THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Eight
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Eight
After the men had set off, the housekeeper and I were left alone. Mrs. Scott took one look at my hungry, jet-lagged, emotionally exhausted self and said, “Would you like some tea, love?”
“Uh, sure. I mean, thanks, that’d be great.” She motioned to a barstool in front of the island, and I seated myself while she set to work. I was expecting to get a mug of microwaved hot water and a selection of tea bags like they do at hotels, but instead she began by setting out a plate of little cookies and fruit. I was starved and immediately dug in while she poured water into a tall pitcher plugged into the wall socket. In a moment, it began to produce steam. She flipped a switch on the pitcher, poured the heated water into a large mug, added a teabag, and offered it to me with milk and sugar.
“I’m afraid the guest room hasn’t been used in some time.” Mrs. Scott said, unplugging the pitcher. “I’ll ring Mrs. Khumari to tidy up and bring some fresh linens.” She bustled over to a phone on the wall beside the back door and made a quick call, the receiver pressed against her gray curls.
The heat and the caffeine of this bold, dark brew—I looked for a tag on the teabag string but found none—had an almost magical, invigorating effect on my weary form. I found myself soon draining the cup dry, and observing me perk up, Mrs. Scott struck up a conversation. She asked where I was from, and told me she had lived in America for a year with her husband while he was in the British Army.
“Have you worked here a long time?” I asked.
“About twenty years. After my husband retired from the army, I came on with the Ratliffes as a housekeeper.”
“Does your husband work here too?”
“No, love, he passed on several years ago. His plot is at the memorial cemetery just down the hill,” she said, looking out the window.
“I’m sorry.”
She made a polite smile and turned away, smoothing her white cardigan. I wondered if she had done that to hide misty eyes, like my mom sometimes did. I never knew what to do at those times, except pretend nothing was wrong and let her have a moment to recover. I feigned fascination with the pattern on my napkin while taking another long sip of tea. A moment later, I heard a little knock at the kitchen door.
Mrs. Scott hurried over to open it. “Ah, there you are, Mrs. Khumari. Come in, come in.”
An Indian woman with tan skin and jet black hair, maybe in her fifties, stepped into the kitchen with arms full of towels and bundled-up sheets. “Thank you, Mrs. Scott,” she said, placing the linens on the counter. She turned to me with a wide, gap-toothed smile. “You must be the new tenant.”
“Yep, looks that way,” I said, trying to smile. I still felt totally awkward about this whole living situation. A housekeeper? A maid? How many people worked here? At least it was better than being all alone with Mr. Ratliffe. Shudder.
Mrs. Scott introduced us. “Lucy Steppenwolf, this is Mrs. Khumari.”
Mrs. Khumari said something in her lilting accent about how nice it was to have another young person in the house and then she excused herself to clean the bedroom.
“Meantime,” Mrs. Scott said, “I’ll give you a tour of the house. But first things first.” She went over to a small drawer by the door and withdrew a silver key. “You’ll need one of these. Do you have a ring for it?”
I shook my head. “I left all my keys in Chicago.”
“Let’s see then.” She rummaged around in the drawer again, then pulled out a scrap of blue ribbon. Tying it in a little loop around the key, she handed it to me. “There you are, love. An official key to Ratliffe House.” I could hear the pride in her tone and pushed the key deep into my pocket for safekeeping. I guessed getting to live here was a pretty big deal. Better not screw it up, Lucy.
After taking my plate and empty mug to the sink, Mrs. Scott led me around the first floor of the house. The kitchen, which seemed pretty new, was U-shaped with a tiny island and two barstools. A large open space extended from the cooking area and island to a little breakfast nook with a two-seat table on one end. The other end of the open space led to a glass sunroom that looked out on the back yard, or “garden” as she called it. Through the windows I could see that the grass was neatly trimmed, and the walls all around were covered with a thick hedge and large trees. At least it’s pretty. My eyes lingered on a small greenhouse on one side, and I wondered what was in there. I bookmarked it for exploring later as Mrs. Scott called my attention back to the house.
We made our way back through the kitchen to the hallway. Straight ahead, she said, was the front door. To the front right was the drawing room where I’d sat earlier—and the first door to Mr. Ratliffe’s office. “Mr. Ratliffe is very particular about privacy,” she added. “You can rest assured that he’ll never enter your room, but he’ll expect you to have the same respect for the office and his rooms upstairs.”
On our immediate right, the hallway that paralleled the center of the house led to the second door of Mr. Ratliffe’s office, a door to the upstairs suite, and a laundry room. On the left it led to the dining room’s double doors, a small bathroom, and finally, the little room that would be mine.
As we entered the guest room, Mrs. Khumari was just finishing making the bed—a full size with an old-fashioned iron frame and bedding a soft pink quilt with white sheets. A window on the right, where the floral curtains and the white sheers were pulled back, gave a picturesque view of the front garden and the lane. To the left of the bed sat a small nightstand with a lamp and, against the wall a simple cherrywood desk and chair were situated. There was no closet, but a tall wardrobe with an inset mirror and chest of drawers stood facing the bed.
