The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

Samantha flushes at the sound of Elsa’s voice, whispering a quick apology and promising to see me tonight before hurrying past the maid up the porch steps. Elsa looks grumpy enough to scold her, but saves her bigger complaints for me: a body has enough to do without looking after me, too, and she glances dramatically at my empty basket, not a single blossom clipped, yet I’ve found time to socialize. I’m a servant, not a friend to Miss Samantha. I need to keep my place.

Elsa’s words punch me in the stomach. A servant, not a friend, as if it’s simply a fact everyone should know. But we are friends, I can feel it, and as long as there’s a chance to spend more time with her, I’ll stick around no matter what Elsa thinks.

Elsa has one more task for me: cleaning the parlor fireplace, careful to dump the ash in the scuttle rather than the carpet she’s already brushed. I have no idea what a scuttle even is.

Elsa hands me a metal container shaped like a gravy boat, cold and a little sooty in my hands, and I sweep the ashes in with a small shovel and broom. Once it’s clean, I stand to stretch my stiff legs and spot a beautiful black lace fan resting half-open against the mantle mirror. I pick it up, admiring its pearl handle, and holding it to my face in the mirror, I feel less like a servant and more like the lady of the house, elegant and important.

Footsteps in the hall make me snap it shut and whirl around, and my stiff dress catches the scuttle, spilling gray ash across the carpet.

Elsa and Grandmary arrive together at my shriek, and I brace for a scolding that never comes. Instead, a fuming Elsa apologizes to Mrs. Edwards while I offer to clean it up, asking where the vacuum is kept. Elsa scoffs. No one uses such ridiculous contraptions in homes like these, we’d need a horse to pull one. She’ll use the carpet sweeper herself, and hurries me out.

Passing Grandmary, I catch the worry on her face, for me or for the rug, I can’t tell, but either way I feel terrible, and even a little sorry for Elsa, stuck cleaning again without a vacuum. She’s silent the whole climb up to my tower room, her footsteps heavy on the stairs, where she tells me Mrs. Edwards’s dinner guests will arrive soon, and I’m to stay put, not leave this room at all. I can’t meet her eyes but nod anyway.

Once Elsa’s gone, I hug my arms tight, holding back tears that sting at my eyes. Should I just go home? I’ve made a mess of things, but I can’t leave without saying goodbye to Samantha first. My stomach growls into the silence of the small, quiet room. Will Elsa even bring me dinner, or make me go without as a lesson?

I picture the guests settling around a perfect table, fresh flowers, elegant place settings, the smells drifting from Mrs. Hawkins’s kitchen, until my stomach rumbles again, insisting I think about something else.

An hour or two later, I creep down to the third floor and press my ear against the door, listening hard for Elsa. Dinner must be over by now. I’m so empty it hurts, my stomach aching with it. Should I sneak to the kitchen for something to eat?