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“Mrs. Shelby?” You say. She’s slumped against the seat. “Mrs. Shelby? Are you okay?” 

She doesn’t respond. You touch her arm lightly. You’re terrified. One time she asked you to zip a dress then lashed out at you when it got stuck part way. 

“Mrs. Shelby?” You repeat a third time. 

Nothing. You’re all alone and helpless. You can’t leave her out here, but you also don’t know how to get her inside. 

You stretch your fingers around her arm. You tug her. She jerks then folds forward. 

“Mrs. Shelby, I’m sorry.” You push her back up. Her body is slack. She’s heavier than you expect.  

You lean her back and stare at her silhouette. Would the driver help? You hold her in place and slowly peel your hand away. 

You slide over the seat and get out. You go around her side and grab the handle. You slowly open it. You bend to look at her. She’s dead asleep. 

You lean in and hook your arms under hers. You really don’t think you’re strong enough. You try to move her. You grunt and nearly fall into her lap. 

“Come on, Mrs. Shelby. Please,” you beg. 

A flash of light startles you. You pull back but Mrs. Shelby nearly falls out. You catch her, digging in your heels, and hold her up with all your strength. You look back at the headlights drawing up behind the streetcar. 

The engine rolls over and the night air quiets once more. The fountain water plucks like woodwinds. A car door opens and shuts and footsteps stride up the stonework. You watch Mr. Shelby as he approaches. 

“Mr. Shelby, I—I'm sorry. She must be tired.” 

“Tired?” He tuts. “Allow me.” 

“I’m sorry,” you utter again. “I tried--” 

He comes close and leans in. He brushes close and you back away, crushed against the car door as he crowds you. He lifts her, draping her over his shoulder with a sigh. You wince as he reaches for you. He grips the car door and you blink. 

You move out of the way. He shuts the door and you hover around him nervously. Should you go home? Do you follow him? 

“You shouldn’t have to try,” he rebukes. “My wife should walk upon her own strength and not leave even her most basic labour upon you.” 

“Sir, I...” You trail after him. You haven’t been dismissed after all. She’ll need help. “I apologise.” 

“Which you should stop,” he climbs the curved steps up to the front doors. 

You get ahead of him and open them. He enters. You step inside and quickly pull off your shoes. He keeps his one as he marches across the echoing foyer. 

You keep two feet back from his heels. You’d hate to tread on them. He carries Mrs. Shelby’s limp body upstairs and down the hall. You open her bedroom door as well. You suppose it’s his as well though she cried to Charlotte how he rarely slept in the bed. That’s none of your business. 

He lays her on the bed as you go into the attached bathroom. You take a clean white washcloth and run cold water over it. You wring it out then smooth it. You go out and near Mrs. Shelby. You wipe her forehead with the wet cloth. 

You gently clean away her layers of makeup. She’s really a beautiful woman. She could wear less. You quietly work away. 

Mr. Shelby clears his throat. You jump and glance back at him. You assumed he’d left. You give a sheepish look. 

“You put great care into your work.” He comments. He stands, hands in his pocket, eyes set on you. 

“Mrs. Shelby isn’t feeling well.” You look at her again and wipe her lips gently. “She’ll need water. I’ll get her some and maybe if she stirs, some tea.” 

He shifts. “I’ll fetch the water.” 

“Sir, I can do it. It’s my job.” 

“Is it?” He wonders. 

You stare at him. You’re not sure. You focus again on Mrs. Shelby. You don’t look up again until you hear him go. 

You put the cloth aside. You drag the blankets out from under Mrs. Shelby then pull them to her waist. You tidy her hair and adjust her head on the pillow. She’s not going to feel very well tomorrow. 

Mr. Shelby returns. He crosses the room and pulls a mother of pearl coaster from the stack near the lamp. He puts the glass of water down. 

You stare at his wife. You snatch up the wet cloth and squeeze it. You spin and scurry away. You put the cloth in the hamper before you enter the bathroom. You grab the bin and return with it. 

“In case she is sick,” you set it beside the bed. “Should she be on her back?” 

He hums. He rolls his wife and leans her on her stomach. He stands straight and clucks down at her. 

“I owe you an apology. For her. She would too but we both know she’ll never give it,” he faces you. “I have another favour to ask.” 

“Favour? Sir. I work for Mrs. Shelby. It’s my job.” 

“No, I’m not your job,” he drawls. “But you mentioned tea. Might I trouble you to brew some before you’re off?” 

You nod and stare at his tie. A nice grey and black paisley. “I can do that, sir. No trouble.” 

You sidestep him. You go out of the room and hear him follow a few paces back. The switch click off as you get to the staircase. The door shuts with a snap. 

You descend and go to the kitchen. You put the kettle onto boil and take down a painted mug. You measure leaves into a steeper and hook it over the brim. The water steams and you pour. 

You wait. You smell the tea. You can just tell it’s just right. Or rather, just how you like it. You remove the steeper and empty it, rinse it, then put it aside to dry. 

You pick up the cup and pause. You realise, you don’t know where Mr. Shelby would be. You turn and nearly shriek. He sits at the square island on one of the high stools. He watches you. 

You come around the marble counter and place the cup before him. “Milk? Sugar?” 

“Touch of milk, please,” he intones. 

“Yes, sir.” 

You flit to the fridge and take out the glass jug. You bring it to him. He gestures to his cup. You add a small dollop. A cloud plumes in the reddish brew. 

You take the milk back to the fridge. You face him again as he watches the tea change colour. He hooks his finger through the handle and lifts it. He sniffs before he tastes. 

“Perfect. Finely steeped,” he praises, keeping the cup before his lips. 

“Sir.” You bow your chin. 

He watches you over the rim. His blue eyes sparkle and he inhales. He sets the cup down. He grabs the knot of his tie and loosens it. 

“Tommy,” he insists. “No one else around.” 

“Yes, s—Tommy,” you toy with his name on your tongue. “Is there anything else I might get you?” 

His gaze lingers for a moment then falls to the tea. “No, suppose not. You will go home and sleep.”