Carla Kelly by Miss Chartley's Guided Tour Page A

persistent smell of lemon cologne, even in this closed room.
How singular.
    “ Well,
Tildy, what have you here?” she said at last.
    Tildy appeared
not to be attending. “Begging your pardon, miss,” she said. “I
sometimes wish I had leave to come up here and just sit. Sometimes
Lord Byford asks me to dust in here, and then I do sit for a
moment, but only for a moment.”
    Omega smiled
again. “I can understand.”
    “ But
here is why we have come,” said the maid. She passed into the
little dressing room. Omega followed, and her mouth dropped open in
surprise.
    The room was
lined with dresses, dresses of all colors and fabrics, walking
dresses, morning dresses, sleeping gowns, simple muslin frocks,
more elaborate afternoon dresses, cloaks and capes, dominoes. Rows
of shoes peeped out from under the dresses, and there were hatboxes
on the shelf overhead.
    “ Oh,
Tildy, whatever is all this?” she exclaimed.
    “ I do
not know, Miss Chartley.” The maid touched one of the dresses.
“They’re a trifle outmoded, but not by too many years. They were
here when I took up my position in this house four years ago.” She
paused a moment, as if wondering if she should pursue this
conversational thread. “It is a subject of some interest
belowstairs, ma’am. We have—oh, you’ll laugh—we have created our
own mythology.”
    “ I
would have done the same thing, I am sure.”
    Omega took one of
the frocks, a basic muslin dress, and held it up to her. The hem
just brushed the tips of her shoes. It would likely be a perfect
fit.
    Tildy clapped her
hands. “How lucky we are! Oh, Miss Chartley, you can take your
pick!”
    “ It
will be something simple,” said Omega, “if I am to become the
housekeeper for the day.”
    “ As to
that, I cannot say that I am sad,” confided Tildy as she searched
through the dresses. “Mrs. Wells was ever so difficult belowstairs.
And none of us could bring ourselves to tell his lordship about the
quantities of port she put away when she thought none of us were
watching.”
    “ Well,
I will not do that. Oh, look, that one, that blue dress. That will
be quite the thing, don’t you agree? Now, where can I find an
apron?”
    “ I
have an extra down in the servants’ hall. Now, Miss Chartley, let
me see to a bath for you.”
    “ I
would like that,” Omega murmured. Her last ablutions had been
hastily performed in the River By with a sliver of soap that had
seen much duty in Spain, France, and Belgium. “And if there is any
shampoo ... ”
    “ I’ll
find what you need.” Tildy handed her the dress. “There are linens
and things in the drawers. Do we ask too much ... do you think the
shoes will fit?”
    “ It’s
possible.”
    After Tildy left
the room, Omega sat down on the bed. She had no doubt that the
shoes would fit. So would the chemise and camisoles. Matthew must
have prepared this wardrobe for her eight years ago.
    Omega took off
her shoes and tucked her feet up under her. She hadn’t thought of
it in years, but she remembered showing off some of her trousseau
to him only days before the wedding, letting her excitement at the
beautiful clothes spill over probably where it should not have. Her
companion had told her later how improper she was, but she had not
cared overmuch. She had been deeply in love with Matthew Bering.
She wanted him to see what the Chartleys considered fine enough for
such a wonderful marriage.
    The trousseau was
long gone, sold at auction with everything else. She smiled to
herself for no good reason. None of her pretties would have
mattered. She could have come to Matthew Bering in her shift, and
there would have been this magnificent wardrobe waiting for
her.
    And there was a
time I would have come to you in my shift, Matthew, she thought, if
only ... if only you had told me why.
    Such melancholy
reflections were not improving the tenor of her mind. When Tildy,
Michael, the scullery girl, and the potboy returned with tin tub
and buckets of warm