Conrad's Fate by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

dress, you know, and there are six types of formal evening wear....”
    She went on about clothes for a good minute. I couldn’t help thinking that the Count would have had to hire a lorry when he went to Ludwich if he really did take all the clothes Mrs. Baldock said he needed. I watched her feet tramping about on the floral carpet. She had huge ankles that draped over the sides of her buckled shoes.
    â€œBut just as important are laundering, housecleaning, and bed making,” she said. “And in order to learn to care for your gentleman in every way, you’ll be having courses on flower arranging, haircutting, and cookery, too. Do either of you cook?”
    While I was saying, “Yes, ma’am,” I had the briefest glimpse of absolute horror on Christopher’s face. Then he somehow managed a beguiling smile. “No,” he said. “And I couldn’t arrange flowers if my life depended on it. It’s beginning to look as if Conrad’s going to be the next valet, isn’t it?”
    â€œThe Count will shortly marry,” Mrs. Baldock pointed out. “The Countess is insisting on it. By the time his son is of an age to require a valet, even you should have learned what is necessary.” She gave Christopher one of her long, expressionless looks.
    â€œBut why cooking ?” he said despairingly.
    â€œIt is the custom,” Mrs. Baldock said, “for the Count’s son to be sent to university accompanied by both his tutor and his valet. They will take lodgings together, and the valet will create their meals.”
    â€œI’d far rather create a meal than cook one,” Christopher told her frankly.
    Mrs. Baldock actually grinned. She seemed to have taken to Christopher. “Get along with you!” she said. “I can see well enough that you can do anything you set your mind to, young man. Now go and report to the Upper Laundrymaid and tell her I sent you both.”
    We blundered our way through the stone warren of the undercroft and finally found the laundry. There the woman in charge looked at us doubtfully, then straightened our neckcloths, and then stood back to see if this had changed her opinion of us. She sighed. “I’ll start you on ironing,” she said pessimistically. “Things that don’t matter too much. Paula! Take these two to the pressing room, and show them what to do.”
    Paula materialized out of the steam and took us in tow, but unfortunately, she turned out to be no good at explaining things. She showed us to a bare stone room with various sizes of ironing tables in it. She gave Christopher a damp linen sheet and me a pile of wettish neckcloths. She told us how to turn the irons on. Then she left.
    We looked at each other. Christopher said, “Penny for them, Grant.”
    â€œIt’s a bit like,” I said, “that story where they had to turn straw into gold.”
    â€œIt is!” Christopher agreed. “And no Rumpelstiltskin to help.” He pushed his iron experimentally across the sheet. “This makes no difference—or possibly more wrinkles than before.”
    â€œYou have to wait for the iron to get hot,” I said. “I think .”
    Christopher lifted the iron and turned it this way and that in front of his face. “A touch of warmth now,” he said. “How do these things work anyway? They don’t plug in. Is there a salamander inside, or something?”
    I laughed. Christopher’s ignorance was truly amazing. Fancy thinking a fire lizard could heat an iron! “They have a power unit inside—just like lights and cookers and tellies do.”
    â€œ Do they? Oh!” said Christopher. “A little light came on at the end of this iron!”
    â€œThat may mean it’s hot enough,” I said. “Mine’s got a light now. Let’s try.”
    We got going. My first idea—that you could save time and effort by doing ten neckcloths