Free Crimson Snow by Jeanne Dams

bite to eat before you start your kitchen work. Patrick, you’ll be eatin’ with us. There’s plenty.”
    Hilda was so taken aback by the cook’s attitude that she forgot to grumble about being assigned Maggie’s duties.
    The evening’s work, which Hilda had been dreading, was made easier by Patrick’s genial presence. He did whatever he was asked to do and made a joke whenever possible. He kept the backstairs atmosphere so pleasant that all the servants, over-worked and tired though they were, stayed cheerful, even while they were cleaning up in the kitchen afterwards.
    Hilda, all evening, went about her duties in a sort of daze. She knew her job, and Maggie’s job, too. Never once did she hand the vegetables on the wrong side of a diner; never once did she drop a spoon or jostle anyone’s elbow, even though she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing. In fact, she wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. Her mind didn’t seem to want to function. Too many things had happened too quickly; too many ideas sought her attention. It was good that she was kept busy with menial chores. One doesn’t have to think when one is concentrating on being deferential and filling coffee cups properly.
    When the dishes were done, when the china and silver had been put away (by Hilda; she would trust no one else), when the table linen had been put in the bin for the laundress on Monday and the crumbs swept up from under the table and the leftover food put away in the pantry or ice-box and the kitchen table and floor and sinks scrubbed and the servants’ breakfast table set for the next morning, Anton and Elsie went home.
    Mrs. Sullivan looked at Patrick and Hilda. “It’s early yet, only just past nine. We’ve got along wonderful this evenin’, thanks to Patrick. But I’m tired, all the same, and I’m goin’ up. And just as soon as I’ve seen how Mr. Williams is feelin’, I’m for me bed. And Maggie’s comin’ up, too, aren’t you, Maggie?”
    Maggie opened her mouth to argue, but she changed her mind after one look at Mrs. Sullivan’s face. “Yes, ma’am. And Hilda, too, I suppose.”
    â€œNo,” Mrs. Sullivan snapped. “Hilda, I know you’re tired, too, but somebody has to be ready to go to the door if anyone should come, and answer the telephone, and see to the bells if one of the family rings. I’m sorry, Hilda, but those are your jobs when Mr. Williams is busy. So now you’ll have to take over. You can shut up the house and go to bed at eleven, unless the family needs you. And don’t forget to turn off all the lamps!”
    As if, Hilda thought, she was likely to forget. The house had burned nearly to the ground some years before, when it was only a few months old, and the first thing any servant in the house was taught, and reminded over and over, was to be careful about any kind of fire. The gas lamps and wall sconces and chandeliers were inspected regularly and kept in perfect repair, and were never left burning at night, nor were the servants allowed to take candles to bed. Hilda hated being the last up at night, for it meant climbing the three steep, narrow, twisting flights of the back stairs in pitch darkness.
    Mrs. Sullivan pushed Maggie ahead of her and turned back to Hilda. “Don’t keep Patrick too long, now. I ought to stay and chaperone you, but you’re a sensible girl, Hilda.” And with a wink she began to trudge up the steps.
    Hilda was tired, but the wink brought her awake in an instant. “Why,” she whispered to Patrick, “I believe she meant to leave us alone.”
    â€œShe’s a young Irish lass at heart, though you’d never think it to look at her,” he whispered back. They listened as the cook’s firm tread slowly moved out of earshot, and then Patrick took Hilda’s hand.
    â€œCome, girl. There’s a fire