Saturday, the last one in September. Something I realised one year in my childhood, autumn felt darker, and I eventually realised it was because there’s no putting the clocks forward in spring. I don’t mind the lighter mornings, waking up at seven o’clock well after sunrise. However, the sun seems to set an hour earlier than at the start of September, fairly dark by half past six.

I guess I’m lucky with my new job. Café Au Lait “closes” around four (waiting until the clients leave), so I should be able to walk home in daylight for all of October. November… when the sun sets is not something I go out of my way to remember. Considering the shop caters to women, I think it will close before it gets dark.

Anyway, I’m thinking all those useless things while getting ready. Today must be colder than it seems, blow-drying my hair almost painfully hot on my hands, unfortunately not much I can do about it right now. I just take it slow, using warm water to soothe away the prickling feeling. After that, I quickly get dressed, making enough time in my morning routine for… makeup!

However, makeup is, well, it’s different here to what (old) Ellie had, so no primer or bronzer, and everything is a thick cream or paste, or powder. With what Iris said last week, I carefully use the parts of my kit I haven’t touched since coming here. I mean, Nora is a boring girl, so I only put on a bit of concealer to soften blemishes and even out the complexion under my eyes. When going into town, I put on foundation and used more concealer. For today, I work in a gentle blush to my cheeks, and use a lipstick that’s a shade pinker than nude. Though I consider contouring as well, I don’t actually want to stand out—if anything, hiding my cheekbones.

Overall, the look is… cute rather than pretty. I mean, I’m still pretty, but the colour adds warmth to my smile, makes me look a little embarrassed, endearing, childish. Ellie tried to look more like her older sister (when she was in her early teens), so she was more about looking mature and carried that on to me.

Well, I could spend all day fiddling with my makeup, but I have somewhere to be. Neville asked me to get to the café early and, considering the pay (one shilling a half-shift for an apprentice waitress, going up to a shilling and a half for a waitress), I’m more than happy to. So I walk into Tuton amidst the chill; it makes me think I should ask Lottie to teach me to knit, woollen gloves appealing as I rub my hands to keep away the cold.

Speaking of, I told her last week I wouldn’t need her to guide me any more, but I still see her waiting for me where the road from the school meets the river. For a moment, I think she really does have that poor an opinion of my sense of direction, yet, when Gwen catches sight of me, I realise who really dragged who here.

“Ellie, look! Look!” Gwen says, running over while holding her cross-stitch hoop.

I catch her in a hug, only after that checking what she’s made. “Wow,” I say, holding up the hoop so the sun shines behind it. With how the fabric is, plenty of light comes through the gaps and half blinds me. Blinking away the lingering glare, I lower my head and rub my eyes.

Lottie smiles at me from the side, and it’s the sort of look only a mother can give (even if she’s not my mother).

Gwen impatiently tugs at my dress. “Isn’t it lovely?” she asks.

“So lovely,” I reply, no hesitation. That’s not to say…. I mean, well, it’s an improvement from her last greenfinch. And she’s only six, I remind myself. The important part is she’s enjoying herself and improving herself. So what if some crosses aren’t proper crosses, or she’s left knots on the top side?

She’s just beaming, bless her.

Before we end up dawdling, we get to walking, albeit only for the minute it takes to get to the café. Gwen still fills that time, quite the chatterbox ever since she warmed up to me. Then it’s goodbyes. Lottie still looks like she disapproves of my working, her momentary frown at the café caught by me, but she told me last week that Neville has a good reputation in the area.

From what I picked up and put together myself, it’s also a very busy café during the week with staff to match, but the waitresses are all single women so they’re not as pressured to work, earning spending money or to help out their parents rather than for their livelihood. As such, (I guess) they would rather have the weekends off for dates or looking for boyfriends, or something. I don’t really know what commonfolk women think.

Anyway, I go around to the staff entrance, letting myself in but waiting in the doorway after I announce myself. Neville appears almost at once, stepping out of the kitchen.

“Ah, miss Ellie!”

He shakes my hand, firm yet gentle. “Mr Thatcher,” I say, bowing my head.

“No, please, do call me Neville.”

