Where We are Planted

While the windows betrayed an already inky sky over the courtyard, I hoped the dinner mentioned by Madame Elstren would be a good hour or more off. While the awe of what I had seen thus far played muse to curiosity, the stint in the carriage did not inspire my desire for food.

“Mistress?” The maid curtsied before me as her newly designated charge.  

Camellia had closed space between us as I lost myself in silent curses toward Madame Elestren and wonder at the glory of Yarrow Hart. 

With this renewed introduction I considered Camellia fully. In appearance at least, the woman seemed at ease in her profession. In the absence of the madame a greater confidence crawled over her. Though she cast her eyes down to the black square toed shoes peeking from beneath her skirt hem, a mirror shine captured the hint of her expression. Not a wrinkle paused the eye from apron hem to starched cap save for creases made by her wringing of nervous hands at her sides.

A hint of Hadowen in her blonde tousled curls gave me pause to consider her parentage before she leveled a pair of deep blue grey eyes. Was it an echo of worry that shivered there in an otherwise bright gaze. Perhaps the prospect of being a disappointment. Was it possible there too I saw loyalty swimming in the depth of her smile. 

“Does it matter to you the station of your charge?” 

Camellia dropped her hands to her sides as she realized how I surveyed her. 

“Your station matters to me most of all, Mistress. It is my honor to be in your service.” Her doll-like smile rose with a blush to her cheeks before she pivoted, sending the tails of her hair swinging from her shoulders. 

I stifled a snicker at my own expense. The woman seemed sincere. “I am uncertain if honor is the affectation I offer.”

In a practiced sweep, she snatched up the lone satchel at the foot of the staircase and turned a guiding hand toward me.

“Mistress Magareen Amalia Hadowen, of the Northern County Hadowens, only daughter to the late Gerard Hadowen and, wife, Marguerite, recently, of Dablice Grove and ward to Amalia Boughwin and Kassia Boughwin. It is indeed an honor I have long anticipated to welcome you to your debut season at Yarrow Hart. I endeavour to make it your finest.” Camellia had seemingly recollected all information offered by Madame Elestren as well as summoned much more to be eloquently served in this esteem she placed upon me.

I raised a hand in astonishment and appeasement. “Please. The titles are as foreign to me as this house and its custom. I knew little of my parents, and my cottage seems so far from here. I would prefer we focus on the here and now. You may simply call me Magareen.”

“If it pleases you, Mistress. Magareen.” Camellia cut a brief curtsy before ascending the stair.

“Simplicity pleases me.” I sighed as I realized the utter loss of it I would experience in the maze of a mansion.

As if to read my thoughts Camellia spoke. “I dare apologize then, Mistress. There is little of simplicity here at Yarrow Hart. And like to be less so with your arrival.” 

Did I sense it there, for a moment, an impishness to this waifish maid?

At the top of our ascent, Camellia curtsied once more before leading along the landing toward the western wing.  

“This way please. I hope the Mistress does not mind a bit of a constitutional. I do apologize.”

 I hoped I was prepared for how long that might be within the twists and tendrils of Yarrow Hart. I cast a glance over the rails of the winding stairs. “Some chance to stretch my legs would be nice after the long journey.”

My curiosity allowed only a narrow span of silence before inquiry flowed from my lips.

“How long have you served here at Yarrow Hart?” The question echoed into the tendrils of halls as I was casually drawn again to counting roses along the passage.

“Forgive me, mistress, I was born within the walls of Yarrow Hart.” Camellia offered the explanation without so much as a pause to her gait.

My gaze pulled from the roses to the back of the young woman’s head. “Your family has always been under the employ of the Hadowens?” I watched the steady pendulum of Camellia’s wheat hued braids.

“Only as far as my great grandfather, Mistress.” Camellia cast the nonchalant explanation over her shoulder.

“It must be fascinating. The endless halls. The balls and events. The gardens in their prime.” I mused. “Master Joram, whom I rode in with, said it was a shame that our arrival did not coincide with the height of the season.” 

