Wheels of Whispers - Chapter 1

“Josephine, dear, why don’t you serve yourself to some biscuits?”

“Eve, thank you very much, but I nonetheless must not profit from your generosity.” “But I do insist, I had these biscuits baked especially for you!”

“Then I insist you accept my invitation to our manor next week, dear!”

“Oh, I wish I could go, I really do, but my beloved husband has been called on duty to London, and I cannot leave the whole responsibility of running a complete household to the servants. I believe you are well aware of the reasons.”

“Certainly, finding reliable servants is a challenge these days. Did I catch your statement correctly?” “I am sure you did, dear.”

“I am slightly surprised Bartholomew didn’t mention that he would have a pleasant company whilst traveling, if I may express myself so.”

“Oh, the little secrets…! Josephine, dear, why don’t you serve yourself to some cake?”

***

“ELIAS!”

The boy in question shrugged at the harsh voice of Mr. Phelps, who had stepped into the stables… and into something else.

“I’LL HAVE THE PAVEMENT CLEANED UP WITH YER TONGUE!”

“Please, Mr. Phelps, your extremely loud shouting scares Blitz and Spotty, could you keep your voice down?”

“NOT REALLY!” The birds in a radius of three kilometers fell off the trees at the same time.

“TOLD YE I WANTED TO COME BACK INTO A CLEAN STALL, AND YET, THERE’S MESS IN ‘ERE!”

“No wonder, you shouldn’t have wiped your boots on the floor in an attempt to get rid of the…”

“ARE YE TALKIN’ BACK TO ME?”

“Yes, that’s the reason why I decided to engage in a conversation with…”

“LEAVE THE FANCY WORDS AND SWEEP UP THIS THING, THEN TAKE CARE OF ‘EM HORSES! UNDERSTOOD?!”

“Yes, you have made yourself clear, and…”

“OFF TO WORK, YE LAZY BRAT!”

***

While Elias was struggling to breathe through his mouth to avoid the smell of hay and muck, Louis was also fighting for his life. Ida constantly gave him orders which usually included cutting the onions and hot peppers, resulting in him constantly tearing up and cutting his fingers. One of the cook’s ancestors had been Hungarian, therefore, Ida was keen on carrying the tradition of overdosed spiciness in her meals on.

“Let me check… No, this needs more salt, and that one has no taste at all! Louis! Get some peppers from the storage, will you?”

“As soon as my eyes aren’t foggy.”

“Why couldn’t they hire a housegirl?”

“Because that doesn’t make sense.”

“At least she wouldn’t complain about vegetables! No, don’t even protest! Go and fetch me the peppers!”

“As soon as…”

“As soon as I kick you into the basement! FETCH THE PEPPERS!”

Louis stumbled upon a stool, hit his elbow on a table, then finally managed to crawl across the kitchen and into the storage without further bruises. He noticed some red spots, which he believed to be hot peppers.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Louis! We’re not baking pies! Can’t you make a difference between chillis and cherries?”

***

“Did you get it?”

“I managed to snatch it from the basket.”

“I can’t comprehend this, I just can’t. Why would they put newspapers on the fire after being read?” “Not to waste anything?”

“Rhetorical question, Edith, rhetorical question.”

“Pardon me, miss poetical!”

“You’re excused.”

“Rhetorical… expression, Florence!”

“Shut it, please! I’d be delighted if you let me focus on the table of contents.”

The two housemaids leaned against the folded newspaper, their thirsty eyes wildly roaming through the articles in a desperate search of a piece of news about an intriguing case the Scotland Yard had dealt with in the past week, hopefully a good-old-fashioned murder, a thrilling topic to discuss about.

Truth be told, Florence and Edith detested their jobs as housemaids at the Somershill Manor. You can’t blame them: after a while, anybody would develop a healthy work allergy from dusting, mopping, and bedding, not to mention the nonchalantly spoken instructions and scolding from Mr. Palmer. The butler noticed even the smallest, negligible ‘imperfections’.

For instance, yesterday he measured the temperature of the water in the bath and found it colder by exactly 2.35 degrees. The day before yesterday, he frowned at the sight of one nano-sized crumb behind the wardrobe, an eternally unsolvable mystery how the damn thing had been seen, though.

***

“¡Hora de la cena!” [come to dinner]

No reaction.

“¡Señor y Señora, cena!” [Lord and Lady, dinner]

After realizing she had switched unwillingly to her native language, which nobody was able to understand, entitling it simply an ‘incoherent, inhuman, unnecessary yelling’, Mrs. Martinez sighed and decided to let the tone deliver the actual message instead of her unaccepted usage of words amongst the members of the upper class.

“CHOW TIME!”

Lord and Lady Ellsworth, still having no idea what the housekeeper was yelling as their social-status-provided-vanity hindered them from mastering the common British slang, appeared at the dining room as their stomach slightly suggested that the time for consuming food had arrived, albeit they both agreed that ‘food’ was an underestimated term for the served pure hot peppers containing more salt than the sea, flavored with additional goulash.

Balázs-Blénessi-Pataki Kincső X.R