Free Grace's Pictures by Cindy Thomson Page B

check her appearance in the washroom mirror. Surprised by the disheartened expression on her face, she pinched her cheeks and smoothed her collar. She could go about mending, sweeping, and preparing simple but tasteful meals. That’s all an American housemaid does, she reasoned.
    She swallowed hard. She had to meet the master of the house first.
    She knew, in her head, that not all men were like her father or those awful peelers, but in her heart she feared that she might be wrong. It was one thing to speak to a merchant or observe a photographer. Quite another to work for a man and spend all her working hours in his house.
    She stared into the mirror, watching her eyes go wide. She’d study his face, look for the expression, the nuances, something she could trust. If she could find that, she would be all right.
    After forcing some resistant strands of hair back into place, she headed downstairs to wait in the parlor.
    There she met Annie, who was dusting the breakfront cabinet. “Good luck with your interview.”
    “Thank you for that. You know that dance you told me about, Annie?”
    “Aye. The céilí , the maid’s dance on Thursday nights. ’Tis like at home—dancing, fiddles . . . every Thursday because the maids have the evening off.”
    “If I get this job . . . maybe I can’t come.” She let her gaze fall to the floor.
    “Most folks follow the convention. Let’s wait and see, Grace.”
    Just as Annie was leaving the room, a loud knock came from the front door. Grace got a glimpse of a man’s coat as Annie took it from him. Mrs. Hawkins clambered up the hall from the kitchen to greet the man.
    Grace stood as she was introduced.
    “Mr. Parker, may I present Grace McCaffery.”
    The man smiled and crossed the floor with his hand outstretched. He was perhaps a decade older than Grace, a half foot taller, and dressed in an expensive-looking wool suit. As he came closer, Grace detected the scent of a perfumed toiletry much like what Reverend Clarke used on Sundays. Well-to-do enough to afford to pay her salary, but not so rich as to employ numerous servants. Mr. Parker seemed pleasant enough, though she dared not look directly into his face. Not yet.
    A quarter hour later the matter was agreed upon. Mr. Parker stood. “I wanted to see the nature of the girl before I decided. I do not care so much about your skills but about your disposition.” He turned to Mrs. Hawkins, who nodded at Grace to stand as well. “I can see that your Grace is reserved and agreeable.”
    Mrs. Hawkins squeezed her fat fingers together. “I am so happy you are pleased. Do you have any further instructions for her before she arrives for work tomorrow?”
    He held up a finger. “Ah, yes. The children’s names. My wife is quite the horticulturist. That is why she needs domestic help,so she can spend more time in the garden. Small plot, being here in the city, but she insists, you know.”
    Mrs. Hawkins folded her hands. “Lovely. And their names?”
    Children? No one had mentioned children. Grace didn’t know if she could handle them. What if he mistreated his children? What would she do? Her stomach churned.
    Mr. Parker shook out his calfskin gloves, preparing to put them on. “They are named after trees, you see. Hazel is ten, Holly is six, and the youngest for now is Linden. He is three. None are in nappies, but we are expecting in a few weeks. Big as a house now, my Alice. She’ll need your help, Grace.”
    “Oh, delightful. Won’t you enjoy that, Grace?” Mrs. Hawkins gave Grace a sharp poke with her elbow.
    “Aye. Children. Three of them.” She could barely find words.
    Mr. Parker accepted his hat from Mrs. Hawkins. “And another coming. Either Willow or Douglas.”
    “Douglas?” Mrs. Hawkins escorted the man to the door.
    “That’s right. She agreed to the name because of the Douglas fir.”
    “Of course.” Mrs. Hawkins called to Grace, “Say good-bye, love.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Parker. I look forward