Again counted the trace of roses imbued in the damask of the walls.

“I could not say, Mistress. Your arrival coincides with my first season as attendant, so I will have the perquisite to attend the festivities with you. And, of the rose fields I have seen nothing.” Camellia continued down ever more claustrophobic hallways; away from the brilliance of the stairs and it’s greenhouse-like dome.

A snickering scoff escaped of its own accord as disbelief to the response overcame me.  

“I’m uncertain of your amusement, Mistress.” Camellia’s reply traveled over her shoulder.

“You said you have never seen the gardens, nor snuck a peek on the pageantry of the events held here.” 

“There are strict precepts with respect to attendance to the festivities. I would never presume to breach such principles of conduct.” Camellia did not turn to allow me to read her features as she spoke.  

“You are free to speak openly about any breach of conduct, Miss Camellia. Even if I desired to betray your confidence my status would betray me as the liar. You may  even tell me your true feelings of Madame Elestren. And I assure you I will not convey your opinions to her, nor anyone.” 

My hope to ease the tension between myself and the maid seemed misplaced as a silence fell renewed over us. It was clear, I would have few allies within the halls of Yarrow Hart. 

Camellia at last paused to turn her bright gaze upon me. 

She seemed to sense the discouragement, or read it upon my expression. “I have never seen the front gardens, Mistress. But my father sends letters sometimes. He  works on the grounds and green houses. He sees things. And his letters have on occasion offered morsels of detail surrounding the festivals.”

My footfalls halted on the mahogany of the passage. 

Deciphering the maid’s words raised consternation to my brow. “I can believe your devotion to the rules of the house. But, please, you have lived here your entire life and never seen the roses that carpet the acres leading to the estate?” 

“I do apologize, Mistress. Magareen. It is as I said.” Camellia shifted to offer a glance over her shoulder and carry on our way. “You will notice all the windows in the main house face the inner courtyards only.” 

The maid passed a sweeping gesture to the row of softly fluttering red curtains.

 I lagged long enough to cast a passing glance to the dimming outdoors. My view was halted by the high walls far across the open courtyard.

“I had not noticed. I confess my attention has been arrested by the intricacies of the decor rather than what might stretch beyond portals to the outside. But certainly when you go into town or leave the main house.” I matched my pace to catch up with the maid. 

Our promenade along the hall was in full step yet Camellia resumed habit to avert her gaze from mine when she spoke again. “I do not leave the house, Mistress.”

“They don’t allow you to leave?” Concern drove the course of conversation.

“Mistress, I have no reason to leave, nor, if you please forgive me, have I before had desire.” I sensed a growing agitation through the maid’s posture and deference. Though her station commanded response to my questioning, it was clear that it caused discomfort for her to do so. 

At this I lowered my voice. “You are not a slave or prisoner in this house, are you?”

“Oh no, Mistress.” Our eyes met at last. “It is not like that at all. Master Hadowen is good to the servants. We are family and lack for nothing.” Camellia’s smile was genuine.

“But then why not at least leave to see the town or estate beyond the house?”

“The members of Yarrow Hart are a rhythm of balance, proportioned to a scale of harmony with an emphasis on unity, Mistress. We grow where we are planted.” 

The turn of phrase sent an unfamiliar chill over my arms. 

“Mistress.” Camellia faced me, though decorum and training kept her eyes averted to the hem of my dress once more. “I do not wish to overstep, but you have only just arrived at Yarrow Hart. There are ways you do not yet understand. I will explain anything you need know, but to request further inquiry and explanations I have no business or dealings in would bring a dissonance unbecoming of our present positions.”

The maid’s unease was palpable against the damask.

“There is reason where you perceive madness.” With that Camellia continued our parade of two with increased determination sparking echoes in every step.  

I followed dutifully as the excitement and awe of the roses turned to thorns of dread that pricked at my mind. I could not be certain but I did feel eyes upon me, even as silence enveloped all but the echo of our steps.