Story: Her Most Remarkable Performance. Chapter 3.

by Camille Langtry

Chapter 3

Evelyn had been to houses of the affluent classes before, but she was unprepared for the sheer opulence of the three-story mansion. The Ashburton residence was a flamboyant wonder of polished mahogany panels, Venetian glass, shiny marble floors, gold and crystal chandeliers. The silk-lined walls of the entrance hall were covered by paintings and Evelyn could see two matching Greek statues in a room to the right.

The actress looked in with little-restrained awe at the richness surrounding her as she was led by Sarah through an enfilade into a lavish drawing room that would not look out of place at a royal palace. The lady of the house, a young woman in a silk taffeta high-necked, long-sleeved grey dress with a prominent bustle, rose from the sofa. Her auburn hair was swept up in an intricate cluster of Josephine curls.

“It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Fairchild.” The lady smiled and asked Evelyn to take a seat  next to her. “Sarah told me so much about you.”

Story: Maid in China. Part 3.

by Barefoot Servant

Lightning bolts struck Maddie’s ears… over and over again. “What’s that noise?” she mumbled to no one in particular. Maddie pulled the pillow, too thin to be her own, and blanket, thinner still, over her head. They provided little protection. Only then did she realize that she did not enjoy the comfort and security of her own bed. “What’s going on? Where am I?”

“Alarm,” someone—Rosario—answered, “and you’re in bed when you shouldn’t be. We’ve got work to do.” The answers were punctuated by two sharp jabs to Maddie’s ribs, courtesy, she knew, of Rosario’s chubby brown index finger. At least the blaring of the alarm had ceased.

Maddie stretched. Arms and toes extended, she easily exceeded the length of the small bed. I hope my bed in China is more comfortable than this. Her eyes stung and her whole body ached, especially her feet. “What time is it anyway?”

Story: Her Most Remarkable Performance. Chapter 2.

by Camille Langtry Chapter 2
Evelyn Fairchild stood in front of Arctic Fur Store at Chepstow Place and looked in awe at the luxurious offerings on display: fashionable mantles and dalmans, heavy floor-length coats, delicate opera cloaks and wraps, hats and muffs that appeared almost weightless. It wasn’t just the beauty of these items that mesmerized the pretty young woman, it was their extravagant prices. Even the simplest muff went for 12 guineas and a Russian sable coat she loved the most was 70 guineas –  an impossible sum if your weekly wage at the Royal Strand Theatre is just three pounds.

Evelyn did the quick calculation in her head: she would need to starve and stop paying rent for almost six months in order to save enough to buy the fur coat. However, she could probably borrow from some of the girls at the theatre to buy the muff –  and then repay them over a few months –  but what good was a muff if she had no gowns, hats or coats to go with it? Her dresses were nothing to look at, her undergarments were simple cotton, she had only two good pairs of shoes, and her old coat had gone at the elbows and was unlikely to survive the next winter.  She also had no jewelry to speak of. The straw hat she had on was not something one could find in the last issue of Le monde élégant and her plain brown dress’s tournure, in defiance of latest Parisian styles, was far too small. Evelyn was utterly, humiliatingly démodé.

Story: Her Most Remarkable Performance. Chapter 1.

by Camille Langtry

Chapter 1
London. 1884.

The  maid straightened an imaginary wrinkle in her snow-white ruffled apron, readjusted a lacy cap on top of her chestnut hair, knocked on the door and entered her mistress’s bedroom.

“Did Madame ring?”

“Yes, I need help undressing,” said the young mistress, dressed in a bustled crimson ball gown, and set down, facing a large ornate vanity.

“Most certainly, Ma’am”, the maid answered in the most respectful tone of voice she could master and curtseyed. She took the position behind her sitting mistress and started removing hairpins and, after the lady’s hair was set free from the confines of her elaborate evening coiffure, began combing it.

