Chapter 4 - The Rumors in the Kitchen
The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a cold, grey Chicago morning that painted the sky the color of wet slate.
Beatrice walked down the back staircase toward the kitchen, her splinted hand held close to her chest. She had slept for four hours, her body still stiff, but her cheek felt better, the stitches tight and clean under the small bandage Dr. Evans had applied.
She needed to make Lily’s morning tea—a special blend of chamomile and honey that helped soothe her irritated lungs.
But as she approached the service corridor, she heard voices coming from the kitchen.
"I'm telling you, she played him like a violin," a voice sneered. It was Karen, the head laundress, a woman who had always made a point of letting Beatrice know exactly where she stood on the household hierarchy. "She saw her chance to get out of the basement and she took it. Who knew the fat girl had that much ambition?"
"And Victoria?" another voice asked—Thomas, one of the housemen. "She’s really gone? Just like that? Her father is Joseph Kensington. Leo can't just throw her out without a war."
"Victoria was a bitch," Karen said, the sound of her metal polish rag clattering against the silver tray echoing through the door. "But at least she looked like she belonged here. Now we have to take orders from Beatrice? A woman who looks like she ate the rest of the staff for breakfast? It's a joke."
Beatrice froze on the bottom step.
The words were not new. They were the same words she had heard in high school corridors, in the locker rooms of her first cleaning jobs, in the whispers of the other maids when she thought they weren't looking. They were the small, sharp knives people used to carve her down to a size they felt comfortable with.
She felt the familiar, hot rush of shame rise in her chest, her fingers tightening around her splinted hand until the bone ached. She wanted to turn around, to run back up to the safety of the second floor, to lock her door and disappear into the warm, velvet-draped room Leo had given her.
But then she thought of Lily.
She thought of the little girl who had looked up at her from the floor of that dark, freezing cellar and called her "Bee." She thought of the father who had looked her in the eye and told her she was family.
Beatrice took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and pushed the swinging door of the kitchen open.
The room went instantly silent.
Karen froze with her polish rag in hand, her face turning a bright, guilty pink as she saw Beatrice standing in the doorway. Thomas quickly busied himself with the silver tea service, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
Beatrice didn't say a word. She walked to the stove, her movements slow but deliberate, her heavy thighs brushing under her new, casual dark trousers—clothes Mateo had delivered to her room that morning. She picked up the copper kettle with her uninjured hand, filled it with water, and set it on the flame.
"Karen," Beatrice said, her voice quiet, calm, and carrying a steady authority she hadn't known she possessed.
"Yes, Beatrice?" Karen stammered, her voice lacking its previous venom.
"The silver on the sideboard needs to be finished before ten," Beatrice said, not looking at her as she measured the tea leaves into the porcelain pot. "And the linens for the second-floor guest rooms need to be washed with the unscented detergent. Lily's lungs are sensitive right now, and the perfume in the regular soap will irritate her. Make sure it's done by noon."
"I... I don't take orders from you," Karen whispered, though her voice shook.
"You take orders from the person Leo puts in charge of his daughter's care," a voice spoke from the hallway door.
Mateo stood there, his coat off, his shoulder holster visible over his white shirt. He was holding a file of papers, his expression cold as ice as he looked at the laundress.
"And right now," Mateo continued, stepping into the kitchen, "that person is Beatrice. If you have a problem with her orders, Karen, you are welcome to pack your things and discuss your employment with the men at the gatehouse. I'm sure they have plenty of time to listen to your complaints."
Karen’s face went entirely white. She dropped her polish rag, grabbed the silver tray, and scurried out of the kitchen like a frightened mouse.
Mateo walked over to the counter, looking at Beatrice as she poured the boiling water into the teapot.
"You're doing great, Bee," he said, using the nickname Lily had given her. "Don't let them make you feel small. You’re the biggest thing in this house right now, and I don't mean your size. I mean your heart."
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Beatrice looked at him, a small, tearful smile breaking through her reserve. "Thank you, Mateo."
"Don't thank me," he said, taking a piece of shortbread from the tray. "Thank Leo. He’s the one who told me to make sure no one gave you any trouble today."
