at all times as Mr. Marston.
Hannah sat down. “Thank you, Mr. Marston.” This caused him to look up. He pressed his lips together into a firm line. It was not a smile but Hannah tried to interpret it as a slight sign of approval. His pale blue eyes looked at her steadily. Then he leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, The Boston Home for Little Wanderers says you are a responsible young girl. Quick to learn—except for an alarming failure to discern the front of the house from the back—”
“I am so sorry, sir…Mr. Marston. I knew better. I mean, I read that in Mrs. Claremont’s book and I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”
“You’ve read Mrs. Claremont’s Guide for Domestic Service ?” His somewhat bushy, reddish eyebrows crawled up his forehead.
“Oh, yes, sir. Every page, sir. I read the part about lemon juice and baking soda for polishing, and starch mixed with borax for—”
Just then Mrs. Bletchley entered. “Mr. Marston, can you add two bottles of the sweet sherry to the wines and spirits order? I had completely forgotten the spring luncheon Mrs. H always gives and I have to get those fruits macerating.”
“Ah, mustn’t forget Mrs. H’s spring luncheon. And then of course the symphony tea.”
“Yes, that I remembered.”
“This is Hannah, Mrs. Bletchley.”
“Ahh, the new girl.” She glanced at her quickly. “Poor Dotty.”
“Yes, poor Dotty indeed,” Mr. Marston echoed.
Hannah had no idea who poor Dotty was. She supposed there was a strong possibility that Dotty had been the previous scullery girl. Perhaps she had been pitched, but given the lugubrious tones in which they both spoke and their downcast eyes, she imagined something worse.
“She reads,” Mr. Marston added.
“Well, she won’t be needing that.” Mrs. Bletchley now ran her eyes over Hannah. “You strong enough to lift a twenty-pound block of ice?”
“Yes, ma’am, I think so.”
“Let me see your hands.” Hannah held out her hands and Mrs. Bletchley picked them up, turning them over in her own plump hands, which bore traces of flour. “Well, they ain’t seen much work. But your nails are neat and clean. Mind you keep them that way despite scrubbing the fire grates. We don’t tolerate dirty nails around here even if you’re hardly to be seen upstairs.” She paused. “No boyfriends, right? We don’t tolerate that sort of thing, either. We’ve gone through that before.”
Mr. Marston tipped his head up a bit and sniffed as if a bad odor had suddenly seeped into the room.
Hannah was almost stiff with fear. She simply had to make this work, but was Mr. Marston sensing something in her? Hannah touched her chest and felt the pouch.
“No boyfriends,” Mr. Marston said.
The idea seemed absurd to Hannah. She hardly had friends. Most of the girls her age had left by the time she had returned from Kansas. She would commit herself to spinsterhood on the spot if that waswhat it took to get this job. It wasn’t the money, even though it would be nice to make enough someday to have a tiny cottage by the sea. But it felt as though her very life depended on getting this job. If she failed, where would she go, or worse, be sent? The word severance hung in the air in an almost tangible way. Like an ax it could fall and suddenly slice away any hope of living by the sea. Once again, Hannah touched her chest and thought of the tiny glistening fragments in the pouch. She pressed her lips together and tried to calm herself as she looked first toward Mrs. Bletchley and then back to Mr. Marston. Please, please , she prayed. Let me just seem normal. Let me fit .
“I think it’ll fit.”
Hannah almost jumped when she heard the word. Fit! I fit!
“She be about the same size as Dotty, so her uniform might fit you.” Mrs. Bletchley stepped back now and surveyed Hannah from head to toe.
“I was thinking the same thing myself, Mrs. Bletchley,” Mr. Marston said. Did this mean she