The Mystery Guest

Gran hugs me to her, then holds me at arm’s length. “If you need anything while I’m gone, you go to Jenkins the gardener, okay? I know he looks a fright, but he’s soft as a jiggly pudding. I’ll tell him to watch over you. You’re not to disturb Mr. Grimthorpe upstairs for any reason, do you understand?”

Before I can answer, I notice a woman marching up the path toward the side door of the mansion. She’s wearing a blue kerchief tied around her head and matching blue gloves. She waves at us through the window and nods at Jenkins before continuing on her way.

“Gran, who is she?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary. Mrs. Grimthorpe forbids her from mixing with the rest of us—says it’s to preserve the privacy of Mr. Grimthorpe’s work. Come,” Gran says. “To the silver pantry.”

I trot beside Gran to the room I dreamt about all night long. It’s exactly as I left it, filled to the rafters with silver heirlooms, all in need of attention. On the large table, the pieces I cleaned yesterday twinkle like bright stars.

Gran rummages through a cupboard, removes two pairs of rubber gloves, a large jug, and a wide-mouthed basin. She turns to me, hands on her hips. “I can’t have you polish all of this silver using elbow grease alone. At some point, your arm will fall off.”

Yesterday’s exertions used all the grease from both of my elbows, so they do feel a tad stiff, but as of yet I don’t think I’m in danger of dismemberment.

Gran dons gloves and carefully pours liquid from the jug into the basin.

“This is silver polish, Molly. It contains minute amounts of lye, which is corrosive to the skin. In the olden days, when I was a Maid-in-Training, we mixed the solution ourselves. Once, a maid I worked with quadrupled the lye in the recipe and left the basin by the back entrance of the estate. His Lordship walked in with dirty hands after a hunt. He saw the basin and plunked his fingers right in. Had I not doused his flesh in water immediately, the acid would have eaten clean through his bones.”

“What a terrible accident,” I say.

“Terrible, yes. An accident? I’ve never been quite sure.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Fate, Molly,” Gran says. “It works in mysterious ways. That’s why it’s important to treat others with respect at all times,” she says as she passes me a pair of gloves. I put them on.

“This modern polish is not like the rough stuff we used years ago. It’s very gentle, but you are still to wear rubber gloves when you work.”

Gran picks up a tarnished silver candlestick, dips it in the solution, and wipes it with a cloth. After a bit of buffing, the silver is polished to a high shine.

“It’s magic!” I say, clapping my gloved hands.

“Flora!” we hear from somewhere deep in the house. “Chop! Chop!”

Gran peels off her gloves and places them neatly beside the basin. She plants a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be back faster than you can spell ‘serendipitous,’ ” she says and then rushes out of the room.

I listen to Mrs. Grimthorpe ordering Gran about at the entrance. Then the door shuts with a hollow thud, and I know they are gone.

This is it, I think to myself. I’m on my own in the mansion—no Gran. Rather than frightening me, the prospect fills me with pride at my newfound responsibility. I spell out “serendipitous” five times, then come to the conclusion that Gran meant what she said figuratively (meaning: not really) rather than literally (meaning: precisely and exactly).

In the silence, a new sound echoes through the hollow mansion.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

It’s the sound of typing. So many noises bother my ears, but I don’t mind this one because it’s rhythmic and predictable. It must be the woman in blue, Mr. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary, typing in an office somewhere deep within the mansion.

As I look around the silver pantry, a feeling of rapture overtakes me. I’m on my own. In a mansion! I’m a grown-up entrusted with grown-up responsibilities. I skip around the room, then put on my apron and my fresh rubber gloves.

Dip in the brine, then polish and shine.

I get to work, polishing piece after piece, placing each glimmering object in a perfect line on the table. As I work, I imagine I’m setting it for a regal banquet hosted by Gran, also known as the Duchess of Apron, and me, Maid Molly of Fabergé.

Our guest list is the crème de la crème. Robin Hood is seated at the head of the table in a green crushed-velvet suit. By his side is Columbo in a brand-new trench coat, his hair combed neatly for once, just as Gran would like it. Across from them are Badger and Mr. Toad, then Sir David Attenborough in a safari suit, a wobbly Humpty Dumpty in short pants and suspenders, and Sir Walter of Brooms, my school’s janitor, and the only person there whom I liked.