Four in the Attic, One in the Kitchen

Changing Views

I woke, by some grace, at quarter past six. It gave me plenty of time to bathe, get ready for the day, and even study. I feared the reparations I could face if I didn't heed to my grandmother's whim. I gazed over the passage, murmuring the words to myself, quizzing from time to time. The passage felt as if it were taunting me. A rebellious child must be punished. Killed. It was my mother, no doubt, that Grandmother was not-so-subtly using against me, and warning me against sin.

Breakfast was brief. Eggs, toast, marmalade. Once it was over, a maid ushered me into the kitchen. It seemed much too big for the people it was feeding - on a normal day, without us, it would just be two people plus perhaps two dozen workers. I was immediately greeted by the man I assumed to be the head chef; a short, thin man of about fifty, with a wispy grey receding hairline. His face could only be described as nondescript, as it had no features that stuck out. In fact, as I made note of each servant, it appeared as though all of them had the similar quality of blandness. I wondered if it was a requirement for hiring. They could all blend into the background and be completely unnoticeable.

The chef shook my hand politely, and I curtsied.

"You must be Miss Winfield." He said plainly. "The lady of the house told me you'd be working here. You can address me as Chef Deegan. Allow me to show you around..."

I was briefly shown around the kitchen. Everything was as organized and rigid as an army camp. I was given an apron, jobs for each day, and an idea of what everything would typically entail. I was unpaid help. My wage was room and board, and I would work five days a week, Saturday reserved for leisure, Sunday for worship. As it were, Friday morning was upon us. All meals had been planned, and lunch and dinner were to be even simpler than the food I had sampled previously. My chores began with washing up from breakfast, a small pile of dishes that went away quickly. I then was instructed to wipe down countertops, sweep, mop, and generally keep things clean. It wasn't grueling work, though I had begun to sweat. It was, after all, midsummer, and the oven was going at full heat to bake the bread for the week. Yes, despite it being my only working day thus far, Friday was bread day.

The day passed by with nothing surprising. I had had a small lunch, and continued to recite the scripture in my head, checking if I had made any mistakes from time to time. By my luck and persistence, I fully memorized it by five forty-five. I had fifteen minutes to spare before dinner, and, to be sure, I murmured it under my breath as I set places out for dinner. Grandfather, due to his health, would not be joining us, though I was tasked to bring him his meal before I could eat mine.

The clock struck six p.m. with long, drawn out chimes, and on the dot, entered Grandmother and Momma. They took their places, and I stood rigid, waiting for my cue. We said grace, and Grandmother looked to me.

"Lucille." She spoke. "You were tasked with a biblical verse. Recite it."

I curtsied, and with my allowance to speak, began.

"Deuteronomy, Chapter twenty-one, verses eighteen through twenty-one." I paused. "If someone has a stubborn and rebellious son..."

The words blurred, but I finished. For a moment, Grandmother was silent, and I feared that I had slipped up and not noticed. However, she nodded slowly.

"You've recited perfectly." She said, no inflection showing if she was pleased, surprised, or otherwise. "Deliver Malcolm's meal to his study, then return."

"Yes, ma'am." I responded, and obediently excused myself, pushing the cart along the halls to where I remembered his study to be. The room was silent, but I knocked.