housekeeper’s office, pantry, kitchen, back stairs, elevator,” Eugenie Eastbrook announced briskly. “Housekeeper uses back stairs or elevator.”
The same plush carpet covered the second floor, except for the bathrooms, which were floored with ceramic tile, all shining. In the master bedroom, a Hispanic maid was making the bed.
“This is Julia,” Eugenie Eastbrook announced. “Julia, this is Mrs. Van Dyke, who will be our new housekeeper.”
Julia nodded and returned to her work. Her employer ushered Faye through the rest of the bedrooms and the large linen room, where the ironing board, towels, sheets, pillows, quilts, and other household necessities were kept. They returned to the first floor by way of the carpeted front stairs, which curved gracefully down to the entrance hall.
“This is the housekeeper’s office.” Eugenie Eastbrook threw open a door.
Faye followed the other woman into a small, tidy room, complete with desk, computer, filing cabinets, and a phone with a score of speed-dial buttons.
“This door,” Eugenie Eastbrook said, “leads into my office, which, although open during the day, is full of private and confidential information and must be off-limits to almost everyone. At night I lock it.”
“I see.”
“The housekeeper would enter her office,” Eugenie Eastbrook continued, “either directly through this door from the kitchen or the main door from the hall. You only enter my office through this internal door at my request.”
“Of course,” Faye said.
“All the staff’s quarters are out in staff houses on the grounds, except for the housekeeper’s, for obvious reasons. These are the housekeeper’s rooms.”
They had arrived at the far end of the hall. Faye stepped through a door and made a quick glance around the suite: bedroom, sitting room, and bath, pristine and perfectly equipped.
Politely, she murmured, “Very nice.”
Mrs. Eastbrook did an about-face that would have impressed a Marine and stalked back to her own office, where she grabbed up a cluster of keys. “One of the housekeeper’s responsibilities is to ensure, every night before retiring, that all the doors on this floor are locked.”
“Very well.”
“I must stress, Mrs. Van Dyke, how essential discretion and security are to this household.”
“I understand.”
“Unscrupulous journalists have tried to enter this house, hoping to discover the identity of some of our clients. We must be on guard at all times.”
“Of course.”
Just then the door opened. A gorgeous young woman walked in, her blond hair tumbling down her back, her eyes bright blue, her smile as fresh as summer. No plastic surgery needed there.
“This is my daughter, Lila,” Eugenie said. “Lila is my assistant here. Everything I know, she knows; if she asks you to do something, you can assume it came from me. Lila, this is Faye Van Dyke.”
Faye smiled. “Hello, Lila.” Something about Lila reminded her of her own daughter, perhaps simply the glow of youth. Catching the frown on Eugenie Eastbrook’s face, she remembered who she was supposed to be, and added quickly, “Or would you prefer me to call you Miss Eastbrook?”
Lila’s mother answered. “Miss Eastbrook. And I am Mrs. Eastbrook. And of course you will call my husband Dr. Eastbrook. We will call you Mrs. Van Dyke. We find this formality preserves a professional tone that is reassuring to our clients.”
“Of course.” Faye had chosen the pseudonym; it was close enough to her real last name to feel right.
“I believe that’s everything then,” Mrs. Eastbrook announced. Eugenie handed her a thick folder. “Why don’t you read this contract and sign the privacy clause. You’ll move in tomorrow, and report here, to my office, at eight o’clock Wednesday morning.”
“Very well,” Faye said.
She rose. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Van Dyke.”
“Thank you.” Faye rose, and shook Mrs. Eastbrook’s hand. Mrs. Eastbrook escorted her down the long
The same plush carpet covered the second floor, except for the bathrooms, which were floored with ceramic tile, all shining. In the master bedroom, a Hispanic maid was making the bed.
“This is Julia,” Eugenie Eastbrook announced. “Julia, this is Mrs. Van Dyke, who will be our new housekeeper.”
Julia nodded and returned to her work. Her employer ushered Faye through the rest of the bedrooms and the large linen room, where the ironing board, towels, sheets, pillows, quilts, and other household necessities were kept. They returned to the first floor by way of the carpeted front stairs, which curved gracefully down to the entrance hall.
“This is the housekeeper’s office.” Eugenie Eastbrook threw open a door.
Faye followed the other woman into a small, tidy room, complete with desk, computer, filing cabinets, and a phone with a score of speed-dial buttons.
“This door,” Eugenie Eastbrook said, “leads into my office, which, although open during the day, is full of private and confidential information and must be off-limits to almost everyone. At night I lock it.”
“I see.”
“The housekeeper would enter her office,” Eugenie Eastbrook continued, “either directly through this door from the kitchen or the main door from the hall. You only enter my office through this internal door at my request.”
“Of course,” Faye said.
“All the staff’s quarters are out in staff houses on the grounds, except for the housekeeper’s, for obvious reasons. These are the housekeeper’s rooms.”
They had arrived at the far end of the hall. Faye stepped through a door and made a quick glance around the suite: bedroom, sitting room, and bath, pristine and perfectly equipped.
Politely, she murmured, “Very nice.”
Mrs. Eastbrook did an about-face that would have impressed a Marine and stalked back to her own office, where she grabbed up a cluster of keys. “One of the housekeeper’s responsibilities is to ensure, every night before retiring, that all the doors on this floor are locked.”
“Very well.”
“I must stress, Mrs. Van Dyke, how essential discretion and security are to this household.”
“I understand.”
“Unscrupulous journalists have tried to enter this house, hoping to discover the identity of some of our clients. We must be on guard at all times.”
“Of course.”
Just then the door opened. A gorgeous young woman walked in, her blond hair tumbling down her back, her eyes bright blue, her smile as fresh as summer. No plastic surgery needed there.
“This is my daughter, Lila,” Eugenie said. “Lila is my assistant here. Everything I know, she knows; if she asks you to do something, you can assume it came from me. Lila, this is Faye Van Dyke.”
Faye smiled. “Hello, Lila.” Something about Lila reminded her of her own daughter, perhaps simply the glow of youth. Catching the frown on Eugenie Eastbrook’s face, she remembered who she was supposed to be, and added quickly, “Or would you prefer me to call you Miss Eastbrook?”
Lila’s mother answered. “Miss Eastbrook. And I am Mrs. Eastbrook. And of course you will call my husband Dr. Eastbrook. We will call you Mrs. Van Dyke. We find this formality preserves a professional tone that is reassuring to our clients.”
“Of course.” Faye had chosen the pseudonym; it was close enough to her real last name to feel right.
“I believe that’s everything then,” Mrs. Eastbrook announced. Eugenie handed her a thick folder. “Why don’t you read this contract and sign the privacy clause. You’ll move in tomorrow, and report here, to my office, at eight o’clock Wednesday morning.”
“Very well,” Faye said.
She rose. “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Van Dyke.”
“Thank you.” Faye rose, and shook Mrs. Eastbrook’s hand. Mrs. Eastbrook escorted her down the long
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