41

As she Aapproached the elevator, Mildred Board heard footsteps from above. Then a toilet flush, the bathwater running. The big house was built beautifully, but if you stood in certain places, sound traveled freely through the rafters.

Missus drawing the bath herself. There was something new.

Perhaps it would be a good day.

She returned to the kitchen, ate the shirred eggs and drank the coffee at the old yew-wood table, dumped the coffee, made a fresh pot and waited, allowing the missus a nice long time to soak. By 8:45 she was riding up with the second batch of breakfast.

No newspaper on the tray. But not because she'd screened it for nastiness. The delivery service had skipped the house this morning. Again. Such a slipshod world.

She'd take care of it after serving, get right on the phone with the newspaper subscription office, give them what for.

Sometimes she wished the missus would allow the subscription to lapse. There was no need to read the kinds of things they printed.

The lift let her out on the carpeted top landing. She walked past the space where the upstairs Steinway grand had stood, past the ghosts of the Regency chest with its intricate tortoiseshell front, the pair of monumental Kang Xi vases, blue as the sky, white as milk, sitting high on Carrara-marble pedestals. A patch of dust in an alcove made her stop and wipe with the hem of her apron.

The walk to the missus's suite took her past the echoes of Chinese porcelain, the gilded cases, one filled with animalier bronzes, the other teeming with Japanese inro, jade, ivory, mixed-metal vases.

All irreplaceable. Like the boulle chest. It was illegal to kill tortoises now. Unborn babies, yes, but not reptiles.

She knocked on the missus's door, received the expected faint reply, and went in.

The missus was in bed, wearing the cream satin bed jacket with the covered buttons- what a quest it had been finding a proper dry cleaner for that- hair wrapped in a white French towel, no makeup but still beautiful. Rosewater scent sweetened the enormous room. The only items on the nightstand were a Limoges tissue-box holder and a black satin eye mask. The bed covers were barely mused; even in sleep the woman was genteel.

But the missus was acting strange- staring straight ahead, not smiling at Mildred.

Bad dreams again?

The room was still dark, both sets of drapes drawn. Mildred stood there, not wanting to intrude, and a second later the missus turned to her. “Good morning, dear.”

“Morning, ma'am.”

Her face so thin, so white. Tired, very tired. So it probably wouldn't be a good day.

Midred resolved to try to get her out of the house a bit- a drive to Huntington Gardens? Last month the two of them had spent a glorious hour strolling at the missus's snail's pace. A week later Mildred had suggested they repeat it, perhaps the art gallery, but the missus demurred. Maybe another time, dear.

Once upon a time, a driver had wheeled the Cadillac and the Lincoln. The Cadillac was gone; Mildred wrestled with the Lincoln… how much petrol was in the tank?

If not a drive, at least a stroll out in back, some fresh air. Maybe after lunch.

“Here's some breakfast for you, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Mildred.” Saying it automatically, so politely that Mildred knew the missus wasn't hungry, probably wouldn't touch a thing.

The body needed sustenance. That was simple logic. Yet, despite all her education, the college degree from Wellesley- the finest women's school in America- the missus sometimes seemed unaware of the basics. During those moments, Mildred felt she was the older sister, caring for a child.

“You do need to eat, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Mildred. I'll do my best.”

Mildred put the food down, drew the drapes, fetched the bed tray, and set it up. She noticed a kink in the drapery pleats, straightened it, and looked out the window. The blue-tiled pool that him had modeled after Mr. Hearst's at San Simeon was empty and streaked with brown. The boxwood knot garden- too painful to see. Mildred looked away but not before being assaulted by a distant view of downtown Los Angeles. All that steel and glass, hideous from up close, but this far perhaps it did have a certain… stature.

When she turned fully, the missus was wiping her eyes.

Crying? Mildred hadn't heard a sniffle.

The missus pulled a tissue out of the porcelain box and blew her nose inaudibly. Another cold? Or had she been crying?

“Here you go, ma'am, toast just the way you like it.”

“Forgive me, Mildred, it's a beautiful breakfast but… maybe in a bit, please leave it.”

“Some coffee to stimulate the appetite, ma'am?”

The missus started to refuse, then said, “Yes, please.”

Mildred took hold of the cozy-wrapped pitcher and directed an ebony stream into the Royal Worcester cup. The missus lifted the coffee. Her hands were shaking so, she needed both to keep it steady.

“What's the matter, ma'am?”

“Nothing. Everything's fine, Mildred- what a beautiful rose.”

“Giant blossoms this year, ma'am. It's going to be a good year for roses.”

“Yes, I'm sure it will… thank you for going to the trouble.”

“No trouble at all, ma'am.”

The same dialogue they exchanged every morning. Hundreds of mornings. A ritual but not a formality, because the missus's gratitude was genuine, she was gracious as royalty- more gracious. Look what royalty had become! It was hard to think of her as an American. More of an… international.

The missus reached for another tissue and patted her eyes. Mildred picked up the first tissue, dropping it in the Venetian wastebasket beneath the end table, noticed something in there.

A newspaper. Today's!

“I got up very early and brought it up, Mildred- don't be cross.”

“Early, ma'am?” Mildred had been up at six, taking her own bath, ten minutes of secret bubbles, ten minutes later. She hadn't heard a thing- the missus's escape concealed by running water!

“I went outside to check the trees. All those winds- the Santa Anas we had last night.”

“I see, ma'am.”

“Oh, Mildred, it's fine.” The soft eyes blinked.

Mildred crossed her arms over her apron. “How early is early, ma'am?”

“I don't really know, dear- six, six-thirty. I suppose I went to sleep too early and my rhythm was off.”

“Very well,” said Mildred. “Would you be wanting anything else, ma'am?”

“No thank you, dear.” Now the missus's hands were shaking again. Holding tight to the covers. Smiling, but it looked forced. Mildred prayed it wasn't another downturn. She looked down at the newspaper.

“You can take it,” said the missus. “If you want to read it.”

Mildred folded the horrid thing under her arm. Read it, indeed! She'd throw it out with the kitchen trash.