The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

Samantha’s face flushes the sound of Elsa’s voice. She whispers that she’s sorry. She says she’ll see me tonight. She hurries up the porch steps and brushes past Elsa. The maid looks very grumpy and it seems like she’s going to reprimand Samantha, but she’s bigger fish to fry with me. She says that a body has enough to do without looking after me. She asks if I’ve clipped a single blossom. She glances dramatically into my empty basket before answering her own question. She says I have not and yet I’ve managed to find time to socialize. I am a servant, not a friend to Miss Samantha. I need to keep my place.

Elsa’s words feel like a punch to my stomach. I’m a servant, not a friend. She says it as if it’s a fact, like everyone should know that a rich girl like Samantha and a servant girl can’t be friends. But we are friends. I can feel it when I’m with her. And as long as there’s a chance I can spend more time with her, I will stick around. No matter what Elsa thinks or says.

Elsa has one more task for me: cleaning out the fireplace in the parlor. She explains that she already brushed the carpets, so I must be careful that I dump the ash in the scuttle and not on the floor. I wonder what on Earth a scuttle is.

Elsa hands me a metal container that looks like a gravy boat. I use a small shovel and broom to carefully sweep the ashes from the fireplace into the scuttle. When the fireplace is clean, I stand up to stretch. On the mantle, I see a beautiful black lace fan resting against the mirror, half open. I pick up the fan and open it fully, admiring its shimmering pearl handle. As I hold the fan to my face and gaze into the mirror, I don’t feel like a servant girl anymore. I feel like the lady of the house.

When I hear footsteps in the hall, I snap the fan shut and drop it onto the mantle and whirl around. My long stiff dress swings against the scuttle and knocks it over. A pile of gray ash spills out onto the carpet.

Elsa and Grandmary reach the parlor at the same time, responding to my shriek. I wait for the scolding when they see the soiled carpet, but it doesn’t come. Instead, a fuming Elsa apologizes to Mrs. Edwards. I offer to clean it up. I ask Elsa where she keeps the vacuum. Elsa scoffs and says no one uses ridiculous contraptions like those modern machines in homes like these. We’d need a horse just to pull one. She says we’ll use the carpet sweeper. She then corrects herself and says that she will use the carpet sweeper. She hurries me out of the room.

As I pass Grandmary, I see the worry in her face. Is she worried for me or for the soiled rug in the parlor? Either way, I feel terrible. I didn’t mean to cause trouble for her. I even feel a little sorry for Elsa, who has to clean the rug again without a vacuum cleaner. Elsa is silent during the painful walk to my tower room. When we get there, I stand still, nervously twitching the hem of my apron. Elsa says that Mrs. Edwards’ guests will arrive soon for dinner. The best place for me is right here. She says I’m not to leave this room at all. I can’t meet Elsa’s eyes, but I nod.

When Elsa leaves, I wrap my arms around my chest, holding back tears. Is it time to go home now? I feel as if I’ve made a huge mess here, but I know I can’t leave without saying goodbye to Samantha. My stomach growls, breaking the silence of the room. Will Elsa also bring me dinner? Or will she make me go without to teach me a lesson?

I picture the guests sitting down around the fancy dinner table. Is the table the picture of perfection, just as Elsa had hoped? I imagine the bouquet of fresh flowers in the middle of the table, and I can see the elegant settings and fold napkins. I can almost smell the delicious foods coming from Mrs. Hawkins kitchen, until my stomach rumbles again and tells me it’s time to think about something else.

An hour passes, maybe two. I tiptoe down the stairs to the third floor and press my ear to the door, listening for sounds of Elsa in the hallway or her room. Surely dinner is over by now. My insides feel so empty that it hurts. Should I sneak down to the kitchen to try to find something to eat?