The Passing Bells by Phillip Rock

. . .” Ivy stammered.
    Mrs. Broome stiffened. “Miss Alexandra is very young and inclined to dramatics. It is up to the staff to take her current, and I trust transitory, spirits into consideration and to keep them from demolishing the orderly procedures of the household. Miss Alexandra should not, of course, have asked you to dress her in the first place. And she should not have asked you to run downstairs with a message for Miss Foxe. She should have waited for Velda to return, or rung down to me, and I would have sent someone up to her and dispatched a footman, who would have delivered her message in a proper manner. I cannot admonish Miss Alexandra, but I can, and must, admonish you or you may do something similar again. In the future, when asked to do anything that is not a regular part of your duties, you shall decline—in a polite and respectful manner, needless to say—and will immediately convey the request to one of your superiors—to a valet, a lady’s maid, a footman, a parlormaid or, in the unlikely circumstance that no one of such status is available, to either Mr. Coatsworth or myself. Do you understand, Ivy?”
    Ivy could only nod her head numbly. Mrs. Broome then reached out and patted the trembling girl on the cheek.
    â€œI shall not give you notice, Ivy, never fear. You have a sparkle and a brightness that I find most engaging. If there are no more unfortunate lapses of mind, I shall start to train you as a parlormaid within the next six months. That will mean more pleasant duties and a bit more money to send home, which I’m sure will be appreciated.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” The words were barely audible.
    â€œNow, finish tidying up here. Check the towels in the drawer, open the windows and air the room. The countess’s nephew is arriving from America tomorrow and will occupy this room. We wish it to be nice and pleasant. When you have finished, you will go downstairs and Mrs. Dalrymple will instruct you further.”
    And then she was gone, moving majestically out of the room, a tall black-clad, white-haired woman who held the power of life or death over everyone at the house with the exception of Mr. Coatsworth and the outside staff. Ivy held her breath until the woman was safely out of sight and hearing, then she sank down on the window seat and buried her face in her hands. She had come so close to losing her position, and then what would have become of her? She couldn’t go home, not with the baby due any minute and Da having enough trouble putting food on the table and paying the rent and seeing to it that her brothers and sisters had decent clothes and sturdy shoes to wear to school. Oh, sweet Jesus, don’t let me get the sack, she prayed, ever. She felt like blubbering, but the tears wouldn’t come and so she rested her suddenly feverish face against the cool window glass. She could see the side garden, an old brick wall smothered by clematis, and part of the driveway. The shiny blue car came suddenly into view, going very fast, Miss Foxe clutching the steering wheel, her red hair shiny in the sun. Miss Alexandra was looking backward and waving, one hand clamped on top of her straw sailor, the long brown velvet ribbons fluttering in the wind. “Goodbye,” she was shouting happily to someone. “Goodbye . . . goodbye.”
    And that was their place, Ivy thought with a sharp pang of regret. It was a queer sort of world, come to think of it.

3
    Hanna Rilke Greville, Countess Stanmore, sat at her writing desk fronting a deeply set bay window in the sitting room of her suite. The window overlooked a small formal garden, where ordered ranks of boxwood shrubs and roses formed precise geometric patterns when viewed from above. The countess was wearing a green silk peignoir with a downy fringe of marabou feathers around the collar, cuffs, and hem. Her long blonde hair was now unbraided and brushed into smooth, shiny