1895: The Duchess's Soul Returns

Chapter 6 ·Anna·

My name is Anna Water.

I come from a middle-class family in Massachusetts that has fallen on hard times.

My hometown is cold—bitterly cold. The winter snow can bury a person alive. When I was five, Steve, who lived on the other side of town, was buried in a snowdrift and wasn’t found until spring. They say when his face emerged from the dirty snowwater, it wore a strange smile.

He must have passed out on the roadside while stumbling home drunk from the bar late one night, only to be buried by the snow. Everyone assumed he’d vanished—escaped his sickly wife and daughter under five to start anew in New York. No one thought to poke around in snowdrifts piled thigh-high. It wasn't our fault—back then, everyone dreamed of going to New York, to Philadelphia, to chase the American dream in bustling metropolises. Whispers of tales about returning home in glory lured young, naive men and women to leave their hometowns with unrealistic dreams—and I was one of them.

Had I not left, I'd likely be married by now, perhaps expecting my third child. My golden hair would have faded to a dull, lifeless yellow, my eyes hollow, my breasts sagging. I'd have become just another of the town's countless swollen, weary women, wondering when my husband would finally decide we'd had enough children—no longer rousing me roughly in the dead of night to satisfy his insatiable desires.

　　That was not the life I desired. So at sixteen, I left my hometown and never returned.

Later, I became the personal maid to Miss Consuelo Vanderbilt.

　　That said, I wasn't quite a “lady's maid” in the strictest sense, since Miss Consuelo hadn't yet married. So beyond attending to her daily needs, I also handled various household chores at the Vanderbilt estate—dusting the drawing rooms, running errands for the matriarch and young mistress, and so on.

　　Even so, as I sat sweating profusely in the carriage under New York's scorching sun, going to retrieve perfume freshly shipped from Paris for my mistress, my status still felt superior to the secretaries and typists hurrying past on the streets—let alone those country girls. At least, that's what I firmly believed.

　　They were merely foolish, docile girls—ignorant creatures who took two years of shorthand classes only to apply for two-dollar-a-week jobs in some stinking, decrepit New York building. To scrape together a paltry twenty-five-cent raise, they might have to fawn over their bosses, grovel, or even pay a price in their virtue. Anyone could do that work. yet not everyone could become a maid for the Vanderbilt family.

　　I spoke French, though not fluently, having learned it from my grandmother who hailed from Louisiana. Though the young lady already had two nannies—one from France and another German-American who spoke German—Mrs. Vanderbilt insisted that the maid hired to care for her must also speak French. This was the minimum requirement for their recruitment.

　　“How else would you understand my daughter's instructions?” I recall her haughty gaze sweeping over the line of young women vying for the position as she spoke. “We never speak English in this household.”

My family gave me the most precious gifts: an impeccable background, refined taste, and polished manners. For four years at vocational school, I learned how to select garments, coordinate jewelry, discern perfumes, mend clothing, clean horse tack, polish boots—everything a lady's personal maid ought to know. Upon graduation, I held four letters of recommendation, each attesting to my exceptional aptitude and diligent work ethic. Yet when I entered the vast drawing room of the Vanderbilt mansion in New York, I was still not the most accomplished girl present.

But Mrs. Vanderbilt sought a purely American girl, and thus I became her ideal choice.

At that time, a young, frivolous French maid was far less respectable than a French governess; English girls would not choose to work in America; and servants from Ireland and Africa were no longer the upper class's primary choices—the former were deemed promiscuous and lazy, prone to stealing fine wines from the cellar; the latter were considered an inferior and unclean race, unworthy even of crossing the threshold of the back door in a Vanderbilt household.

This was the truth, though outwardly everyone pretended otherwise.

　　If a*****e sent a Black delivery person, Mrs. Vanderbilt wouldn't let them through the back door, let alone carry goods directly into the kitchen like other white workers. In such cases, we had to fetch Tom the stablehand from the stables, for the male servants were perpetually swamped with work. Only Tom spent his days napping against the haystacks in the stables. Yet every time we roused him, he grumbled reluctantly that Mrs. Vanderbilt ought to pay him more.

But I never felt that way.

I thought the Vanderbilts were incredibly generous—forty dollars a month? Where else could you find such work? With just half my salary, I could support my parents and eight younger siblings back home.

　　—And besides, I loved this job.

