"You have to keep stirring so that the linens don't bunch together."
I wiped a sticky piece of hair from my face and grabbed the stick, pushing the week's laundry around the steamy water and trying to endure the pain in my arms. "How do you know so much about this, mum?" I panted, blinking against the condensation rising into my face.
"What do you think I did those few months before I realized I was going to give birth to you? Your father's factory work was hardly enough to even provide food." She bustled around the room, seemingly at home here in this place that was so alien to me.
We had woken before dawn this time to start our daily work, though I have to confess that I was more than a little resistant to the idea of rolling out of bed before it was even light outside. I'm quite certain that I would not have even lasted through the morning if not for my mum. I hadn't realized how hard these tasks would be, and I was thankful when we finally ventured out to the yard to hang the laundry. It was not a difficult thing to do, though I occasionally had to rest my arms, which were unaccustomed to such manual labor. I had never considered myself spoiled before, but I was beginning to wonder if my mother hadn't shielded me from the realities of life more than most mothers in Whitechapel.
I was shown how to hang the linens so that they would not wrinkle, latching each side of the sheets to each other and flattening them against the early morning sun. My mother left me to finish the job as she went to start breakfast.
"Do you think you can manage it?" I called out after her retreating form, weaving in and out of the billowing linens.
"Just because I can no longer embroider doesn't mean I cannot handle food," she hollered over her shoulder, a faint trace of amusement trickling through her clear-cut voice.
I watched her go and wondered if she were really as sure of herself as she seemed. I resumed my task - if she burned down the house then I guess we'd have to find another job. Though I am not sure how happy the household would be with us. I smiled at the thought.
As I was clipping a corner of a sheet, I caught sight of a silhouette through the thin fabric. I peered around the laundry. James stood watching me, his hands clasped behind his back and a loosely patronizing smile on his lively face.
"Hello."
"Hello." I stared awkwardly at him, and he took a few steps toward me.
"You looked like you were daydreaming," he commented, which led me to wonder how long he'd been standing there.
I tugged on a sheet, nervous for something to do with my hands. "Merely trying to absorb everything around me. I've never done this sort of work before."
He looked surprised and advanced to stand in front of me. "I'm sure you'll do fine. Mrs. Holmes is a wonderful woman. If I were you, I'd ingratiate myself to her. What did you do before you came here?"
I played with the edge of the laundry and he watched, making me even more self-conscious. "We were seamstresses." I glanced around; worried that someone may misconstrue our conduct. James peered in the direction of the house and then stepped behind the sheet I was hanging, concealing himself from any person who may chance to look outside.
I don't know if that made me trust him more or less.
"That's a far cry from the rigors of this life. But it means you have an eye for detail, and that's a fine thing to have in any line of work."
"Your show of confidence in my abilities is comforting," I stated, but I don't think he caught the irony of it. He chuckled, and a silence settled over us as I hung my last sheet. As I was gathering my baskets, he asked to see me again.
"I'm sure you'll see me quite often," I laughed off.
He frowned and then bowed, smiling at me good-naturedly. "Well then, until we happen to meet again, have a pleasant day, miss." He tipped his hat at me and sauntered off.
I watched him go, fiddling with the wicker of my basket.
I deposited my things inside the entrance of the servant's entrance and made my way to the front of the house to see if my mother needed any help serving breakfast. The family was already seated and eating in the dining room. In the kitchen, my mother stood at the sink, soaking the cooking utensils and staying close by the doorway in case she was needed. I stole silently over to her, trying not to disturb those breakfasting and began cleaning off the dishes.
When I checked in on the family, Mr. Holmes was immersed in the daily paper while the women gabbed about something I paid no mind to. The son pushed his food around listlessly and appeared to have no interest in either the women or in starting a conversation with his father.
I tugged on my mum's sleeve, pitching my voice low. "Did you make the master his meal?"
My mom widened her eyes at me and glanced quickly through the doorway to make sure we were not overheard, lowering her voice to match mine. "No, he insisted on making his own breakfast, even his own toast. I believe he doesn't trust me."
I shook my head. "He told me he is on the lookout for poisons. Can you imagine such a thing?"
