Ashwood Read online

  “Director Tia has a bit of an artsy side,” a tired female voice interrupted my greeting. “Awful impractical when you consider the laundry that must be done to keep the girls dressed for viewing.” She clapped her hands once. The workers snapped upright, turned away, returning to their assigned activities.

  A tall woman, her gray hair flattened from the pillow, Barbara stood slightly out of direct light so that shadows softened her face. While trim, she wasn’t thin. “You’ll discover they keep odd hours. Sometimes Director Tia appears midday and wants everything to be ‘cheerful’ in the house, even if the children are doing their chores. We have drab issuance to wear when the couple is away or the daily work requires practical clothes.” She shrugged both shoulders, an elegant dismissing motion.

  I waited for her to introduce herself. Instead we drifted into a less than subtle inspection of each other. She wore the standard matron uniform in black—a sweater over a long-sleeve shirt and pants. Each piece appeared shabby, surprising from what I knew of her background. I wore my uniform tailored in the East Coast tradition versus the Midwest look that was about comfort. Barbara stared at the teal silk scarf I wore around my neck, a gift from my mentor, Senior Executive Director Sandra Goetz.

  Beyond, the children watched our mutual visual assessment as they moved about the food preparation area.

  “Obviously, I am Matron Anne,” I said to break the silence. “Ashwood is a beautiful residence, and I know you’ll have much to share with me before you leave.”

  “Sure.” She uttered the single word slowly as if unsure.

  Not knowing what to say next, I glanced around the work space, which appeared to be organized according to outdated protocols. Cups and bowls and plates stood where glassware and serving items should be stored. Seasonings and spices were left on an open shelf where heat from the cook top or ovens could leech their flavors. Step stools had no stacking location.

  Barbara acknowledged my study of the room. “If you’re thinking we ignore protocols, it’s just that they change so often I won’t waste our time,” she said. “These arrangements make sense to me.”

  She turned and began walking away. “You know, it’s not easy to run this size of residence with only children as workers.” The words carried patrician tones.

  Understanding she would keep moving as long as I trailed, I stopped. “I won’t be efficient until I learn your systems. If protocols haven’t been implemented, transition might take longer than we expected.”

  Barbara slowed, spoke over one shoulder. “I was up much of the night clearing your rooms, so excuse me if protocols don’t seem important right now.” She cleared her throat, her voice became stronger. “My transport arrives in forty-seven hours. You’ll have to study quickly.” She turned, ready to walk back to her sleeping quarters, one hand extended at chest-height leaving a smudge along the polished glass tile.

  Young faces kept their eyes glued to small unimportant tasks, but I knew their ears heard every word, every nuance of our exchange. Attempting to keep her in the kitchen, I looked for something to talk about related to dinner’s prep. Surprised, I counted enough portions for the children, Ashwood’s four adult managers and my difficult peer.

  “Matron Barbara.” I called her name. Heads of every child except Lana swiveled to watch her back. With effort I smiled, willed lightness into my voice. “We need to talk. Let me walk with you.”

  3

  Almost ten hours had passed since I ate my last meal as a student in Washington, D.C. Government jets and transports seldom carried food for mere underlings like a matron. Hungry as I felt, what Lana had cooking failed to arouse my appetite. I used the missing portion as a starting point of discussion with Barbara instead of calling attention to her attitude. All those teachers and family members who once chided my sharp tongue would have been proud.

  “Matron Barbara,” I said when I reached her side. “I think I read there are twelve domestic child workers and four managers beyond you eating meals in the residence.”

  “You’ll meet everyone at dinner.” Barbara cleared her throat, resting one hand to her chest, clearly uncomfortable. “I noticed you counting what Lana is cooking. Your food allotment hasn’t been authorized. Month end always arrives before our next food shipment, or I would have directed Lana to add something to the meal for you.” She shrugged, settled her hands in the pockets of her long sweater. I noticed a small well-mended place near one cuff. “Life isn’t always easy on the estates.”

  Life wasn’t always easy on estates, but food was typically plentiful. Staff could eat well on the eggs and fresh produce raised on an every estate’s acreage. That was part of the general business equation for providing the estates with precious land allotments—enough food must be raised for the estate staff as well as a certain market quota.

  “I didn’t see any estate training time in your biography,” Barbara said while shrugging again in what I began to think of as a nervous habit. In contrast, challenge seemed to creep into her voice. She turned, walking us away from the food area and the workers.

  As long as the children might possibly overhear our conversation, I kept my tone neutral while following her. “It’s not easy to identify some estates within metropolitan Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., because many use street addresses of the houses razed to create crop growing areas.”

  “I’m sure you weren’t in charge of these urban estates as a trainee.” Barbara’s words were clipped, old economy affluence coating each syllable.

  “That’s right.” Fighting against impatience, I slowed my answer. “I rotated through responsibility for supervising child workers, production planning, nutrition management, inside maintenance, operations supervision, and general security.”

