If You're Willing To Believe

Gripping the handle of my tatty suitcase tight, I reach up and pull the chain of the doorbell. My knuckles are white; fading pink scars almost neon in contrast. A soft, damp smell of wood from the old door before me tickles at my nose. Maybe they’re out. Maybe this is the wrong time. Maybe they forgot I was coming.
Suddenly, the door swings back. I’m greeted by a round, bustling woman with hair pulled back so tightly that the wrinkles around her sharp blue eyes don’t dare to crease. She looks down at my suitcase, my worn-in clothes and my messy hair from her step, and frowns. “Maid?” she asks. It sounds more like an order. I nod. “You weren’t exactly what I was expecting. Come in - look lively,” she says, nodding down at my shoes and the glistening tiled floor spreading out behind her like a shining black-and-white ocean. I pull them off and step indoors, admiring the splendour: a rich, lustrous ceiling far above us painted with a scene of cherubs and angels, mahogany tables with busts and great vases of wild flowers exploding colour, a broad central staircase lined crimson and four doors of deep red wood, shut and glowing temptingly.
“What is your name?” she asks. Her eyes soften when she sees the smile on my face.
“Darren,” I say abruptly.
“You have a surname, I presume?”
“Yes, um, Rivers.” I haven’t needed my surname at a job interview for... a while now.
“Very good. I will address you as Rivers. However, the masters and the Lady may address you however they choose. Go and put your belongings in your room, through the door behind the staircase, and change into your uniform. Your room is the last on the right. The uniform will be placed on your bed, after you’ve refreshed yourself. Your shower room is en-suite. When you have dressed, return to the foot of the stairs where I will introduce you to the masters and the Lady.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I turn away to follow her instructions, before I realise I don’t know what to call her. “Wait-”
“Yes, Rivers?” She says, spinning on her heel to face me.”Was I not clear?”
“C-crystal clear, ma’am, b-but what should I call – I mean, how should I address you?”
“Mrs Bailey.” Her uniform ruffles, crisp and starched, as she marches away across the floor.
I find the door and my room, treading as silently as possible on the loud floor. I shower, relishing in the feeling of clean hot water scalding over my skin for the first time in months. My skin isn’t used to the warmth, and quickly turns from translucent-white to bright pink. I lather myself in delicious-smelling soap and wash my hair too, thankful I had it cut this morning. It still falls to cover my brow, so I’m even more thankful I brought hair gel with me. I never use gel – it’ll take some getting used to.
I step out and wrap a soft white towel around my waist, drying quickly and padding barefoot back to my room. It’s bare, but not uncomfortable, with a little bed and bedside table to one side, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a writing desk. Even the servants live in luxury here.
On the bed lies my uniform, just as Mrs Bailey said, folded neatly in two little piles with a pair of shoes and a polishing set. It’s not hard to understand what I’m meant to do. I’m not experienced at polishing, but I do my best. Still, at the end of half an hour the shoes are barely any different. I sigh and dress anyway, deciding it can wait until tonight.
The uniform somehow fits my scrawny figure perfectly; the neck buttoning up so my chin forcibly points upward. A starched shirt, blindingly white, with a waistcoat and high-waist breeches that require a brace, high stockings and a smoky-black velvet tail-coat, embroidered with what I guess is the family crest on the left hand side. I feel ridiculous. But, when I look in the mirror, it could be worse.
Stood at the bottom of the staircase, my right foot taps nervously. I have combed my hair in a side parting and gelled it down, and I even exfoliated furiously hard, but I still feel dirty compared to the shiny banisters and floor. “Rivers,” a familiar voice calls. I turn, heart pounding, to see Mrs Bailey walking one step ahead of a tall, broad gentleman with a girl on his arm who looks about my age. His face is open and inviting, studded with two clear blue eyes and a wide, smiling mouth. In contrast, her face is shrew and small. Her eyes are equally blue, but they are as sharp and piercing as Mrs Bailey’s. Her tiny lips purse in on themselves, giving her an air of discontent.
