I was asleep for most of the long drive, and only woke up when the car began to slow down, and Jennifer turned off down a long, tree-lined avenue. While I slept, I dreamed, inevitably, of Holly. I woke up with a sharp pang, and then something tingled and tickled against my heart, like a soft paintbrush. I missed her.

A large crow flew across the road with something in its beak, and I looked above at the time on the digital clock. Red and gold leaves fell across the windows. It was late afternoon. There was a sharp, cold breeze filtering in through the crevices in the door. The car purred and hummed underneath me, all around me. After a few miles, Jennifer made a turnoff, and stopped the car by a stone gate. She flipped the engine off and, with a smile in my direction, stepped out. I heard the clack and ring of metal, and then the whining creak of the old gate opening. 

Once she had got back in the car and clapped the door shut against the wind, she brought the car down a long, semicircular entranceway. Then she reached across me with her right arm – which was clad in a loose, white, tight-sleeved blouse – and opened the glove compartment. Her hand rummaged around inside for a few seconds until it found what she wanted: a framed photograph, which she handed to me.  

The lower border of the frame read “CHLOE” in dark green print. It was a full-length miniature shot of her. I studied the picture for a few seconds: the dark hair, the coral-colored, lightweight dress, the mellow, down-to-earth, grace & beauty of a woman in her late-thirties or early-forties, the healthy figure (Rubenesque), the low-heeled, slip-on pumps. She was beautiful, too – very much so. I was very, very nervous all of a sudden, and my hands start to shake when I’m like that. The car stopped. Jennifer pushed the stick forward and flicked the key. There was silence for a few moments – just crows, the sound of the wind outside, and my own breathing. The picture was still in front of me.

“Okay then,” said Jennifer. “Let me take that back.” The picture went back in the compartment.

“Well,” I said, gulping, and doing my best to hide my trembling hands in the folds of my shirt. “Well, it’s cold out.” I was about a foot too short to see out the window, but now and then the sunlight peeked in through the glass – so I knew there were clouds in the sky. Probably a gray sky.

She nodded curtly, and took me up in her hand, arranging my hat and straightening out my printed dress. “There’s just one thing,” she said, reaching into her purse. I waited, standing there and trying to hold my balance over the surface of her soft palm, my legs spraddled out, my knees awkwardly knocked. I had to use all my energy just to keep from falling over onto my face.

“Ms. Winters – well, after all this time, she still likes a good surprise, “ Jennifer said, while pulling out an old ten-dollar coin and a purple (fuchsia) sock.

“I see,” I said, swallowing hard, while I followed her other hand below as it idly fingered her left, cherry-colored flat. “…and it’s getting more difficult for me to surprise her. You understand that I can’t simply show you to her – not as you are, in any case. Why? No point in explaining something you’ll find out soon enough. But for now, I’ll simply tell you this: we run a small, tight ship here. We’re efficient – we’re on time – we do our work well. We’re a small household: two people besides myself and your mistress. We have a cook, and Chloe has her protégé – Abigail. The nature of Chloe’s business means that she travels frequently – but wait for her to tell you what her business is. They will not –“ Jennifer paused, and smiled – it was a friendly, open, attractive smile, and for a moment (and this wasn’t to be the first time) I felt like she was speaking to me confidentially and off-the-record. “From what I’ve heard, from others and even from Chloe herself, you should expect better treatment here than you’re used to.”

“Holly was—“ I blurted out, and immediately felt stupid. But she shouldn’t have said anything – although I wasn’t completely sure what it was she’d said. A lump rose in my throat. “When you got to know her, I mean.”

“I don’t doubt it. I’m not even sure it was her I meant. But everything I’ve heard was hearsay, and in any event there’s no malice in my heart for those good people. Though there was Adela… but, of course, there were some things I wouldn’t have believed unless I’d seen them myself – Adela, for one. But you probably have better information.”

I kept my deafening silence.

And then, in the silence of the car, I heard a soft cheep from down below, by Jennifer’s feet. She had kicked off her left flat while we were talking.