“I am leaving some clean towels for you here on your desk. We can get you fresh ones whenever you ask,” Mrs. Khumari said, her chin bobbing lightly as she spoke. She gave a broad, toothy smile. “And I will leave some supplies so you can clean your room for yourself.”
I thanked her, and she informed Mrs. Scott she was heading back to the main house.
What main house? I wondered, but didn’t dare ask.
Mrs. Scott suggested I bring my bags in and get settled. “Dinner will be served in the dining room at six o’clock.” She paused a moment, and grey curls shook a little as she looked me over in the mirror. I followed her gaze and quickly saw what was wrong. My clothes were wrinkled, and dark circles had formed under my eyes. My hair looked shaggy and disheveled, no doubt from the effort of my work dragging my life in bags all the way from campus. “Why don’t you have a bit of a lie-down, Miss Steppenwolf?” she suggested.
I must’ve looked confused, because she quickly added, “A nap, love.”
“Oh, yeah. I think I will. Thanks for everything.”
“Of course,” she said and gently closed the door behind her.
I flopped down on the bed, intending to just rest my eyes for a few minutes. When I woke, Mrs. Scott was calling from the other side of the door. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and dragged myself over to answer.
“Feeling better, dear?” she asked.
“Um, yeah,” I said, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”
“Half past five. You’ve been asleep for nearly two hours.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I feeling alarmed. Great first impression, Lucy. Now they’ll all think you’re a lazy bum.
“Never mind, now,” Mrs. Scott said with a gentle smile. “Takes a few days to get over the jet lag, doesn’t it? Still, we’ll be serving up dinner in half an hour. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up a bit?”
I took the hint and gathered up some of the fresh towels Mrs. Khumari had left on the desk. After retrieving my suitcase and bag from where I’d left them by the front door, I went digging for my bathrobe and some fresh clothes. I took a quick shower and washed my hair, wishing I’d thought to get a haircut before I left. I tried to curl my bangs with a barrel brush so they wouldn’t hang in my eyes so much, but the steam in the bathroom left them limp. Giving up, I pulled them aside with a couple of bobby pins and dressed for dinner.
A warm aroma of meat and vegetables beckoned from the kitchen. I followed my nose, stomach growling, and when I entered, I could see a short woman with narrow shoulders and light brown hair in fluffy waves leaning over a roast chicken, sawing into it with a large carving knife. She lifted a chicken quarter onto a plate and noticed me standing in the doorway.
“’Ad to ’ave a Cap’n Cook, did yuh? ’Ad to make sure it uz safe t’eat?” she asked with a little grin.
Uh, what? I froze and looked around helplessly, and spied Mrs. Scott emerging from the dining room behind me.
“All freshened up then?” Mrs. Scott asked, coming in from the dining room. I nodded, relieved. Thank goodness, a translator. I slid aside as she entered the kitchen, and saw the other woman waiting for a reply. “I see you’ve met Mrs. Ashby,” Mrs. Scott said.
“Not ‘zactly,” Mrs. Ashby said with a mischievous grin spreading across her weathered face. She gestured toward me with a spoon. “I’m beginnin’ to think the girl don’t understand Cockney,” she added while moving vegetables from the roasting pan onto the plate.
“And why should she?” Mrs. Scott said, shaking her head. She turned to me. “Miss Steppenwolf, this is Mrs. Ashby, the cook. Ashby, this is Lucy Steppenwolf, the student from America.”
Mrs. Ashby wiped her hands on her apron and came over. “I was just havin’ a bit o’ fun with ya,” she said, her hand gripping mine. Her accent was much softer this time. “We’re glad to ’ave ya. Mr. Adam could use a bit o’ company,” she added with a wink at Mrs. Scott.
“Ashby! You’ll give Miss Steppenwolf the wrong idea,” Mrs. Scott admonished. She put her arm around me and guided me toward the dining room. “Mrs. Ashby only meant we haven’t had student boarders in a long time. Now you have a seat right there, and we’ll bring the dinner in a moment.” She paused. “You didn’t say you were allergic to anything, did you?”
I shook my head. She looked relieved. “That’s good. We had one student who was allergic to onion. I thought Mrs. Ashby would go mental trying to eliminate it from the menu.”
“Well, I’m from Chicago and my mom’s family is all Italian. If I was allergic to onions, I’m pretty sure they would disown me,” I said.
Mrs. Scott chuckled and left me to sip my water and observe the room while I waited for dinner.
The table was a simple rectangle with a green inset, surrounded by high-backed chairs. A soft cream color covered the walls, unadorned except for a landscape painting of a lakeside village hung over the large, dormant fireplace and an empty mantle. I felt myself relaxing a little. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Sure, it lacks a homey touch. But comfy bed. Fresh-cooked meals. On-site laundry. And free, too. For a moment I wondered what coin they must use here for laundromats if they didn’t have quarters. Then I heard the kitchen door open and that smooth, cold tenor greeting the women inside. My stomach, which had been quietly growling, silenced itself immediately as my body clenched, waiting for the man himself to appear.
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