“Not Nigel?”

His grin is infectious, unable to resist a smile of my own. “Just a game I play with Pete. We went to Sunday school together, you know?”

“Really?”

I almost expected him to say no and turn it into a joke, but he didn’t, keeping that broad smile in place as he leads me to the changing room. “Please, meet my wife,” he says, pushing the ajar door all the way open, not taking a step inside. “This is my Terri, love of my life, father of my children, most—”

“Theresa Thatcher, a pleasure to meet you,” she says, interrupting her husband. She stands up to curtsey before taking a step towards me. Behind her, I see a sewing kit and a uniform. “Ellie, yes?”

She’s a taller version of Iris, her eyes and hair more pink than purple (and especially her hair colour more emphasised, the pink tone standing out amongst the otherwise blonde hair), and her figure is more motherly. Whether Iris takes after her father in that regard or will grow into it, I guess time will tell.

“That is correct,” I say, curtseying back to her.

“Do call me Terri.” As if the price of that, she takes another step forward and reaches past me to close the door, and then simply says, “Strip.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

If I hadn’t seen the sewing kit, I might have felt worried. Instead, I’m sure this is for tailoring. Probably. So I comply, easy enough to do when I only have to take off the dress.

“Oh my,” she says, her eyes looking me up and down.

It’s… haven’t all three of them said that to me?

“You have such a good figure, and without anything underneath,” she says.

Ah, corset! I’m not going around without a bra and knickers, okay? I even have on stockings, otherwise my legs would freeze in this weather. While she’s busy embarrassing me, I finish putting on the uniform from the same locker as before.

“Did you do your own makeup?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She nods, coming closer and leaning in. “It’s done well.”

“Thank you.”

Her thin lips break into a smile, and she steps back, going to the sewing kit. “Ah, he’s reeled in another good girl. If he’d married anyone else, she surely would have the wrong idea by now.”

It’s a thought that’s too funny, a poor wife having to put up with her husband hunting for young women, and I can’t help but giggle into my hand.

“Come, I’ll let out the bust and tighten the waist,” she says, patting the bench next to her. “Well, I say that to every new girl, because isn’t that the nicest thing to hear?”

I press my lips tight, not wanting to let out another laugh. “It is.”

“In your case, I think letting out the waist. You understand, don’t you?” she asks.

I mean, it’s fair that my first thought is, “She’s calling me fat,” right? But I think while she gets to work adjusting the clothes. Tightening the waist is about making a better-looking figure, so letting it out is a worse-looking figure. Or, no, a less-better-looking figure? I repeat similar thoughts, and add in that this is a café for women.

“Is it that… the clients would rather I look boring?” I ask.

She laughs a soft few titters. “I would be more generous and say that they expect someone like a maid rather than a maiden, and it is our job to meet their expectations.”

“Is that so?” I say, thinking over what she said.

Once she has a feel for where and how much she wants to let out the uniform, she has me take it off. It doesn’t take long to make the adjustments, but it’s a little embarrassing for me, sitting there with only my underwear and an apron to cover myself. At least, she’s focused on her work and not so much as glancing at me.

When she finishes and I put on the uniform again, she does another check, satisfied with the fit and shape. Me no longer in a delicate state, she opens the door and Iris just about falls in.

“Ooh, you went with the blush,” she says, rushing over and lifting my chin before even greeting me.

“Good morning, Iris,” I dryly say.

She doesn’t have the decency to blush herself, automatically replying, “And you, miss.”

Can’t she at least say my name?

The rest of the morning before the café opens is busy, a mix of reminders of what she showed me last week and introducing myself to the other waitresses (Millie, Len, Annie). When the church bells sound ten o’clock, Iris and Neville quickly talk for a moment, and then Iris comes over to me.

“We’ll try you with a couple of clients today, but I’ll be right here if you need me, okay?”

I’m surprised, taking a moment to reply. “I’ll do my best.”

She smiles at me before moving to stand with the other waitresses, beckoning me over.

It’s… a lot scarier standing here than in the corner, or behind the bakery counter. I take a deep breath and fix my gaze on a point on the far wall. Belatedly, I remember to smile.

