“I see you got some rest,” Gran says. “No wonder you’re tired, Molly. You’ve had quite a morning.”
Beside her is a cart on wheels containing a steaming pot of tea, a robin’s-egg-blue teacup on a delicate porcelain saucer, a basket of fresh-baked currant scones, clotted cream in a pretty pink bowl, lemon slices in a yellow one, cucumber finger sandwiches on a side plate, crusts removed, and one ornate silver spoon.
“Who is all this for? You said the Grimthorpes never entertain guests,” I say.
Gran laughs. “I assure you they don’t. This is all for you.”
I can hardly believe it. On Saturdays, Gran prepares us a special tea with crumpets, which we eat at our small secondhand kitchen table in our cramped apartment. Once, for my eighth birthday, Gran bought clotted cream, which was so delightfully delicious I’ve never forgotten the taste. I asked if we could have it every weekend, but Gran shook her head. “I wish we could,” she said. “But the cost is too dear.”
Now, Gran prepares my tea just the way I like it—two lumps of sugar and a splash of milk. She fills a side plate with delectable treats and places it on the bowlegged side table next to me. She folds a clean cloth over the arm of my chair, presumably for crumbs and spills.
“Won’t you join me, Gran?” I fully expect her to pull up a chair. I can’t wait to tell her all about my mind palace, how I’ve committed every item in this room to memory, from the pheasants in the hand-woven rug to the assortment of fine jewels on the Fabergé egg, just in case I never come back to this glorious mansion.
“Molly, I can’t join you. I’ve got more windows to clean,” Gran says. “But I’ll check in on you later. Today is dusting day—so dust we must. Later, you can keep me company while I clean this room. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Gran,” I reply.
Her hand grazes my cheek. Then she leaves the room.
I marvel once more at the tea cart. I prepare one scone with clotted cream and marmalade, then another. I devour both, washing them down with tea that tastes like citrus and roses steeped in sunshine. I pour myself a second cup using two hands, just like Gran taught me. I’m proud of myself for not spilling a drop.
I try to pace myself, chewing every bite at least twenty times, but before long, the basket of scones is empty and all that’s left on the sandwich plate is a sprinkle of crumbs. I return my dishes to the tea cart. It’s then that I spot the cloth Gran left on the arm of my chair. It gives me an idea. Why should I spend my time enjoying tea and embroidering when I can make myself useful?
Do a good deed for someone in need. Gran taught me that.
I pick up the cloth and start by wiping the crumbs from my chair. Then I continue Gran’s chore by dusting and polishing the side table until it shines. I move through the room, wiping every surface, not just tabletops and chairs but also the frames on the wall, at least the ones I can reach. I dust the clock on the coffee table and the leather-bound books on it, too. I dust trinkets and statues, lamp bases and shades, windowsills and sashes.
There’s only one item in the room left to polish—the stunning but tarnished Fabergé egg. I pick it up off the mantel and carefully carry it to my chair. I sit and rest the precious objet in my lap. It’s heavier than it looks and even more beautiful up close. The arching legs of the pedestal are decorated with intricate garlands, the fine diamonds and opalescent pearls on the egg itself are inlaid in perfectly symmetrical rows. The gold pedestal may be dull and discolored now, but I know just what to do to fix that.
I grab a couple of lemon slices from the tea cart and squeeze the liquid onto the stained legs the way Gran showed me when we clean our secondhand silver at home. Using her cloth, I rub and polish, I buff and scour. When I’m finished, my hands and fingers are tired, but there is not a single spot on that golden pedestal that doesn’t glint and glimmer. I bring the egg to the mantel and put it back on its base, where it shines like a miniature sun.
That’s when I hear it, a raspy voice behind me. “What have you done?”
I jump and turn around.
Mrs. Grimthorpe stands at the entrance of the room, one bony finger pointing at the glowing Fabergé. I hear rushed footsteps, and then Gran appears at the threshold as well. She looks at the cleaning cloth and the bowl of lemons I left on my chair.
“Molly,” Gran says. “What are you doing?”
“I thought I’d get a head start on your cleaning chore,” I reply. “Dust we must. I’m polishing, too. The Fabergé was so dirty, Gran. I don’t think it has ever been cleaned.”
I’m expecting Gran to compliment me on my initiative, but instead she puts one hand over her mouth.
“You wretched girl!” Mrs. Grimthorpe shrieks, thereby breaking her very own Rule Number Two about raised voices in the house. She turns to Gran. “She’s just stripped the patina off a priceless antiquity!”
“I didn’t harm it,” I say. “Look, it shines.”
“You’re an imbecile!” Mrs. Grimthorpe screeches, her bony finger still pointing at me as though I’m a five-legged toad or a two-headed calf, or some other unnatural abomination.
“She was only trying to help,” Gran offers.
“She’s a half-wit! She destroyed the value of a Fabergé! If I told Mr. Grimthorpe about what you just did, young lady, you and your grandmother would both be frog-marched out the door.”
“But Gran didn’t do anything,” I say. “It was all me.”
“Hush,” Mrs. Grimthorpe orders. “Do you not understand what it means to be quiet?”
This is exactly the kind of conundrum that cracks my brain in two. How am I to stay quiet when asked a question?
Gran intervenes. “Madam, I can restore the patina. There are tricks any good maid knows. Mr. Grimthorpe need not find out. Don’t dismiss me. You know how hard it is to find reliable help these days. As you always say, Things can and will get worse.”
“You’ll never find a better maid than Gran,” I say. “Not ever.”
Mrs. Grimthorpe looks from Gran to me through angry, slitted eyes. “Your grandmother is loyal, sometimes to a fault. Unlike other maids who have passed through this house, at least she understands duty. But you, young lady, do not.”
“Please,” says Gran. “Molly made a mistake. That’s all.”
“If your granddaughter is to make it in this world, she needs to learn there are consequences for her actions,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “The girl must be punished.”
“I agree entirely,” Gran replies. “She deserves a harsh punishment. The most severe.”
“Gran!” I say. I’m shocked that she should suggest such a thing when she knows I was only trying to help. But when I look at Gran, she puts two fingers to her chin, our secret signal meaning everything will be okay and that I’m to follow her lead. I stop speaking instantly.
“What I propose,” Gran says, “is that Molly work to pay off her debt to you. Children must learn their lesson, and what better lesson to learn than hard work, don’t you agree?”
Mrs. Grimthorpe’s face changes. “Hard work?” she repeats. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“Molly will put her talents to good use. She will clean. At no cost to you.”
Mrs. Grimthorpe smiles, but it’s not the kind that reaches her eyes. “I suppose the punishment does fit the crime. She’ll polish the silver in the silver pantry,” she commands.
“All of it?” Gran asks.
“All of it,” Mrs. Grimthorpe replies.
“But that will take weeks!” Gran says.