Evil Thing Read online

  After my blissful hour with Mama in the morning room, Miss Pricket escorted me down to the kitchen to thank our cook, Mrs. Baddeley, for the jelly. She didn’t always send a jelly, but when she did, Mama insisted that I be polite.

  I have to be honest: Mrs. Baddeley was insufferable. She was a squat, red-faced woman with eyes that always seemed to be smiling. She was often covered in flour, and strands of hair would fall from the bun that was piled high on her head. Each time she brushed the hair out of her face, she would get more flour all over herself. She was fond of cooing at me like I was still a little girl and not a young lady, and asking me questions that were quite frankly none of her business. Why should she care what I was learning in school? Mama didn’t needle me on which subjects I was taking, so why should our cook?

  On my way downstairs I closed my eyes tightly, willing myself to be kind to her and bracing myself for her squealing litany of rapid-fire questions.

  “Oh, Cruella! How are you doing, my girl?” she asked as soon as she heard my shoes clicking down the stairs. For an older woman, she had the keenest hearing. I swear she could hear me coming all the way from the third floor, and she’d have a jelly made and ready for me by the time I reached the basement.

  “I’m very well, Mrs. Baddeley,” I recited. “Thank you for the jelly, it was beautiful.” Her laugh was slightly raspy, unrefined and loud. It matched her appearance all too perfectly.

  “Oh, my girl, it tastes even better than it looks! Here you go,” she said as she set a heaping portion on the island across from where she was rolling some dough. “Sit down, my dear. I know jellies are your favorite.”

  The fact was I hated jellies, but somehow she had got it into her head I loved them, and so it seemed that I would be besieged by Mrs. Baddeley’s jellies for the rest of my childhood.

  I sat at the stool across from her and forced down my jelly as I watched her roll the dough, a big smile on her face as she asked me her insipid questions.

  “Would you like to invite some friends over for tea? How about that dear sweet girl Anita? We can make a party of it! I can make all your favorites. Doesn’t Anita like lemon tarts?”

  “She does, thank you,” I said between delicate bites. Mama had warned me not to eat too much, after all.

  “I simply can’t believe how old you’re getting. Why, you will be turning twelve soon, Miss Cruella! I shall make you something special, you can be sure of that.” Honestly, she wouldn’t stop talking. “And it won’t be long now until you’re off to finishing school. Just a couple of years. Are you excited? Nervous? Oh, Cruella, you will love school, all those new friends and adventures …” And it went on like that for what seemed like an eternity. How impertinent. As if she knew what I would and would not love. She was always feigning an interest in me, Mrs. Baddeley was. It drove me to distraction. My mother didn’t even ask me those questions. What made a cook think she could? But isn’t that always the way with cooks, chumming it up with the children of the house? Mama told me stories about her family’s cooks, how they passed her sweets and were always striking up inappropriate conversations. I know Anita adored her guardian’s cook—she practically looked to her as a second mother. But that was something I never understood. I had a mother. A marvelous mother. What would I want with a flour-dusted woman who fussed over me almost constantly? I was polite to her, of course. I answered her questions. And I was sweet about it. (Not quite as sweet as Mrs. Baddeley’s noxious jellies, but sweet nevertheless.) That’s how a young lady is expected to conduct herself, so that is how I acted when I did my duty and went down to the kitchen to thank the annoying woman.

  On occasion, my mother, too, would go down and speak with the cook, to remark on an exceptional meal or to thank her for impressing our guests. I think it was because she was afraid we would lose her to another house if she didn’t make a fuss over her from time to time. So many of our guests remarked on Mrs. Baddeley’s cooking that my mother was sure someone would snap her up. “It’s not like the old days,” Mama would say, “when servants were bound to a household their entire lives. They have other opportunities now. Some of them even know how to read and write. We must do our part to keep them loyal.” So she would descend the stairs in her glittering gowns, looking quite out of place, to flash a thankful smile at Mrs. Baddeley and praise her like one might praise a needy little puppy.

  Ah, puppies. But we’ll get to that part of the story soon enough.

