Page 21 of The Maid's Secret

“So you’ve supported his education all this time,” I said as my face colored with outrage. How was it that a servant’s son could be granted privileges I always had to fight for?

“Tuition is a small price to pay to keep the staff from agitating,” Mama explained.

“But why would you give that boy access to the library when you know I need those books myself?” I asked.

“You see?” my mother said to Papa. “She’s already taking this school business too seriously.”

My father sighed. “I’ll speak to the boy’s father and have him return the books. Now may I kindly get back to work? Neither of you women seems to have any understanding of the pressure I’m under—here you are, nattering on about nothing!” He punctuated this by slapping both palms on his desk, which made me and my mother flinch in unison.

“Yes, Papa,” I said quietly. The last thing I wanted was to cause an eruption of my father’s red-hot anger. “I’m sorry for disturbing you,” I added with a curtsy. My head bowed, I backed out of the office and closed my father’s door behind me.

—

Chapter 7

It’s curious, how a person can be there and not there at the very same time—that’s what I’m experiencing in this moment. In the greenroom, Brown and Beagle are conversing amicably with Juan, my gran-dad, and Angela.

Everyone is so excited about the Fabergé, they’re practically buzzing, but I’m feeling quite numb. It’s only when Beagle addresses me directly that I snap to attention.

“Really, Molly. You won’t regret your decision to sell the egg,” he says, still cradling the precious Fabergé in the nest of his hands.

“Auctioning it is definitely the right thing to do,” says Brown, “and we’ll guide you through all of the steps.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Gran-dad says with a shake of his head.

“Molly, is it sinking in? We’re going to be rich!” exclaims Juan.

I try to smile, but the sentiment won’t reach my face because all I can hear in my head is Gran—All that glitters isn’t gold.

There’s a knock on the greenroom door, and Mr.Snow pokes his head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but might I have a moment with Molly?” he asks.

I hurry to him. Mr.Snow’s forehead is furrowed with concern. Beads of sweat are threatening to unleash a torrent down his face.

“Molly,” Mr.Snow says, sotto voce, “I realize the news you’ve just received may change how you think about your employment at this hotel. You and Juan Manuel might think working here is now beneath you. Still, I’m wondering if I can count on you to at least finish today’s shift.”

Instantly, I feel unsteady again. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “What on earth would make you think I’d quit my job?” I ask in a voice so pinched it sounds foreign to my ears. “I’m not going anywhere except upstairs to clean rooms. Did you really think this egg would change that?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Mr.Snow answers as he wipes his forehead with his pocket square. “Money changes people, and I thought it might change you.”

“I can assure you it won’t, Mr.Snow. I am the same Molly I was a few hours ago. You can count on me.”

“What about them?” he asks, pointing to Juan Manuel, Angela, and my gran-dad, who are laughing heartily at whatever joke the Bees just told them.

I march over to their tight circle. “Excuse me,” I say, “it’s time to get back to work. Mr.Preston, since you’re here, would you mind helping Angela wrangle the Bee-lievers?”

“No trouble at all,” he replies.

“And, Juan, can you direct your staff back to the kitchens to prepare for lunch service?”

“With pleasure,” he says, tipping his chef’s hat.

“That’s that. We’re off,” I say, as I open the greenroom door.

“Wait!” Beagle exclaims. “You’re just going to leave the egg behind?” He holds out the precious heirloom, a look on his face that, unless I’m mistaken, suggests I’ve completely lost my mind.

“I’ll put the egg in my locker, and then Juan and I will take it back home at the end of our shift.”

Beagle stares up at his husband, aghast at what I’ve just said. Then he turns to me and says, “Molly the Maid, you are in possession of a valuable object that makes you a target. You could be robbed. Or worse.”