The incredulous look on my mother's face caused me to giggle, and she laughed with me before sobering.
"Be careful with him," she advised, "He does not seem the type you want to provoke. Particularly, if he is not entirely stable."
I nodded and went to the table to refill the toast rack. This brought me close to the doorway where I could faintly hear the conversation at the table.
The master of the house was addressing his son, though the conversation seemed painfully tense.
"Colonel Banks has agreed to take you on for a sufficient fee. A commission of that rank would get you quickly on your feet," he was saying over the clink of teacups and silverware.
"I am not joining the military," the son responded dully.
"It's either the military or you return to Oxford."
"I'll seriously ruminate on both my choices," the son responded dryly.
"You can't rely on my purse strings forever."
"I've been doing very well without your purse strings."
A long, ominous silence fell.
Then Mr. Holmes continued, a definite sneer in his voice, "Well, good. I suppose you might as well get used to that now."
I felt my face heat up. I would be the first to admit that I was not quick-witted by any means, but even I felt the implication in that statement was obvious.
I waited to see if the conversation would continue and pushed my way into the room with the toast rack once I was sure I was not interrupting. Mrs. Holmes took a few slices, slathering on a healthy amount of butter and jam. To all appearances, she seemed unmoved by the conflict between her husband and son, but I could see how she patted the butter into the bread a mite rougher than was necessary.
When Jane absently moved her plate from her place, I went to retrieve it. The son jerked away from me as I leaned over him as if he had not noticed my presence before, but then he nodded at me and lifted his plate. I went to take it from him, avoiding eye contact, though I'm not sure why. I could feel him watching me. When I circled around the table to see if any other dishes could be carried into the kitchen for washing, the young man was lighting a cigarette with a match.
"I told you not to smoke in here." Mr. Holmes did not even bother to look up while reprimanding his son. The boy inhaled once, letting forth a long stream of blue smoke towards his father before standing and going out back through the porch door. He did not excuse himself and no one mentioned his retreat, though a silence fell over the table for an uncomfortable minute.
I reached for Mrs. Holmes's plate, "Are you finished, ma'am?"
"Perhaps you should wait for her to let you know when she is finished." Jane's voice was icy and accusatory. I faltered with my arm stretched over the table, frozen in mid-air.
Mrs. Holmes waved her hand away dismissively and gave me a forgiving look. "I'm quite finished, thank you, Mary. Could you start the fire in my son's room?"
"Of course, ma'am."
I dropped the plates at my mother's elbow and exited the side door to avoid walking through the dining room. The son's room was the farthest down the hall and the one room I had yet to enter. Traveling down the hallway toward his chamber felt intrusive somehow.
The door creaked when I opened it, and I stood at the threshold for a moment, looking in. It was cold and dark, as if unlived in. But the messiness of it divested me of that impression quickly once I stepped over the threshold.
It was a large room but filled with mismatched desks and cluttered with strange items. The mantelpiece was dotted with little jars of soil and pouches of tobacco. A large bookcase filled to overflowing with books was nestled in the corner.
Most interestingly, on the other side of his unmade bed, was a long desk with numerous chemical apparatus and tools, microscopes, vials, Bunsen burners, and other items I could not identify. I drifted to it, curious but careful not to touch anything. There was a faint acrid smell to the area warring with a sort of sweet, spicy smell near his bed and water basin. The source of that was the almond and honeysuckle hair oil near his shaving mirror. I tipped the bottle a bit to read the label before shaking myself from this nosiness and setting about starting the fire for his return.
While I was there, I tidied the items I thought to be safe to touch around his bedside tables and made his bed. Beneath his pillow was a pocketknife. I examined it for a moment, opening and closing it with a smooth click, before sliding it back into its place; it was hardly my job to analyze why he would feel the need to sleep with a weapon nearby.
He also had a wardrobe full of clothing items that seemed hardly fitting for a man of his status - a sailor's jacket, worn cloth hats, workman's boots, and an assortment of pants that I had seen often in Whitechapel but never on gentlemen. Besides, he had a small makeup case with artist's putty and pots of different colored creams.
I closed it gently and put it back, reminding myself once again, that it was none of my business what odd activities my employers engaged in.