  Her response came back as polished as if she’d said the same thing to others before I arrived. “Well, you’ll find Ashwood more complicated than making sure three meals are on the table and things are dusted. I’d love to be able to stay and see what the Washington, D.C., gurus thought would prepare someone to run a beautiful place like this.” A suggestion of disapproval, or maybe disillusionment, lay under Barbara’s voice. “I suggested that you apprentice here for a year or so to ensure that the directors don’t suffer from the disruption of an untried girl.”

  The haughty witch certainly wanted recognition of her importance in these remaining hours. Aware that children could always find a reason to work near us, I kept my voice light while giving no ground.

  “I just turned thirty, Matron Barbara. Before labor assignments began, I taught elementary school. By the time the great adversity began, I was married and managing my own home. After my husband passed away and my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer, I managed her bed and breakfast during one of the worst years of the crisis.” I paused, should have stopped, but couldn’t help myself. “What were you doing before labor assignments?”

  With some satisfaction I noticed Barbara’s back straighten, her shoulders elevate. She raised her left hand, well groomed with perfectly formed nails and the slightest indent on one finger suggesting a long ago wedding band. I guessed her to be the kind of woman who once wore a string of pearls even with casual clothes. Her fingertips settled at the base of her collarbone. She looked beyond me into the gloom of the semi-lit hallway toward my suite of rooms.

  Of course I knew her story—widow of a wealthy corporate executive husband, children educated at expensive boarding schools, homes in wonderful resort locations, then some awful fall from grace. I wanted to test Barbara’s honesty. Seconds passed.

  “I’m sure you’re a smart young woman,” she said as if praising a pet. “You’ve read my biography and know about my children, my deceased husband’s career, our homes.”

  She took in a deep breath, fussed with her collar, seemed distracted by something behind my head. “I’ve been left in this place, away from everyone I know, far longer than expected. Now I’ve been told I have to take on a new assignment in upstate New York for another twelv
e months before I receive my visa.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been hoodwinked.”

  “Yet you proposed staying here for a year of transition?”

  “You’re a super achiever, graduating a year early from that elite training academy. I assumed you would catch on quickly and everyone would see that I wasn’t needed.”

  “Albany’s a lot closer to where you lived than Minnesota. Being closer to friends and family might bring some comfort.”

  “You don’t come from the same society where my husband and I lived before this awful collapse. If there had been just another million dollars in our assets, I would have been exempt from moving into this impossible situation.” Her tone implied she knew I’d never seen a million dollars. “I’ve worked like a common woman for the last three years because of calculations prepared by a crooked government agent.”

  She stopped speaking. I thought she had made her point, and I searched for words of empathy. But she had more to say.

  “Since I was just a girl, I have had people like you around me to manage the details of my personal life.” Once again the voice of the wealthy. “This is impossible.” She quirked an eyebrow. “My daughter has servants, a nanny, a personal secretary. That’s the life I know.”

  “I can hear that assuming Ashwood’s responsibilities without more support made you unhappy.” I kept my voice neutral while signaling I wasn’t going to be sympathetic. “Do we have time for a tour before dinner?”

  Her type made my life miserable as a school teacher. Syrupy condescending voices chiding the grading of a daughter’s history project or suggesting a son really couldn’t complete so many pages of homework. I guessed Barbara’s husband had developed powerful political enemies who enjoyed the once pampered widow’s situation. Maybe Barbara snubbed one of their wives in her past life of status, spoke to the wrong person in these same elegant but elite tones about some obvious inferiority.

  “Go ahead and explore,” she said, turning away. “I’ve decided to have dinner served in the directors’ dining room to give you a feel for how they like everything set up. Before you wander, bring your data pad to the dining room and I’ll fill in details.” She clapped, and a worker appeared from the hall. “Set the dining room for a weeknight eighteen. We’ll eat our evening meal around the directors’ table.”

  As we walked back toward the children, I asked the most important question for the moment. “Why does it appear that the workers are so thin?”

  Barbara turned her head. “I remember telling you we have difficulties with our food allocations.”

  “But what about the eggs and dairy products raised right here? Every production report I’ve seen from the agronomist suggests there is plenty of high-quality protein available.”

  “Later,” was all she said as we re-entered the kitchen.

  “Lana’s only made food for seventeen. Who gets the cup of water?” Amber asked the second she saw us.

  “Matron Anne will have toast with spread and tea.”

  “She can have my soup and fish if I can have toast with fruit spread.”

  The child’s behavior could be called spirited, kind-hearted or undisciplined. Amber’s self-declared lack of mastery of the basic thirty words of reading readiness didn’t connect with her bright eyes and easy manner. Then Barbara placed a hand softly on Amber’s head, and I understood that this youngest worker was the current matron’s pet. Checking the other children’s behaviors, subtle signs appeared that at least one or two felt slighted by Barbara’s small affection.

  “Amber, you’d do most anything to avoid fish meals, but you know I’m not going to allow that.” Sounding more like the little girl’s grandmother, Barbara smiled as she gave Amber a gentle push to join the other children. “Now, all of you set up the dining room. We must teach Matron how we do things.”

