Page 50 of The Maid's Secret

He shook my hand, and I felt a swell of pride. I walked back to mydesk, eager to catch Mr.Preston Junior’s eye, fully expecting him to be peeved, but contrary to my expectations, he was smiling so genuinely it was as if he’d earned top place, not me.

I took my seat, turning my back on him. For the rest of class, I focused on the headmaster, who was offering pointers on how best to tackle comparative questions on our upcoming exams.

When we were dismissed, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by classmates, boys who were starting to see me as perhaps not so worthy of their disdain. Moreover, many of these young corporate heirs had been invited to the ball for the very first time. Redheaded Percival and his mess hall mates hoped to glean from me some clues about what to expect and how to behave at the ball.

“So there’s dancing?” Percival asked.

“Of course there’s dancing. What do you think a ball is?” I replied.

His mates chortled and knocked elbows.

“Will you wear a dress?” Percival asked.

“Not a dress, a gown,” I corrected.

“I can’t picture you in a gown,” Percival replied.

“Good,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

His retinue of friends hooted at my witty rejoinder. I’d discovered that caustic humor offered the best protection against their jabs and barbs. I didn’t care whom I hurt with my “humor,” provided my ego remained intact.

Percival slunk away without another word, and his band of brothers followed.

Uncle Willy’s son was now the only other student left in the classroom. He made his way over to my desk. He was close enough that I could smell his father’s scent on him. “Congratulations on your paper,” he said. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, Mr.Preston,” I curtly replied.

He sighed and ran a casual hand through his tousled brown hair. “Please, can we stop that?” he pleaded. “Just call me John like you did when we first met, remember?”

His brown eyes were shiny and bright. There was a look of forgiveness and longing in them that made my heart clamor in my chest, though I did my best to deny it. Still, I found myself unable to tear my eyes from his. As I stared at him, a memory returned with such force it gave me vertigo. How I could have forgotten, I don’t know, but sometimes, Molly, we bury deepest that which is too painful to remember.

When I was but a child, no older than five years of age, my mother held a ladies’ tea party on the manor lawn. She invited all the bourgeois wives, who in turn brought their bratty little bourgeois girls. While the ladies enjoyed tea, I was to entertain the girls and host my own parallel tea party, sharing my books and dolls with them. Things turned sour when I demanded they listen to me read a story from my favorite picture book. The girls grabbed the book and crumpled the pages.

Irate, I grabbed it back, scolded them, then ran away from the party, past the lawns, through the garden gate, down the path toward the orchards until I was safe behind the Mead cottage, standing by the pond with my ruined book in the mud at my feet.

Only then did I allow myself to cry. Why were girls so mean? Why was it such a struggle to make friends? Why did I always feel left out? I imagined jumping into the pond and disappearing into the muck to live amongst the frogs. No one would miss me. But as I stared at my despondent reflection in the water, I felt a disturbing pull that made me back away from the water’s edge.

I walked along the pathway to the knotty old oak tree on the edge of the estate. I sat against the massive trunk, and I wept. That’s when I heard a voice behind me.

“Are you okay?”

I turned and saw a boy my age standing there. He was wearing short pants, his brown hair tousled, his head cocked to one side.

“Go away,” I said as I wiped my tears.

“Are you the fairy?” he replied.

“I’m not a fairy,” I said. “I’m just a girl.”

He moved closer. “They come here sometimes. Fairies,” he explained. “They put things in the knothole of that tree for kids like us to find.” He came closer and pointed to an oval hollow above me in the tree trunk.

“I once found a cat’s-eye marble in there. And some skipping stones another time.” He smiled then, that same generous smile. “I’m John.”

“John,” I said, trying his name on for the first time.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Flora,” I replied.