“Ouch! Careful, you clumsy cow… Did you pull any of my ‘air out? It felt like you did. Here, give it back to me.” The mistress grabbed an ivory comb from her maid’s hand and began working on her brown hair in long, confident strokes. “I don’t know why I keep paying ya, girl, I really don’t.”

“I am so sorry, Madame, this won’t happen again,” the maid ventured. The mistress put the comb away and stood up, facing the humbled maid.

Story: Her Most Remarkable Performance. Prologue.

At long last I have enough material to start publishing this lady-to-maid opus magnum. I am still working on it, but I thought I'd start sharing what I have with the blog readers to get some constructive feedback. It's really embarrasing to admit how long it's been sitting semi-finished on my hard drive so I've decided to gauge readers' interest in this project that has been dear to my heart. A teaser for now, to be followed by several chapters in coming weeks. Looking forward to your feedback.

Her Most Remarkable Performance

By Camille Langtry

Prologue

New York. 1894.

“Are you sure it is here, Harris?” a young lady looked outside the carriage window in apparent disbelief.  The pouring rain has thankfully ended, the sky was almost clear and Mulberry Street, with its shabby brick tenement buildings, wooden shacks and lopsided sheds, surrounded by heaps of garbage, was now perfectly seen in all its dilapidated glory. This was New York’s notorious immigrant underbelly, considered by many the most dangerous part of the entire city.

“Yes, Ma’am,’’ Harris replied respectfully, opened the black carriage's door and held out the hand to his mistress. He was in his late 50s and sported a greying handlebar moustache that made him look like a retired cavalry officer. The lady, dressed in a stylish hat and an elegant light blue suit with oversized leg-o-mutton sleeves, stepped out, careful not to place her polished shoes in the puddle on the muddy, manure-covered sidewalk. On her delicate shoulders she wore a light fur boa with long tabs hanging down the front.

Story: Annabelle's New Role. Part 15.

by Violet Carson

My first morning at Imperial Foods had arrived. I had driven past the large old factory a number of times as AJ, but never for one moment had expected to be walking through the gates and going to reception as an employee.

At the main gate a rather smartly dressed security guard stopped me and asked who I was.

I gave him my name and was asked to sign his Visitors Book and he directed me to a side entrance where the cleaning and shop floor staff entered the building, not via the smarter main reception area that was used by management and visiting sales representatives. This was another successful downgrade I thought to myself. Why would a poor cleaner be entering via a main entrance. I was Rose not AJ.

I presented myself to a rather disinterested black girl at the small and battered staff reception desk. There were quite a few rather sad looking individuals sitting around who I soon learnt were people hoping for work on the shop-floor or as cleaners. They all seemed to be foreign immigrants of some description. I sat there hoping that I wouldn’t have any of the “little accidents” that I’d had recently and that my pants were secure or I’d probably lose my new job before it had even started!

Story: New Employee. Chapters 12-13.

by BigBird74

12.

The days that followed passed in a hurried blur of anticipation and anxiety. It took almost two days for the dye to wash out of my hair and even then it looked slightly dull and matted, robbed of its typical gloss. ‘I really should have gone to a salon’, I sighed as I fingered the mass of split ends and combed it into something resembling the mane I usually wore proudly on my head. Still no matter how much I washed, nothing seemed capable of completely removing the tanning lotion. I looked like I had been on holiday or visited a cheap tanning salon.

The last meeting before I started my reckless adventure therefore passed off under the confused gaze of a few participants who knew me reasonably well. Fortunately hardly anyone else did and, for once, my lower profile in the company had worked to my advantage.

I could barely concentrate on the meeting. I was now almost exclusively focused upon my ‘trip’. I still had to deal with a number of outstanding issues concerning Marta. Her pay (minimum wage of course + a bonus); her accommodation (the hotel of course, but a private room); her supervisor (hotel manager). As intelligent as I considered myself, I was giving myself headaches trying to think of everything that could possibly go wrong. And there was a lot. If not for my impulsive nature and the obsessive need to fulfil my fantasy, I doubt I would have carried on. So many things could go wrong, but I was no longer listening to my inner thinking.