I feel empty on the walk into town, today my penultimate day working at Café Au Lait. As always, Len is at my side, never saying a word nor showing anything but a plain expression on her face. I thought my mood would improve by the time we get to Lottie’s house, but that doesn’t happen, still wrapped in a layer of indifference.

My forced smile when I see Gwen is only enough to fool her, Lottie efficiently arranging things so that the two of us sit in the kitchen while Gwen finishes her homework for Sunday school.

Dragging my gaze away from the mug in front of me, I look Lottie in the eye. “May I honestly ask you something?” I ask her.

She returns my stare for a moment, and then gently nods, a soft smile coming to her.

For all the fun I’ve had this last week, these last two weeks, it’s not enough to make me forget all my troubles. “Am I just being a nuisance?” I quietly ask.

Too afraid to keep looking at Lottie, I look down at my hands on the table, fingers curling into fists, squeezing tighter and tighter. Then her hand comes over, gently rests on top of one of mine. Slowly, so very slowly, I raise my gaze until it meets hers, finding a tender look on her face, maybe even a loving look.

“Yes, but we’re very fond of you nonetheless,” she says sincerely.

My mother really is a bad influence on everyone she likes.

Although Lottie’s response makes me smile, it’s not long before the gap left behind by the doubt she cleared up becomes filled with other feelings. My tears well up, spill, and I bring up my hands to wipe them away, but more and more keep coming.

“I have friends at school now, and we get on so well… but I really wanted to be friends with everyone at the café,” I say, my voice strained by the end. I choke on a sob, spluttering, starting to sniffle. Sinking further, I can only ask, “Why doesn’t Len want to be my friend? I really liked her, and she was so nice to me, and I thought she liked me, but, but….”

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Lottie says, her voice soothing and motherly.

“And I’m too scared to tell the others,” I say, a croaky whisper. “I don’t want to be hurt by people I like. It’s, I just….”

My words end in confusion, mind melting into a bunch of nonsense as all I want is to be held, needing that basic comfort. After saying goodbye to Len, I had Violet to reassure me; this time, it’s a lot messier of a parting, Millie and Annie already gone from my life for good, and I’ll be seeing Iris and everyone else for the last time tomorrow.

And then, I don’t know, I guess seeing Lottie makes me feel safe, so I slipped into this childish mood. Like I’m six years old again and upset over a girl not wanting to play with me. Pathetic, huh?

Before my tears entirely dry up, I’m pulled into a hug—a very awkward hug.

“Mama, what did you say to her?” Gwen angrily asks.

Really, it’s more like she’s trying to pull me off the chair.

I’m not so shameful to cry in front of a child without good reason, yet I certainly lack any shame when it comes to teasing. Looping an arm around Gwen, I pat her back, and I tell her, “Your mother said I’m not pretty enough to marry you when you grow up.”

Glancing at Lottie, I see a look that seems to be equal parts exasperation and surprise.

Gwen doesn’t hide the emotion in her voice, every bit as angry as before. “You told me I could marry whoever I wanted when I grow up!”

It takes me a moment to process what she said, and then it takes everything I have not to burst out laughing. What an unexpected assist. Lottie only grows more despondent, no doubt the things she wants to say piling up faster than she can order them.

Rather than give her the chance to correct anything, I say to Gwen, “Don’t worry. I’ll marry someone else, but you can be a flower girl—how about that?”

My words elicit an excited gasp. “Really?” she asks, letting go so she can stare up at me. One of her friends has recently been a flower girl, so I knew she’d be interested.

I meet her gaze, nodding my head, and give her head a light pat. “Your dress will be so pretty that we’ll have to blindfold everyone otherwise they’ll get jealous.”

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“C-can it be pink?” she asks, stuttering as she speaks faster than she can think.

“Of course. In fact, why don’t you draw what you want it to look like? That way it will be perfect,” I say, smiling.

“Yes!” she says. After flashing me a brilliant smile, she runs off to the lounge, shortly followed by a thump, and then she mutters, “Ow ow ow,” the words drifting through to the kitchen.

I keep looking at the doorway for half a minute or so before turning back around. “You aren’t going to check on her?”

“If she has the wits to moan, then she’s fine,” Lottie says lightly.

That would normally be enough to make me laugh, but I’m a bit too drained right now. Looking more closely at Lottie, she’s maybe not as composed as she always is. It takes me a moment to realise it’s probably because I was crying. As a child, I wasn’t allowed to be comforted by maids, so there were many times when I would get hurt and she could only check if a doctor was needed. (It was to do with teaching children self-reliance—and probably to avoid them getting overly attached to servants.)