“Hush that!” she hissed, and squeezed me tightly in her hand, while bending down and flicking something in the dark, by her shoes. Silence reigned again.

She stretched out her back, and cracked the joints, stiff after so many long hours in the car. I couldn’t move a muscle with her hand clenched around me. Then she turned to me, cracked a smile that was more like a smirk, and leaned in confidentially, whispering: “A little something for Abby. Be glad you’re not him.”

“Who?” And why should I be glad?

“There are slaves,” Jennifer said, still under her breath – “and then there are slaves.” I didn’t ask for more, and she didn’t offer.

There was a muffled shout as Jennifer slid her flat back on, roughly and inattentively, her mind elsewhere – then she turned the door-handle, and a blast of cold, autumnal air hit my face as she stepped with me out of the car. She shut the door again, and then stood outside the car, in the gravel drive, contemplatively.

“Unless Chloe doesn’t tell you this – I don’t even know if I should say this to you – you’re wearing Emma’s clothes. No,” she said, anticipating my question, “don’t worry about her. After the first month, Chloe – please call her Chloe, not Ms. or Mrs. Winters – recognized her promise and did her best to encourage it. Her athletic promise, that is…” She stopped.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Meredith – oh, I’m sorry! – I just remembered that Chloe is out for the weekend.”

“Oh!”

“I forgot – I totally forgot! Oh – well, okay. You won’t mind being alone tonight, will you?”

“Alone?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll find a place. You’re probably hungry, aren’t you?”

“Jennifer…” I said. (My eyes were beginning to tear up. Don’t cry, I told myself. Don’t cry.)

“…and tomorrow afternoon, maybe early evening, you’ll meet her. You’ll meet Chloe. But I should have remembered!”

“Jennifer?” I asked, more weakly.

“I just have one question for you,” she said, pulling out a couple keys at the door.

“A question?” I looked at my hair, which started to shine in the fading sunlight – titian hair. I remembered who I was, and felt almost courageous for a moment. The sunhat was ugly and hot, and I wanted to take it off.

“How would you like a tour of the house this evening – say, after dinner.”

“I would like that,” I answered.

“Good,” said Jennifer, pushing open the thick, veneered door. A complicated smell greeted my nostrils – old, charred wood, perfume, smoked meat, and something almost yellow and citric – and I took a deep breath involuntarily.

“Meredith,” said Jennifer, before stepping in. I remember these words very well. “I’m on your side – don’t forget that. This is the way things are – at least for now. You know that, and I know that. But you must be brave. No one – not even the people at the very top – no one knows what might happen in the next six months. Or in the next week. Brave – be brave. As long as you’re not some man on the bottom rung, you have something to be grateful for. Remember that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”

“Well, let’s go upstairs and see your room.” She started to climb the stairs, very slowly, her hand grazing the bannister. Light poured through the window at the first landing, and I heard the crash of a pan somewhere below, on the first floor. From Jennifer’s closed fist, I could see a shaded garden path, and a leaf-covered lawn enclosed by an ancient-looking wall. The sun was still above the treeline, but it was beginning to set. When there was a break in the cloud-cover, the sun illuminated all the grains and details in the wood, all the dust motes, and even the tiny beads of sweat and delicate hairs of Jennifer’s warm hand. She paused on the landing. “Left or right?” she asked.

What? I wondered. I had only known Jennifer for a few hours – and it was still kind of difficult for me to read her mood correctly. The one time she was serious, she sounded playful – and up to that point much of her play sounded almost sinister to me. All her information was businesslike, but her manner was confidential, all-too-friendly for our first time together. I didn’t say anything.

“I’m just talking to myself,” she said. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Here’s why I asked: whenever Chloe buys Abby a new pair of socks or shoes, she slips a dime – or a 1- or 10-dollar piece – to surprise her – into the toe. But I have this other guy – you see?—”

“Left,” I said, quickly.

“Left it is,” said Jennifer. She pressed on into the upper hallway.