  “No soup tonight.” Lana spoke up. “Fish and vegetables. We’re out of soup.”

  I heard at least one worker inhale at the news, wondered if they responded out of hunger or in dread of how the vegetables might be prepared. Matron Barbara clapped her hands again. “Then don’t set out bowls. Now get on with your work.”

  The workers moved with efficiency, one taking charge of handing plates to the younger children, another loading a tray with cups, yet another gathering condiments. While children flew from the kitchen area toward the dining room, it was hard to notice that simple steps like washing hands before handling table items or counting plates were missed. Perhaps supervising the workers had become as tedious to Barbara as maintaining storage protocols.

  Lana worked without supervision over Ashwood’s large traditional gas range. Her face was flushed, her hair barely held back with a black stretch band. She seemed disconnected from the room’s activity, leaving me to wonder if she felt overwhelmed by her responsibility. I wanted to step into the kitchen and look for something to improve the quality of the fish poaching in a large pan.

  “I have maintained worker dietary guidelines, and everyone gets their weekly fish, meat, dairy, fruits and vegetables,” Barbara said as if reading my mind. “While we do without a cook except for the directors’ special diets, Lana has developed quite nicely and is able to prepare basic foods.”

  Basic and, based on tonight’s dinner, unappetizing, I thought. Careful to keep my voice low enough for just Barbara’s hearing, I asked, “Perhaps too basic. The children look thin, undernourished. What happened to Ashwood’s cook resources?”

  “The directors’ food is ordered from a wonderful caterer I found in St. Paul. It’s costly, but they deliver fully prepared meals on a weekly basis. You should plan for a few side items to make the table look nice.” She was all business, ignoring my question about kids with the thin faces of hunger. “Director David likes to eat more than a man his size probably should. You’ll have to report that if he puts on more weight.”

  “Can we go back to the empty cook assignment? I think that impacts the workers’ health. These children look hungry, yet every food-related resource is overextended.”

  A boy worker, the one named Ladd, slowed his movement as he walked past. His eyes focused on the tray of water glasses he carried while his head tipped toward us. I scanned the food preparation area and dining room as if in a classroom and noticed the confluence of children within earshot of where we stood.

  Barbara appeared to notice my observation. She stood back on her heels, as if she intended to ignore me. Pink splotches highlighted her cheeks and neck. Her arms now crossed over her chest. “Gossip is the privilege of the serving class. Children may not be as subtle about eavesdropping, but we both know little pitchers have big ears.”

  “Please walk with me down the front hall. We’ll be out of the workers’ way.” My invitation forced Barbara to follow me. We walked side by side down the central hall which, as a public space, was half again wider than the back halls of the house.

  “Your comment about gossip being the privilege of servants disturbs me,” I said. “These are child workers, not servants. No one knows what their future will be. Everything we do in residence needs to be constructive to developing ethical, hard-working adults.”

  “Oh, come now, Matron Anne. Do you really believe that self-righteous chatter? Look at these children. Do you see anything that would make one of them stand out in a crowd?” Her eyes, cool blue, focused on me as if challenging a person of lesser intelligence. “You must have been one of those tiresome rah-rah teachers.”

  “I was the kind of teacher you would have wanted for your children.”

  “My children didn’t go to public school.”

  “I know that. I taught at a public school as well as a private academy in St. Paul and learned that potential of children is universal whether their school is free or costs a fortune. ” I paused. Barbara did not respond. “A significant responsibility of our role as estate matrons is to prepare these children to be productive adults, not merely train them to set a table and dust furniture.”

  I re
turned us to the question I’d asked at least twice before. “Now, what happened with the cook and food? If there’s something I should know from you as the person accountable for all that took place in this estate, this is your time to talk.”

  “This attitude of yours won’t work here.” She spoke with confidence.

  “We’re not talking about my attitude.” I modulated words when I wanted to hiss. “By the way you keep avoiding these topics, I can only assume there are irregularities.”

  “I’m going to ignore that accusation unless you would rather apologize?”

  I would control my irritation, but not apologize. In an amazing switch, Barbara changed topics. “Director Tia is brilliant, as you know, and crucial to the next phase of an international natural energy project. When she’s stressed, she can be difficult to please, and sometimes lets odd beliefs take hold.” Barbara stopped talking, took a deep breath, suddenly unnerved by the conversation.

  “She believed our cook was weakening her through chemical additives. I found an outside vendor. We were forced to subsidize the cook for a number of months to keep stories from starting in town.”

  “Is Ashwood still paying this cook?” Barbara knew nothing about future plans for the directors or how rumors could be a problem. “Who else knows this story?”

  “The cook moved away months ago. There might be a few who have heard talk.”

  She fidgeted that same nervous twitchy motion from earlier. I stayed quiet, assuming the fidget preceded additional information.

  “Well, you know merchants.” Barbara sniffed. “If we bought five pounds of bananas a week regularly then changed that to three pounds, they’ll make up a story about the change. I’m sure a few have their suspicions.”