Of course, Lottie wasn’t perfect and offered me a calming word or two (like earlier) at those times. Old memories now, I can only vaguely remember her panicked expression, so different to her usual calm.

Coming back to the present, Lottie lets out a sigh. “I worry for whomever you marry.”

I smile, but I’m still not in the frame of mind for laughing. Silence settles for a minute before I softly say, “Sorry.”

Lottie doesn’t quite react to my word, and I doubt she heard it until she says, “Do you remember when I first came to the estate? You wouldn’t cry in front of me, always running away or, if you couldn’t, then turning away.”

“Really?” I say, trying and failing to remember.

She started working around when I was starting to understand that having Ellie’s memories wasn’t normal. I certainly was precocious, acting older than I was. While I would ask for help, I didn’t do so frivolously, and kept my worries to myself. I had even tried to cope with the bullying alone.

“Yes,” Lottie says, gently nodding. “It was after you ruined a patch of mistress’s flowers and I took the blame that you opened up to me. I have… always held this privilege dear to me. At the time, I was young and inexperienced, always worried I was doing things wrong. However, it warmed my heart to know you felt comfortable around me.”

I listen, and then sit there astonished for a moment. “Why were you blamed?” I ask, that bit sounding strange when thinking over what she said.

“Well, you really had fallen by accident, but you knew how much your mother liked those flowers. Before you could run off and cry, I held your hand and said I would tell her I did it. To be frank, I said that so I wouldn’t have to chase after you, and I am sure your mother knew what had happened by how muddied your dress was. Not to mention you confessed shortly after because you didn’t want me to get into trouble. Apparently, you begged her not to fire me—even though she hadn’t even said anything about punishing me.”

Ah, that sounds a little familiar. I’d often been afraid that my mother would fire my maids after I caused some trouble or got injured under their watch. One time, yes, I hugged my mother, crying my eyes out, telling her, “I did it,” and, “You can’t fire Lottie.”

“When you apologised to me at bedtime, you shed a few tears, and then made me promise not to lie to your mother ever again,” Lottie says, a nostalgic smile on her face.

Definitely me.

The nostalgia warms me up, gradually clearing away the emotional lethargy I felt as we talk a little more about the past. Of course, it’s not long before Gwen returns with a drawing. I compliment it extravagantly and, once Lottie has seen it, I carefully fold it up and put it in my handbag.

While I’m at times unsure if I’ll be marriageable by the time of my debut, unsure how my reputation will fare, I intend to keep my promise to her. If I don’t get married, then I’ll make sure she has the most beautiful dress for her own wedding.

Time flies—as it always does when with Lottie and Gwen. I go to the café and meet the other Thatcher daughter: Rose. (I see a pattern.) Terri is taking care of Rose’s children, so I guess I won’t see her again. Iris and Georgia are here as well, and I’m told another waitress will be coming before the lunch rush starts. (Julia, another young woman similar to Len and Georgia.) There’s no trouble during work, everything going well, and having three very experienced waitresses next to me makes it an easier job than usual.

Back at school, I’m relieved to hear I’ve missed a lot of studying.

The next morning, I make my last early escape from the school. (Maid) Len diligently accompanies me out into the town and, like I have the last few weeks, I take her to get a cup of tea from one of the stands on the main road. It hasn’t tasted any better, yet it’s hot and cheap and she hasn’t complained.

Like yesterday, my mind has had a lot of time to wind itself into knots, and so I end up in an unreasonable mood. “May I ask you something?” I say to Len.

A slight pause, and then she asks, “Is that mistress’s order?”

Such a deadpan response, I can’t tell if she’s teasing me. Given how competent she is, I imagine she is teasing me; clever people can’t help but be clever.

But I’m not looking for a light mood, so I ignore her response and give her my unreasonable question. “Do you think I’m weird for working at a café, for wanting to be friends with commonfolk girls, for visiting a woman who used to be my family’s servant and doting on her daughter?”

Seconds trickle past, and then she says, “I am only a maid.”

I smile to myself, expecting such an answer. It’s the only answer she can really give. As a maid, why would she say anything unnecessary to me? She doesn’t owe me anything.

Her life is hard enough without my eccentricities. That’s why I leave servants alone, don’t try and make them act like we’re friends. I won’t tell her to drink tea with me inside a shop, or ask her about her family, or try to secretly give her money. It’s a basic respect for her feelings and it’s the least I can do.

But I’m weak today.

“I’m sorry for being such a pathetic mistress,” I whisper, not sure if she hears.

Maybe it’s all in my head, but I think she did hear me as she leans over enough that our shoulders bump. No more words spoken, we stand like that and drink our tea and watch the river churn, bloated by the March rains.

Her presence is a simple yet warm comfort on this lonely day.