  So I took a page from my mother’s book and went down to the kitchen to thank Mrs. Baddeley when she sent me a jelly. I made sure to say that I loved the raspberry most of all. I cooed over the shape of the jelly and asked if I could see the mold in which she’d made it. This all made Mrs. Baddeley chuckle with delight. She looked like a jelly herself, jiggling and wobbling as she did so. She pulled the mold down from the high shelf and showed it to me. I pretended to find it fascinating.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Baddeley. Could you perhaps use the round Bundt mold next time? The one with the little trees. I love that one.”

  Honestly, I didn’t care in which shape my jelly was made; whatever the shape, I’d still have to choke it down. But the request made her laugh, seeming to fill her simple little heart with glee, and she believed me, the fool that she was. “I will, Miss Cruella! And it will be another raspberry to be sure!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Baddeley,” I said.

  You’re a fool, I thought.

  “And how was your visit with your mother today?” she asked, looking a little sad when she did. For some reason she looked to Miss Pricket for the answer.

  “She was as beautiful as ever,” I said loudly, making sure she knew the answer came from me and not my governess.

  “I’m sure she would spend more time with you if she could, Miss Cruella,” said the cook, her hands covered in flour as she rolled the dough for the savory pie she was preparing for the servants’ dinner. She had made a point of telling me that rabbit pie was Jackson’s favorite. I tried not to wrinkle my nose. The last time I was down there she’d been making something called a cottage pie. I supposed the lower classes loved pies.

  “We had a lovely hour together,” I said, smiling through my teeth. Mrs. Baddeley and Miss Pricket shared another look.

  It was so odd the way they’d look at each other when we talked about my mama. I decided it was because they were jealous. I mean, how could they not be? Why else would they be casting strange looks between them? My mother was a lady, and they, after all, were just servants.

  And then, as if she could sense I might say so out loud (I never would, as it certainly wouldn’t have been ladylike), Miss Pricket took my hand, signaling it was time to go back upstairs. And thank goodness she did, because it turned out we had been down there for hours.

  “Come on, Miss Cruella. Shall we go upstairs and call Miss Anita to invite her over for tea tomorrow?”

  “Oh yes, Miss Pricket! I would love that,” I said as I got down from my stool and took Miss Pricket’s hand.

  As I made my way up the stairs holding Miss Pricket’s hand, smiling and waving at Mrs. Baddeley, my heart felt lighter. I was ascending from the darkness of the kitchen dungeon into a world that was real, and beaming with light.

  Upstairs, there was life and beauty, and not a speck of flour.

  I hated visiting downstairs; it was dark and stuffy down there, and the servants looked like pale ghosts in the low light. But how could they help it, really, tucked away in the basement during the day as they were, never spending time in the sunshine. I think that is one of the reasons they didn’t seem real to me.

  Miss Pricket, I suppose, was almost real. She wasn’t exactly a servant, but she wasn’t part of the family, either. She didn’t have her meals with the servants. And she didn’t stay in the servants’ quarters, tucked up in the attic with the rest of them. She had her meals either with me, if my family was out for the evening, or on a tray in her room right across the hall from mine. Miss Pricket could have almost been a lady if
she’d dressed like one. And she was pretty enough, underneath her austere governess attire. Her uniform made her look so much older than she was. When I was a small child it confused me because Mama referred to her as an old maid, and it wasn’t until I was older that I realized she was really quite young. She had light green eyes, ginger hair, freckled cheeks, and a slim frame. She was delicate and fragile like a lady. But she wasn’t a lady.

  She was an in-between.

  When Miss Pricket and I finally made our way upstairs from the kitchen and reached the entryway, I saw our butler, Jackson, approaching the door to let someone in. Jackson was tall, gray-haired, and stoic. There was a dignity about him; he always maintained his composure. He led the household like a great general at war, except without all the shouting. Jackson never shouted. At least he never shouted upstairs.

  Jackson opened the door. To my surprise, it was Mama! My heart leaped and I squealed for joy. I didn’t expect her back so soon.

  “Cruella, please! Conduct yourself like a lady!” said Miss Pricket, squeezing my hand.

