The Passing Bells by Phillip Rock Read Free Book Online Page B

you wish, Mrs. Broome. Come along, Peterson.”
    The butler and the footman walked stiffly away and Ivy was alone with the housekeeper, who was now pointing down at the floor where the stack of linens were lying.
    â€œPick them up, Ivy.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” Ivy whispered. She had forgotten all about them. She bent quickly and gathered them into her arms.
    â€œWe do not toss clean sheets and pillowcases on the floor in this house, Ivy.”
    â€œI . . . I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just that . . . that . . .” Events had taken place so quickly that she could hardly sort them out in her mind. Dropping the sheets had been the only feasible thing to do at the time, but how could she make that clear to Mrs. Broome?
    â€œMrs. Dalrymple sent you to make a bed. Is that correct, Ivy?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œVery well, child, go and make it.”
    â€œYes, ma’am . . . right away, ma’am.”
    â€œAnd I wish to see you do it. I wish to make sure that you have not forgotten everything that you have been taught.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” Ivy’s face burned, and there was an awful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She walked down the hall with the housekeeper keeping a slow, measured pace behind her, like a turnkey in a prison.
    The bed that needed making was a large four-poster, and Ivy made it with painstaking care while Mrs. Broome stood silently watching. When the sheets had been stretched and smoothed and tucked in neatly, Ivy found blankets and a counterpane in a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She spread them on, tucking in the blankets and straightening the corners of the counterpane and fussing with the folds so that it hung evenly, then she stepped back and waited for whatever comments the housekeeper might have.
    â€œVery well done, Ivy.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am.”
    â€œYou were hired as an upstairs maid. I thought that I had made that clear. You were not hired as a lady’s maid, nor were you hired as a messenger.” Ivy opened her mouth as though to speak, and Mrs. Broome raised a hand in admonishment. “It would pain me greatly to give you notice. Your vicar has recommended many girls to us over the years, both at Abingdon Pryory and number fifty-seven Park Lane. The Reverend Mr. Clunes has always been a fine judge of character and I have never been disappointed with any girl he has sent us. Girls from Norfolk have always been level-headed, intelligent, scrupulously clean, and honest to the bone. I have never had a bit of trouble from one of them, but your shortcomings in the past half-hour have more than made up for so many years of perfection.”
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am, but you see—”
    â€œPlease do not interrupt me,” Mrs. Broome said sharply. “There is, apparently, something that you are not aware of yet, and that is place. Everyone has his or her place in life, Ivy. Your place, at least for the time being, is that of an upstairs maid at Abingdon Pryory. Velda Jessup’s place is that of a lady’s maid. Mr. Coatsworth’s place is that of a butler . . . mine is managing the household staff. What do you think would happen if none of us knew our place? Chaos, Ivy. An upside-down queer sort of world. Can you imagine Mr. Coatsworth making beds or shining boots? Can you imagine me being told to empty chamber pots . . . and complying with such a request? Can you imagine cook and her helpers mucking out the stables? The mind rebels at such thoughts, but that is what you did, Ivy. You neglected—no, ignored your place and assumed the place of Velda. You then assumed the place of heaven knows what and went racing through the house like a wild Indian. Mr. Coatsworth nearly had a stroke when he saw you leaping down the main stairs. He thought you must have had a fit and lost your mind.”
    â€œBut, Miss Alexandra