Unlike the house steward, housekeeper, ordinary maids, male servants, or errand boys, both the young mistress's nanny and I were privileged to travel with her, seeing the world. Last year, when Mrs. Vanderbilt took Miss Consuelo on her European tour, I even had the privilege of catching a distant glimpse of Prince Battenberg's handsome, noble profile as he stepped into his carriage. I'd been hiding behind flowerbeds with a group of overexcited French maids, all of us peering through the foliage just to catch a glimpse of Prince Franz Joseph. What other occupation could offer such distinction to a girl of humble origins?

“Have you ever considered marriage, Anna?” Miss Consuelo once asked me.

“No, Miss,” I replied with due deference and propriety. “I wish to dedicate my entire life to you, fulfilling every desire you may have.” This was my sincere truth.

　　“But you have a choice in the matter, don't you?” Miss Consuelo pressed urgently. “If you don't wish to marry, you can use your profession as an excuse; if you do wish to marry, simply hand in your resignation and return home to be a housewife. Am I correct?”

“Yes, Miss.”

　　“Consider this: I hold fortunes millions of times greater than yours in my hands, yet no amount of money could ever buy me such a choice.” Miss Consuelo discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye with her handkerchief, her voice soft and muffled as she bowed her head, like the wind sweeping through a barren forest in early spring. “I'm sorry, Anna. I've been foolish again. Please don't take my words to heart.”

　　I could take you away, Miss, if that is your wish. I silently told myself, so you could have a choice.

But I said nothing, for it was wrong. Such words might cost me my job.

Yet now, I truly felt I was about to lose that job.

For Miss Consuelo was planning to take her own life. I knew it, and I could not stop her.

　　I know about the suicide of Miss Consuelo's lover, Mr. James Rutherford. In fact, I was the one who lured James Rutherford to a club by falsely claiming Miss Consuelo wished to see him.

　　I know of Mrs. Vanderbilt's scheme. She hired several notorious gamblers who would lure Mr. Rutherford to the card table and, through cheating, saddle him with an impossible debt overnight.

　　Perhaps Mrs. Vanderbilt merely intended to use repayment of gambling debts as leverage to force Mr. Rutherford away from Miss Consuelo. Or perhaps she calculated that, given his proud and noble character, he would never endure such humiliating terms and would instead choose to end his life cleanly and decisively—to die like a gentleman. I have no way of knowing. I was merely an executor of orders, ensuring Mr. Rutherford vanished from Miss Consuelo's life forever.

The only thing I know is that from the moment my Miss Consuelo learned of Mr. Rutherford's death, she became nothing more than a hollow shell.

　　I understood Miss Consuelo, perhaps even better than Mrs. Vanderbilt herself. A maid always knows more than her mistress, whether the secrets lie upstairs or downstairs. For they guard nothing against us—we are meant to be invisible, silent, thoughtless, mindless, omnipresent. We must hear without listening, see without observing, speak without uttering.

　　Countless times I entered Miss Consuelo's bedroom to find her diary open on the table. While arranging flowers, I could read every word clearly—her beautifully phrased sentences, her precocious, reserved thoughts, her sensitive, melancholy musings. Many afternoons I stood quietly beside her, observing her without a sound—her subtle movements, her barely perceptible expressions, the inflections of her voice, the quiet complexity in her eyes. Day after day, night after night, these impressions built up my image of Miss Consuelo—like a delicate orchid, both pessimistic and kind, gentle yet shy, yet prone to wither and die at the slightest carelessness.

That's why I bought the rat poison. That's why I let her drink that cup of tea. It was what she wanted.

　　Another maid and I carried her back to her room. Poor Susie—I told her Miss Consuelo had merely fainted, and she actually believed me, rushing out to find Dr. Wilson. Silly girl.

Mrs. Vanderbilt wept beside Miss Consuelo's bed. It was the first time I'd ever seen her genuinely express her emotions. “That silly girl,” she murmured, clutching Miss Consuelo's hand, “that silly girl.”

　　“Miss Consuelo needs rest, Mrs. Vanderbilt,” I whispered gently. In truth, I didn't want anyone to realize my mistress was dying. Soon her limbs would grow cold, and Mrs. Vanderbilt might notice Miss Consuelo's chest lying still as the sea before a storm. The poor widow and orphan left behind by Steve had swallowed rat poison and taken their own lives shortly after his body was found. I was the first to discover the bodies; they looked as peaceful and serene as if they were in a deep sleep. And my Miss Consuelo would also possess that peace and tranquility. No one could take away her choice anymore.

　　Yes, I made sure of that.

So, whoever is staying in Miss Consuelo's room upstairs right now, she is not my Miss Consuelo.

She absolutely is not.