  Mama swooped into the vestibule like a movie star, her fur coat gliding around her dramatically. She was followed by several footmen laden with her many packages.

  “Hello, Mama!” I said, putting my cheek out to be kissed.

  “Hello, Cruella, dear!” she said. Her eyes flicked down to my dress. “I see you’ve been down to thank Mrs. Baddeley for the jelly. Are you just coming up from the kitchen now? Miss Pricket, look at her. Exactly how long were you down there? It looks like she baked a cake herself! I won’t have a daughter of mine looking like a common cook!” I looked down at my dress, mortified. I hadn’t realized. Thank goodness my mother had been thoughtful enough to bring it to my attention, unlike that wretched Mrs. Baddeley, letting me parade around like a flour-covered fool! She probably didn’t think there was anything wrong with that.

  “Thank you, Mama.” I stepped back, realizing I was foolish to extend my flour-spattered cheek. The last thing I wanted to do was get flour all over Mama’s beautiful fur coat.

  “Your father will be home late this evening, so I will be dining out with the Slapttons before the opera.”

  “Oh.” My heart fell. “I thought you changed your mind and decided to have dinner at home.”

  “No, my darling. I’m just home to change. You can have your meal with Miss Pricket in the nursery. I’ll come in to say goodbye before I leave.”

  “The schoolroom, Lady De Vil,” Miss Pricket reminded her quickly, with a glance in my direction. “It’s now the schoolroom, not the nursery.” Smiling at my mother, she added, “Speaking of which, Miss Cruella is doing very well with her studies, my lady.” Mama didn’t answer. It was as if Miss Pricket hadn’t said anything at all. And why should Mama answer her? She hadn’t directly addressed Miss Pricket. And she probably didn’t care to be corrected by an in-between. I couldn’t expect my mother to remember something as trivial as what a silly room was called. Even if I was quite proud to be spending my days in a schoolroom rather than a nursery.

  Miss Pricket’s face fell. I supposed she was upset at being ignored by Mama. Or perhaps it was because Mama was so upset by the state of my clothing. What-ever the reason for her sour look, the in-between took me by the hand and led me up the stairs. We had our usual evening together, after I was made presentable again. The highlight of the evening was Mama coming into the schoolroom to say good night before she went off for her evening plans, her glittering dress sparking in the light, her heels clicking on the hardwood floors, and her bejeweled bag dangling on her arm. Her musical voice bid me good night.

  “Have a lovely night, Cruella. Sleep well,” she said, blowing me a kiss. “You can come to the stairs and watch me leave if you like.” And I did. I always did. I loved seeing Mama leave for an evening out.

  I’d watch from the top of the stairs as her sparkly dress trailed behind her until she reached the bottom, where Jackson was waiting, holding out her long fur coat. I was breathless as I watched her go. She was the most glamorous woman I had ever seen.

  How I envied those fur coats! I couldn’t wait until I got my first one.

  I waited until the rumble of Mama’s car was too far off in the distance to hear anymore, and then I went to my bedroom.

  Every night was the same. Miss Pricket brought me some cocoa, and we chatted about our day as I drank it. She read to me, and then we made our plans for the next day before she tucked me in. “Should we invite Anita over tomorrow? It’s been a while since we’ve seen her.”

  “Yes,” I said sleepily. “I would love that.” It was true. She had been traveling with her family over the summer, so it had been some time since we’d been together. Anita was my best friend, and I had missed her desperately while she had been away. I’d known Anita for as long as I could remember. She was the ward of one of my father’s colleagues and best friends at the House of Lords, and even though Mama didn’t think she was a suitable friend for me because she wasn’t born into a high society family like I was, Papa thought she was a good influence and always insisted she be invited to our family trips and gatherings. Growing up, she was like a sister to me.

  Even though Lord Snotton let her live in his home, she wasn’t to be a proper lady herself, not like me. Anita wouldn’t be presented to society. The most Anita could possibly expect was an exceptional education so she could go on to become a nanny or governess in a wealthy household, unless her guardians managed to find a suitable match with a gentleman who didn’t mind her lack of family connections. She could, of course, decide to venture out on her own and become a shopgirl or typist. But why would she want to do that?