The first two parties are middle-aged women, assigned to the other waitresses, and then a third party arrives. I can’t easily tell from where I’m standing and what I’m looking at, but it’s three or four people, and the one who speaks sounds young for a woman.

“Ladies Hunton, Marden, and Yalding. Miss Ellie will attend to you.”

My breath hitches, but I push myself forward, checking again that I’m smiling. Actually looking at them now, they are young—seniors at my school in uniform. That’s another requirement for leaving the campus, wearing the uniform. I worry for a second that they’ll recognise me, only to then worry more about what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Welcome, mistresses. May I show you to your seat?” I ask, lightly curtseying.

One lady at the back mutters, “Oh, a new girl,” while the “leader” nods, saying, “Please do.”

I walk neatly, steps short and often. Something I noticed the other waitresses doing, I choose a table so that, including the other two parties, all the guests are sort of evenly spaced around the room. It’s not busy enough to be full, so proper spacing seems important.

When they sit, I help tuck them in, and then bring three menus for them before returning to stand at the wall. The kitchen keeps the tab, so I don’t need to know the prices or add up their bill. From the little I’ve read, though, those bills add up to shillings rather than pennies. It seems absurd, imagining old Ellie spending twenty quid on a fancy sandwich and a cup of posh tea. Well, I don’t feel bad for my two pence an hour wage any more.

Despite them being upper-class ladies, I think they’re nice, or rather my impression is that they don’t look down on me. It seemed to be a thing in books in old Ellie’s world, but, really, most people I’ve met treat staff like part of the scenery and there’s no point being rude to a window. Of course, that’s only true while there’s no problem. Even I grumble unhappily if a window gets stuck when I try to open it.

Anyway, my job is to attend to them. I watch them closely without listening in, waiting for a lull that looks like they’ve decided on something, or for one of them to look around expectantly. Never interrupt, but be there without being asked.

A minute and I go check on them. Tea for three, a blend I’m unfamiliar with but memorise. In the kitchen, a “cook” prepares the tea for me while I collect three cups on a tray. I didn’t notice before, but the cupboard is heated, cups hot to the touch. Then there’s a chilled pot of milk, and a pot of orange treacle (syrup). It’s been a while since I’ve badmouthed the author of Snowdrop and the Seven Princes, but they really could have just had sugar, using jams and syrups and such to sweeten things pretty annoying.

The tea properly steeped, it’s poured and strained into the teapot and I put a white cosy over it (to match the table). I take a last breath, and then carry the tray through to the café. The heavy fabric door between the hallway and the café is a bit tricky, but I take it slow, careful not to spill.

At the table, I neatly set out everything for them and offer to pour tea and add milk and “sugar”, making up their drinks as asked. It’s a black tea and, with the subtle scent of orange from the syrup, reminds me of Earl Grey. I think. There isn’t Earl Grey in this world, so it somehow smells like something I’ve never actually smelt before. Well, it smells nice, refreshing for mid-morning.

They soon after have sandwiches as well, served with a small napkin in lieu of cutlery. It’s brown bread, no white bread existing, and is filled with a kind of vegetable chutney that smells a little sour.

Then they have another tea, this one a milky rather than sweet drink. I expect them to be done after that and ready myself to lead them out.

Only, when I go to them, the one says, “We would like to book a table for the week.”

No one’s told me about handling bookings. I didn’t even know this café does bookings. But it’s easy, right? “Of course, my lady. May I ask when and under whose name?”

“Friday at half past three in the afternoon, for Lady Daisy Marden.”

I nod, and suddenly realise something else I should ask. “And for how many?”

“Three.”

Politely bowing, I say, “I shall confirm the booking.”

When I turn around, I see Iris beaming, her eyes sparkling as they stare at me. It’s hard not to laugh. A few words with Neville, and I come back to tell Lady Marden her booking is confirmed. Then they really ask for the bill (I count the money by eye while leaving it on the tray, and I only do that to make sure they haven’t noticeably overpaid by mistake), and I escort them out. I quickly tidy their table before returning to the waitress wall, money taken to the kitchen for them to handle.

I really feel like I’m earning my pay today.