Clean
Southampton
“The curtains need to be cleaned,” Mildred Westmoreland instructed as she walked through the parlor, Tessa and a new girl, Sarah, close behind her. “Take them all down, take them outside, and beat them until the dust is all gone. Do you understand?”
“Yes, madam,” Tessa replied with a nod.
“How do we get them down?” Sarah asked, but a sharp elbow from Tessa silenced her, and if Mrs. Westmoreland had heard, the question was ignored.
“This floor is never clean anymore. Sarah, if you must get down and scrub it, then do so,” the mistress of the house continued. “I’m tired of having ladies over for tea only to see them grimace at the floorboards.”
“Yes, madam,” Sarah answered, learning her lesson from the last time.
“When you are finished with that, come and check with me. I have a few other oddities that need to be attended to. I believe what’s-her-name….”
“Blanche,” Sarah offered.
“Yes, that’s it—Blanche—is still working upstairs. Please tell her to keep a better eye on her daughter. I don’t mind you two having your children stay here with you, but they must not run amuck! I wouldn’t allow my own daughter to do so, and I won’t allow yours either.”
“I believe Jessica is outside,” Sarah said, clearly a bit offended.
“Yes, madam,” Tessa stated, elbowing Sarah again.
“And where did you put the post?” Mildred asked scanning the room.
“Over here, on the desk,” Sarah stated as she walked over to where she’d placed the few envelopes earlier that day. “Except for the one that was marked for Miss Mary Margaret. I put that in her room.”
Though Mildred had snatched up the mail and was looking through it, at those last few words, she froze. Tessa gasped and took a step backward as Mildred turned to face the ruddy faced Sarah who was beginning to turn even more red. “You did what?” Mrs. Westmoreland asked.
But before Sarah could manage an answer, a voice from behind the mistress shouted out, “Who is Charles J. Ashton, Mother?” and she turned to find her daughter staring at her, a letter clutched in her fist.
“Mary Margaret,” Mildred turned to face her, taking a deep breath and attempting to calm herself. “That letter was not meant for you.”
“It is addressed to me,” Meg continued as she walked forward, “and by the language used, I’m assuming it is not the first such letter this American boy has sent me. Who is he, and why does he seem to think we have a future together?”
Meg was mad—clearly her mother and uncle had been keeping something from her, something important, and despite the possibility of finding herself stretched out on the floor again at her mother’s hand, she was not about to let this go. She stood defiant with the letter in front of her, hopeful the tone in her voice would let her mother know just how angry she was at this betrayal.
“I’m so sorry, madam,” Ms. Cunningham, Meg’s new governess of a few months, said as she scurried up next to the thirteen-year-old. “We took a break in our studies, and she found the letter. I didn’t know what it was until after she’d opened it….”
“Go back upstairs, Ms. Cunningham,” Mildred said sternly.
“Yes, madam,” the young lady replied, nodding and taking off as quickly as possible without running. “Sarah—go to your chambers as well. I shall talk to Mr. Westmoreland about this when he returns. This may mean removal for you, you incompetent fool!”
Sarah said nothing, only nodded and rushed off toward the back of the house and the servant’s stairwell. This left Tessa standing awkwardly behind her mistress, and with a jab in the direction of the kitchen with her pointer finger, Mildred sent her away also.
“I’m waiting, Mother,” Meg said, dropping the letter down by her side and attempting to regain her composure. This was the first time in her life she’d ever had the upper hand with her mother, and if she wasn’t careful, she was liable to have it turned back around on her.
“Mary Margaret, it’s nothing, really.” Mildred gestured toward the chairs across the room near the fireplace hearth, the one she’d had for years, and her uncle’s, which had replaced her father’s some time ago. “Let us sit down and have a discussion like two adult women.”
Meg couldn’t help but feel as if she were being baited, but she nodded and cautiously walked across the room, choosing to sit in her mother’s chair rather than her uncle’s. The thought of touching something so intimate to him made her shiver.
Mildred’s eyebrow arched at Meg’s choice but she said nothing about the chairs. “May I see the letter, please?” she asked with a forced smile.
While she had only read it twice and could make little sense of it, there was something about having the letter in her hand that made Meg feel powerful. It seemed like releasing that to her mother would also relinquish the strength she had accumulated these last few minutes. When her mother repeated the word, “please,” Meg extended the letter for her to take, though her fingers didn’t quite want to unclench it and it took her mother a bit of effort to get it free without tearing it.
Mildred looked the letter up and down just once before she handed it back to her daughter. “It’s a lovely letter, Mary Margaret. From a nice boy. From a nice family.”
“Who is he?” Meg asked, her teeth grinding in frustration.
“Surely you’ve heard of John Ashton?” Mildred asked, her expression one of boredom. “He’s a millionaire who lives in New York City. Charles is his son.”
Meg wasn’t sure if she’d ever heard of John Ashton or not. She tried to stay out of the society papers, which also meant never reading them. Occasionally, one of her friends would make mention of something she read in one of them over tea or at a get-together, but Meg was never interested in what other people thought about her and knew most of what those types of people had to say was frivolous and of little consequence. “Why is Charles Ashton writing me, Mother?”
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