  It reminded me of that Jane Austen story, oh, what was it called? The one about the two sisters: one married for love and the other married sensibly. And of course the one who married for love was poor, and had to send one of her daughters to live with her sister who had married sensibly. That’s Anita’s story in a nutshell—except Anita’s guardian doesn’t have a handsome son for her to fall in love with and marry. They had two daughters who went out of their way to show Anita she was below them. I wonder if, had I not gotten to love Anita the way I did from such a young age, before my mother told me about her background, I would have felt the same as those wretched Snotton girls. I guess I’ll never know.

  Anita was really just a step above an in-between. But she was my best friend and my favorite companion. I didn’t care about her family or her lack of connections. She was the sweetest person I knew. And I loved her.

  After we discussed having Anita over for tea, Miss Pricket suggested we read from my favorite book of fairy tales, as was our usual custom in the evenings.

  “Should we read a bit about Princess Tulip before you go to sleep? I think we left off right as she was about to talk with the Rock Giants to help her and the Tree Lords protect the Fairylands from a terrible threat.”

  “I think I’m too tired for stories this evening, Miss Pricket.” My eyelids were starting to droop, and I was distracted by something. “Do you understand why Mama doesn’t like Anita? Is it really because of her family?”

  “I really couldn’t say, Miss Cruella.” I knew that was Miss Pricket’s way of saying she’d prefer not to say, and I respected her for not speaking out against my mama. Though I wouldn’t have minded if she had, because as much as I loved her, I didn’t understand her distaste for Anita.

  “I overheard Mama and Papa arguing about Anita, and Mama said the strangest thing. She said, ‘Anita makes me feel like something is stalking my home, circling it, and scratching at its walls. I wish it was a less disturbing feeling.’ What do you think she means by that, Miss Pricket?”

  “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping on your parents, Miss Cruella,” Miss Pricket scolded gently. “It isn’t ladylike.” I yawned. Sometimes it was quite easy to be unladylike without even knowing it. So I changed the subject.

  “Mama looked lovely this evening, didn’t she, Miss Pricket? Aren’t I the luckiest of gir
ls to have such a beautiful mama?”

  “Yes, she looked very lovely, Miss Cruella,” she said.

  “And aren’t I the luckiest girl?” I prodded. She hadn’t answered that part of my question. She just sat there with the saddest look on her face. For some reason Miss Pricket always looked sad when we spoke of my mama. And she looked especially sad in the evenings. I smiled at the woman when she kissed my cheek good night, but I felt sad for her. What a lonely life she must have had. Spending her days with a child who wasn’t hers, eating most of her meals alone. No family or friends of her own to love or care for her. I supposed I was the only one, in my own way, who did.

  “Good night, Miss Pricket,” I said with a smile, hoping it would cheer her expression, which remained fixed no matter how hard I tried.

  But then something surprising happened. Her face transformed after all. “Oh! Cruella! I’m so sorry I forgot. Your mother left some gifts for you on the vanity. Look!” She dashed over to the vanity, bringing the boxes to the bed so I could open them. One box held a beautiful red dress with a matching belt. A smaller box contained shoes and a little clutch purse. The last box I opened was the biggest, and it contained the most magnificent gift of all: a white fur coat with a black collar. I popped out of bed and put it on at once. Even over my nightgown, the coat made me look glamourous.

  I looked exactly like Mama. I finally had a fur coat of my very own. And I just knew this was the beginning of an important phase in my life. I was on my way to becoming a glamorous lady. Just like Mama.

  “See, Miss Cruella, your mother does think of you. I think she loves you very much,” said Miss Pricket. But the look in her eyes made me feel she was trying harder to convince herself than she was trying to convince me. I didn’t need convincing. I knew my mama loved me.

  I turned away from the mirror and gave Miss Pricket a strange look. “What a funny thing to say, Miss Pricket. Of course Mama loves me. Look at this beautiful coat!” Miss Pricket nodded, but her smile looked sad as she put away my gifts.