“Is this our new maid?” The man asks, his voice resonating clear as a bell in the open space. The girl on his arm sniggers behind her hand, attempting to disguise it as a cough.
“Yes, sir,” replies Mrs Bailey. “A little unusual, I know, but it is not unheard of for men to be capable of as much as women.” He smiles at her and she smiles back. It is apparent they aren’t just master and house-maid – they know each other beyond the constraints of that.
“Yes, indeed, none of that sexist nonsense. We’ll see how he does in time. What is his name?”
“Rivers, sir. Darren Rivers.”
“Well, Darren, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you’ll be more reliable than the last one...” He looks at me, expecting an answer.
“I will do my best, sir,” I manage to say.
“That’s what I like to hear. I’m William, by the by. Surname of Hazell.” He shakes my hand brusquely, and I just about manage to shake back. “You look like the right sort to me – don’t you agree, George?” He addresses the girl on his arm. She laughs again, her lips curling up in malice.
“Yes, the right sort,” she says slowly. “My name is Georgiana, and I wish my dad wouldn’t call me George. It’s nice to meet you.” She reaches out and softly shakes my hand before turning back to her father. “Dad, where is Alastair?”
“That’s a good question,” he says, and then sighs as the noise of irregular footsteps calls our attention upwards. A boy with a tousle of auburn hair races down the stairs, hastily adjusting his dress. As he takes the last few steps towards us, the freckles adorning his nose and creamy white skin become visible; giving him comical appearance which suits the clumsy, blustery way he arrived.
“Am I late?” he asks, looking round with a broad smile that reaches his startling, speckled green eyes.
“What do you think?” Georgiana hisses.
“Oh, sorry,” he apologises sincerely, wiping the palms of his hands on his trousers and looking round again, eyes darting apologetically. His father frowns and Georgiana looks at him with a cold contempt that pierces me as much as it bounces off of him. “I’m Alastair,” he says brightly to me. “What’s your name?”
“Rivers,” Georgiana says. “Shake his hand.”
“Oh; yes, sorry,” he says, wiping his palm again as he stares me in the eye, and shakes my hand gently. His skin is warm and slightly damp, and his shake is friendly. He lingers on my hand just a second longer than he needs to, before turning away from me.
“Rivers, George? Are you sure? That’s a funny name.”
“It’s his surname,” she replies coldly. “His name is-”
“Darren,” I say quickly. Everyone’s eyes are suddenly on me. “Th-that’s my name.”
“I like it,” he says. Suddenly his father is shaking his head.
“Well, Rivers, I will see you when I do. Good luck,” he says ominously, giving me a nod of approval. Georgiana lets herself smile at me before turning away and following at his heel.
“Well done, Rivers,” Mrs Bailey says quietly. She too gives me a reassuring smile and follows after her master. That leaves me and Alastair standing awkwardly at the foot of the stairs.
“Call me Aly,” he says, breaking the silence. “I hate Alastair.”
“Okay,” I say quickly. “And... it’s not that bad. But Aly suits you better.” Aly laughs, and ruffles his hair.
“I’m going horse riding now, want to join me?” he asks politely. He forgets that I’m his servant, because we’re the same age and I can’t imagine how hard it is to live with a sister like that -although it appears I am going to find out. I look down at my uniform, bitterly rejecting his offer with one glance. I’m longing to find out what he’s like, and what it’s like to sit astride a horse again, and have the wind rushing through my hair as I gallop faster and faster... I can ride, and I know I am good. It’s one of the only two things I can do with any grace.
He laughs. “Oh, yeah. Well, maybe when dad’s out.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. Holding back a sigh, I am making to leave when he calls out,
“I think he’s going to London, a fortnight tomorrow. Is that okay?”
I feel a smile heating up my face. “That’s perfect. I’ll see you then, Master Hazell.”
“Aly!” he calls after me.