THE SECOND MRS WHITAKER

CHAPTER 2

The door clicked shut behind me and that was it.

The hallway was long and cold. The kind of house that swallowed sound. No pictures on the walls. No rug to soften footsteps. Just polished wood and closed doors, one after another.

A woman was waiting for me.

She was older than the others, maybe sixty, her grey hair pulled back into a tight knot at the base of her neck. She wore a black dress, not a uniform, not quite. A real dress, with pockets. She had a clipboard.

"You're the new maid," she said. It wasn't a question. She looked me up and down, not cruelly, just inventory. "You took longer than expected in there."

I swallowed. My throat was dry. "Sorry, ma'am."

"Mrs. Albright," she corrected. "I oversee the staff quarters and placement. Come."

She turned and walked. She didn't check if I was following. I followed.

I tried to count the doors as we passed them. Twelve. Fourteen. All the same dark wood. All closed. I wondered how many other girls had walked this exact line with their hands pressed to their skirts.

"How long have you been here?" I asked quietly. My voice sounded small.

"Twenty-three years," Mrs. Albright said without stopping. "Long enough to know not to ask questions you don't want answers to."

We reached the end of the hall where it split. Left went toward what I thought was the kitchen — I could smell bread. Right went down a narrower staircase. She went right.

"The main house is not for maids unless called," she said as we went down. "You will learn the routes. Kitchen stairs, laundry stairs, back corridors. You are not to use the main staircase unless instructed. You are not to be seen in the drawing room, library, or east wing unless your bell rings. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Albright."

The air changed as we went down. Cooler. A little damp, but clean. The walls were whitewashed stone here, not wood. The lower floor.

She stopped in front of a plain white door with a small brass number: 7.

"This is you."

She pushed it open.

I had expected... I don't know what I expected. A cot. A shared room with five other girls like the agency had said some houses did. Maybe a basement.

It wasn't that.

It was a small room, but it was private. A single bed made up with white sheets. A small dresser. A desk with a lamp. A window, high up near the ceiling, too narrow to climb through, but it let in a square of late afternoon light. There was a bathroom attached — a toilet, a sink, a shower with a curtain. And a door that locked. From the inside.

My bag was already on the bed. The cheap canvas one I had carried on the bus. Someone had brought it down before I even finished my interview.

"How did—"

"We prepare in advance," Mrs. Albright said. She stepped inside just enough to open the second drawer of the dresser. "Uniforms. You get three. Aprons are in the laundry. You wash your own. Shoes — you have sensible shoes?"

I nodded, looking down at my scuffed flats.

"Good. You'll be on your feet sixteen hours. House shoes for indoors, you will be given tomorrow. Your schedule is here."

She placed a folded card on the desk. I didn't touch it.

"Wake is at five. Breakfast for staff is at five-thirty. Work begins at six. Lights out is ten. You do not leave your quarters after lights out unless there is an emergency bell."

I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. The mattress was thin but clean. It smelled like lye soap.

Mrs. Albright watched me for a moment. Her expression softened, just a fraction.

"You are very young," she said.

"I'm nineteen," I whispered.

She nodded. "I was eighteen when I started in service. Different house. Same look on my face."

She flipped a page on her clipboard. Business again.

"The doctor will see you at seven a.m. tomorrow, before your shift. Medical examination."

My head snapped up.

"What?"

"Standard procedure for all live-in staff. This house requires it. The master requires it."

The way she said 'master' made my skin prickle.

"What kind of medical examination?" I asked. My voice was louder than I wanted it to be.

Mrs. Albright sighed, like she had answered this too many times.

"Vitals. Blood pressure, heart, lungs. Blood work. Vaccination check. General wellness. It is to ensure you are fit for duty. You will be lifting, cleaning, on your feet. They must know you will not collapse carrying a tray. Also," she added, more matter-of-fact, "contagious illness. The house has... vulnerable persons. We cannot risk influenza or tuberculosis in the kitchens."

It sounded reasonable. Too reasonable. The word 'medical examination' had felt heavier than that.

"Who is the doctor?"

"Dr. Ellis. He comes to the house. He has been the family's physician for fifteen years. He is discreet and professional."

She said 'discreet' like it was supposed to be comforting. It wasn't.

"Do I have to— is it—" I couldn't get the words out. My hands were back on my skirt, gripping the fabric.

Mrs. Albright finally stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her. The room felt smaller.

"Listen to me, girl," she said quietly. "I know what you are thinking. I have seen it before. It is not like that. It is a real examination. In the infirmary on the ground floor. I will be outside the door. You will keep your undergarments on unless he needs to listen to your chest, and even then there is a sheet. He will ask you questions about your history. You answer honestly. Do you understand?"

I nodded, but my eyes were burning. I was trying very hard not to cry in front of this woman who had been here twenty-three years.

"Why do I need blood work to dust shelves?" I asked, and a tear slipped out anyway. I wiped it angrily.

"Because this is not a house that dusts shelves," she said. "This house has standards. And because the master pays more than triple what any other house in the county pays for a maid. Triple pay comes with triple scrutiny. You knew that when you applied."

I had. The agency lady had circled the pay three times in red pen. "You won't get an offer like this again, not for a girl with no references," she had said. My mother had cried when I told her the number.

Mrs. Albright put the clipboard under her arm.

"There is fresh water in the jug. Wash your face. Unpack. There is bread and soup in the staff kitchen if you are hungry — tell Cook I sent you. Be in the infirmary at six fifty-five. Do not be late. Dr. Ellis does not like to wait."

She opened the door to leave, then paused.

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"Whatever was said in that room upstairs — whatever you were asked to do or agree to — that was the interview. This?" She gestured around the small, clean room. "This is the job. Keep them separate in your head, or you won't last the week."

Then she was gone. The door clicked. Again, not locked. But this time, I got up and turned the small lock on the inside. It was flimsy, but it moved.

I stood there with my back to the door and finally let the breath out I had been holding since I left the main floor.

The room was quiet except for the faint drip of the shower faucet.

I looked at my bag. I looked at the uniforms in the drawer — grey, plain, folded with painful precision. I looked at the card on the desk with my schedule written in neat black ink.

5:00 - Wake

5:30 - Staff Breakfast

6:00 - Kitchen duties

7:00 - MEDICAL - INFIRMARY - DR. ELLIS

Someone had underlined MEDICAL twice.

I sat back down on the bed and pressed my hands to my face. My hands still smelled like lemon polish from where I had been made to clean the banister in the interview room to "show my work."

Nineteen. Maid. Private quarters. Triple pay. A medical examination at seven in the morning.

Mrs. Albright said it was standard. Mrs. Albright had been here twenty-three years.

I told myself that had to mean something.