Chapter 2 #2
Mr. Sanders, in his blue-and-white striped swimming suit, follows closely behind. “Ah, there you are, Koa. Perfect timing. Shimmelfen here is just on his way out,” Mr. Sanders says pleasantly, though there is iron beneath his words. “Permanently. See him to the ferry for me, will you?”
The society sheets often refer to Mr. Sanders, a smallish man with a big personality, as “the handsome widower,” remarking on his steely gaze, full lips, and silvery blond hair.
They aren’t privy to his quirks, like that he often wears his swimsuit around the house in preparation for his daily dip, or that he can cycle from jovial to angry in the blink of an eye.
Koa slides from Goliath and clamps Shimmelfen’s arm, steadying and warning at once. “Shall we?”
Shimmelfen’s tongue flicks, his face swelling in indignation like a popover beneath his stiff collar. “But you misunderstand, sir! I was simply borrowing the funds for a good cause. I was planning to pay it all back.”
Mr. Sanders plants his fists into his hips. “I don’t give loans. Gambling ruins lives. Ruin your own if you must, but don’t take anyone else with you.”
“But I haven’t packed my things! I haven’t got any money!”
“We’ll send your atrocious knife collection to your mother’s house, though it’s more than you deserve.” Mr. Sanders notices me dismounting from Oh-Lolly. “Oh, hello, Lucy. Don’t I treat my employees well here?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply quietly, hoping to slip away as fast as possible.
Shimmelfen glares at me. I’ve never much liked the man, who has always used flattery and his good looks to his advantage. And he has a temper. He once threw a stool after losing an exotic pocketknife in a game of eights.
“Good food, premium living quarters, reasonable hours, not to mention twice the going wages for all the staff. Generous, am I not?” Mr. Sanders is still talking to me.
“Yes, you are generous, sir.” I begin to sweat, feeling that this double-edged sword may come back to stab me.
Several of the staff are peeking out the doorway behind Mr. Sanders.
“And do you think a man who has stolen five hundred dollars from such a generous employer can be trusted?” he continues.
I cough at the sum. All eyes swing to me, Shimmelfen’s gaze as heavy as a felled tree. Koa gives Shimmelfen’s arm a shake.
“Well, my dear?” says Mr. Sanders. “There is nothing to fear. Can Shimmelfen be trusted?”
I stare at Shimmelfen’s gleaming patent leather shoes, which will not travel well. “I suppose not, sir.”
“Take him away, Koa, before he misses the ferry,” orders Mr. Sanders, making a sweeping gesture at Shimmelfen. “And if I ever catch you stepping foot on Nowhere again, you will be laid out on the fish-drying racks for the vultures.”
“It isn’t right!” Shimmelfen cries as Koa hauls him away. “It isn’t fair! After all my years—”
His protests fade. The staff vanishes back inside and a groom takes away the horses, leaving Mr. Sanders and me alone. My benefactor glances at my satchel, his manner easy once again. “Draw some good pictures, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring them up after lunch. Nash is waiting.”
He ducks back through the doorway.
I pace the driveway, still rattled by Shimmelfen’s sudden ruin.
Though I have no love for Shimmelfen, my small role in his departure leaves a bad taste.
I can hardly tell Mr. Sanders of my plans now—not unless I want to join the valet on that ferry.
Then again, perhaps the sting of Shimmelfen’s crime will make my own betrayal feel more like a poke.
I round the house to the east servant’s door, stomach high in my throat. I duck into the staff meal hall. If I am thrown out, I should at least have a full belly.
The dismissal has already reached the meal hall. Six staff still linger at the long table. “You just never know about people,” grumbles our husky head footman, Yates. It is unclear if he is talking about Mr. Sanders or about Shimmelfen, with whom he and the butler regularly played pinochle.
“I’m sorry to see him go,” says Dora Flaherty, her lilt as stubborn as the curls springing from her tightly tied kerchief. The valet captured the attentions of many of the younger female staff, and Dora most of all. “And before the Gatheround, too.”
The footman waves a butter knife stuck with a small potato in my direction. “She was there. Mr. Sanders asked her whether Shimmelfen could be trusted.”
Dora’s green eyes fix on me, sharp as poison. My promotion forced her to do her share of the dirty work, and she still holds it against me. “Did he now? What did you say?”
“I said no,” I reply, annoyed again at Mr. Sanders for putting me in this position. “Would you trust someone who stole five hundred dollars?”
No one answers that.
Dora presses her finger to a crumb and brings it to her mouth. “Daddy cares so much about your opinion, doesn’t he now?”
The words press a sore spot. I’ve wondered if Mr. Sanders might be my father—but I don’t want her to know that.
“It’s almost like you threw a spell on him, so it is,” my nemesis continues, watching me carefully.
“Witchcraft,” snickers a trout-mouthed housemaid, and eyes travel to my loosened kerchief.
I fidget with it, a dead giveaway that they have gotten to me.
When I was growing up, kids said my mark meant something rotten had grown inside me, and they cut a wide path around me, like I was a mushroom that could be poisonous. I grew accustomed to hiding the mark to make everyone more comfortable.
Losing any appetite I might have had, I head for the exit. My head has begun to throb. Soon I will leave all this pettiness behind.
“I wouldn’t trust someone who nicked five hundred dollars from me,” says a small voice with the same accent as Dora’s. A fine-boned young woman with a freckled complexion floats a smile in my direction. Flossie replaced me in the kitchen after my promotion and has no love for Dora either.
I give her a grateful nod, then leave.
A too-plush carpet runner slows my progress up the servant staircase. This house does not allow you to hurry, even if you want to.
The room I share with Cookie, the head cook, is simply furnished, with sturdy beds—hers covered with a white-and-red Lummi blanket made of wool and fireweed fluff—and a shared armoire.
I peel off my scouting duds. In our small washroom I scrub my face and redo my braid, careful not to look at the mirror.
When I was a little girl, I told Cookie I had Lummi ancestry like her because of my golden skin and brown eyes.
Many on Orcas Island are of mixed ancestry, owing to unions between Indigenous women and white settlers.
But Cookie said my footsteps were too aimless to be Lummi, and, Stare in that mirror too long and it will swallow you. Maybe she was just cross that day.
I’ve had a whole lifetime to ponder who my parents are, why they left me here, and which one of them saddled me with this strange mark. But it is time to stop looking back and instead choose the direction I am headed.
Though I am tempted to put off telling Mr. Sanders of my plans for another day, I can’t. Birds that don’t fledge when the instinct calls them can never survive on their own. If I don’t jump now, I will be stuck in this conifer jungle forever.