Discovering the Devil

T w e l v e

XII

THE Earl had said that there was a difference between having an invisible hand cleaning up after you and being the invisible hand cleaning up. Penelope had shrugged off this comment. Housekeepers delegate. How hard could that be?

It had turned out to be harder than she imagined.

It was early hours and late nights, constant strain and sweeping and scrubbing, always something to correct and always something to begin. Penelope thought the work might actually kill her the first two weeks. It almost did. After that, the weight settled in her bones. She would even say it agreed with her if not for one particular morning. Two maids came to her—one scullery and the other stillroom.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but we need you to settle a dispute," said one.

"What is it?" asked Penelope.

"The lavatory is clogged and the chambermaid is sick. The butler said one of us needs to clean it," said the other.

They both glared at each other. "It can't be me," one finally said. "I'm not a chamber maid, and anyway, as a scullery girl, she's the one who cleans."

"Not that sort of cleaning," sniped the other.

"Show me to the lavatory," Penelope said. It was the servant's toilet in the basement quarters. The stench of the lavatory melted through the cracks of the door, it was no wonder none of them wanted to touch it.

"The butler says that you should decide who cleans it," said the stillroom maid. "Though, it is important to be clear that if we're going in terms of rank—"

"—I do not rank as low as a chambermaid!" interjected the scullery girl, and the two began to bicker. Penelope looked sorrily at the toilet. If she was being spiteful, she would've told the two of them to clean it together but she had a feeling no work would get done.

"Get me a clothespin," Penelope ordered. They both rushed to fetch it, and returned with two. Penelope took the closest proffered hand and squeezed the clothespin over her nose. "And a bucket." It took one hour to fix the toilet, and another half hour to get the lavatory spotless. When she was finished, the maids still stood outside the door whispering. Curious eyes brushed over the room and looked at her in awe. "See? All done. Next time, don't bother me with something so trivial. Get it done yourselves."

"Ma'am," the girls said in unison.

The day did not get better. She had to resolve an argument between the cook and a kitchen maid. One of the stableboys was injured by Cerberus and had to be talked out of quitting. Penelope's bones wailed for rest, but she wasn't able to retire until midnight. In the shivering glow of a candle, the invisible hand examined their fingers. They were no longer smooth. In fact, her thumb had a callous.

***

"HOW is Miss Redwood getting on?" Harry asked his valet. He couldn't erase the vision of her tears in the kitchen from his mind. Since then, he'd wondered if she ever cried alone, and if so, how often. The possibility of her unhappiness ate at him.

"Quite well, Sir." Of course, his valet was referring to her performance and not her state of mind. However, the remark produced raised brows. Every time Harry posed the question, his valet said Miss Redwood was "doing her best"---a very polite way of saying her best wasn't good enough. For the first time, his housekeeper had earned a compliment.

"Really?"

"She's become efficient in handling the house, there were several matters that required attention yesterday, and she completed them with ease." His valet was smiling. Harry tried not to gape. Reginald never smiled. "She fixed a broken toilet, Sir."