Dear Maude by Denise Liebig

Author:Denise Liebig [LIEBIG, DENISE]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Denise Liebig
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Friday, March 11, 1910

Dear Maude,

I’m so angry right now that I don’t know where to begin. I can’t even think about it, though, because I have something more important to do. I hope you don’t mind, but I need to use these pages to write down the names of the people I met tonight and the rhymes I created to help me remember them.

A. Mr. Charles Abbott—tall and goofy-looking, with dark brown hair and big ears. He spits when he talks. He coordinates hunting expeditions to Africa and other places. Abbott has a habit of killing more than rabbit…

I dedicated a page or two to each letter of the alphabet and left spaces for future entries. I made it to my last guest just as the sun was coming up.

With a yawn, I replaced the lid on my ink and cleaned my pen, then closed my desk. I put my journal back into the suitcase and returned it to the place it occupied above the wardrobe, along with the sewing scissors I decided to keep, just in case.

After that, I crawled into bed and tried to sleep. I soon found no comfort in any position, so I filled a warm bath with Epsom salts and soaked my wounds.

“Sybil, the cackling witch whose dribble will cause her to become the kibble upon whom rats will nibble, inspiring them to scribble, ‘She was a nasty, naughty Sybil.’” I recited the poem in my best rap voice to the walls of my bathroom as I drained and refilled the tub several times.

By six o’clock, I decided to do something I despised—snitch on Sybil.

Without a corset and in the least conspicuous dress I could find, I walked, carrying the rolled-up rags that were once my ball gown and corset to the drawing room, where I knew Lord Winston spent most of his mornings.

Before I reached the door, however, a petite, young maid carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies nearly collided with me in the hallway. “Oh, dear, miss. I am truly sorry. So clumsy,” she said.

In the commotion, I dropped my rags.

The maid quickly scooped them off the floor but stopped short of handing them to me; instead, she just stared at the bundle, looking confused. After a few seconds, she shook her head and slowly met my gaze. “That weren’t right what Miss Sybil done, miss,” she whispered.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I would have helped you. Any one of us would have…if Sybil weren’t there.”

“Thank you. What’s your name?”

“I’m Margaret, miss, but everyone calls me Midge.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know, miss. Most people aren’t named for a bug, but Papa says that I’m like a gnat looking for fruit. I’m not very good at sitting still, you see.”

I shook my head, glad that her father hadn’t compared her to a fly on a cow pie, or worse, larvae on rotten meat. “Well, Midge, have you ever been a housemaid before?”

“Oh, no, miss. Sybil would have my hide. She owns it, after all,” she said, staring at her feet.

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