “Good morning, Miss. I’m a traveling merchant selling wine and preserves. Would the master of the house be interested in making a purchase?”

“The master is not here, but if you’d like to deal with the head cook you can go around to the back door.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

He turns to go and I shut the door, turning myself only to come face to face with Evelyn. “How dare you?”

Before I can respond, she strikes me across the face. I hold my cheek, stunned.

“How dare you presume to open the front door?”

“I’m sorry,” I answer in a bewildered voice. “No one was here, I thought it was my job.”

“The task of knowing when to open the front door will fall to servants more clever than you, you sheltered little princess. You’re too ignorant— what if he’d been a thief? You would have let him walk right in!”

“The door wasn’t even locked, if he were a thief—”

“Don’t talk back to me!” Evelyn strikes me again. I taste blood. I look up at her, biting my tongue deliberately so I don’t say something I’ll regret. “Don’t look at me with those defiant eyes! Lower your gaze this instant!” she demands. I obey.

“Don’t ever presume to look your betters in the eye. If I catch you looking up for anything, I’ll have you horsewhipped.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Now get back to work!”

I do as I’m told, though my eyes are blinded with tears. I can’t understand her accusations. I am not defiant— I never have been, though I begin to wish I were. Then maybe my life wouldn’t be this pathetic. But it’s not in my nature to go against authority. It’s just not…

And so when the master arrives and we’re called to line up and greet him, I keep my gaze cast down to the floor just as Evelyn instructed. I will not look up, no matter what, nor will I give her one single reason to be displeased with me. I will be the perfect servant, and pray that will be enough to win her favor, so that my days here might be a little less miserable.

“Good afternoon,” the master’s voice is deep and faintly distorted, as though he speaks out of only one side of his face. All around me I hear little gasps, but I do not look up to gawk with the rest of them. I keep my gaze fixed on the carpet, disinterested in anything but preserving my own hide.

“I am Roderick Bentham, master of this house. I value industry and integrity. If you demonstrate these qualities, you will find me a fair employer. If you prove yourself worthless in this respect, then I will have no further use for you. That is all.”

I do not look up when he passes me; not into his face, nor even after him to view his back. All I see of Roderick Bentham are the edges of his muddy leather boots as he tracks through the hall and disappears down the corridor.  

As soon as his door closes, the room erupts in excited whispers.

“Did you see his face?”

“What on earth happened to him?”

“Silence,” Evelyn’s order, though not shouted, is heard by all, and the servants fall into an eager sort of hush. “Mr. Bentham is your employer and you will treat him with the respect he is due, is that clear?”

I murmur, “Yes, Ma’am,” automatically with the rest of them.

“All of you, return to your duties,” she says, filing past us, only to stop when she reaches me and slap my calf with her cane.

“Thedra,” she indicates with the end of her cane to the master’s muddy tracks.

“Clean this up.”