Mary Anne and the Little Princess Read online

  I was giving Claudia a spelling quiz when the phone rang.

  I grabbed the receiver. “Hello, Spier residence.”

  “Guess what? I ate with them.”

  It was Kristy. She’s the only person I know who doesn’t feel the need to say hello.

  “Ate with who?”

  “Whom,” Claudia corrected me. (I was impressed.)

  “The Kents,” Kristy replied. “Watson met the dad this afternoon and invited the family over for dinner. Can you believe it? He was going to cook up a turkey, but he ended up ordering out shrimp scampi. Yecccch. They loved it, though. They thought Watson and Mom had cooked the whole meal.”

  “What were they like?” I asked.

  “Really dressed up. I had to wear a skirt. Mom said the parents were both wearing Georgie O’Mani or something, but it looked like a normal suit and dress to me. The L.P. was wearing this velvet skirt with a ruffly blouse —”

  “L.P.?”

  “Little Princess. That’s what Charlie and Sam and I started calling her — after they left, of course. You know what we had to call the parents? Sir Charles and Lady Kent! Anyway, we all had to keep our elbows off the table, and not reach, and say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’ about a million times. Then David Michael started picking his nose over his rice, and I thought Mom was going to have a heart attack.”

  “Maybe you should go to the interview tomorrow,” I suggested. “I mean, now that you know them …”

  “No-o-o way!” Kristy shot back. “First of all, the L.P. hardly looked at me. And I felt so stupid I didn’t say a word. I hope she likes you better, Mary Anne. She probably will. Gotta go. Good luck. ’Bye!”

  “But —”

  Click. Too late.

  I hung up and swallowed hard. “Kristy met the girl and her family,” I said to Claudia. “They don’t sound too friendly.”

  “Uh-oh,” Claudia replied.

  I stood up and started pacing. “What am I going to do? I’m afraid to go to this interview tomorrow.”

  “Hey, no big deal, Mary Anne. We just have to plan a strategy, that’s all. I can help you with that.”

  “You can?”

  Claudia nodded confidently. “Okay, number one. Most important. What are you going to wear?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. A taffeta dress or something?”

  “Mary Anne, you’re going to an interview, not the royal ball. Wear something simple and elegant, but not too formal.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “What about a nice pleated wool skirt with a sweater?”

  “Perfect. Sort of like a kilt. Conservative, regal, very English.”

  “Kilts are Scottish.”

  “Whatever. Then what? I mean, how will you introduce yourself?”

  I shrugged. “ ‘Hi, I’m Mary Anne,’ I guess.”

  “Ugh, Mary Anne, puh-leeze, she’s royalty. Maybe something like, ‘Greetings, Your Highness.’”

  “Your Highness?”

  “And maybe you should take a few execution lessons.”

  “Claud —”

  “You know, like My Fair Lady?” With rolled R’s, Claudia recited: “ ‘The rrrrain in Spain falls mainly down the drrrrrain …’”

  “That’s elocution. And it’s ‘on the plain.’”

  “What plane?”

  “Never mind. I’m just going to speak in my normal voice. And I’ll call her Victoria, unless I’m told otherwise.”

  “Okay. Don’t blame me if they banish you to the dungeon.”

  “Should I know something about England? Do you? Like customs and politics and stuff?”

  “Their money is called the pound,” Claudia said. “And they drive on the left side of the road. Also, I think the guy who wrote Romeo and Juliet was English.”

  “Shakespeare.”

  Claudia nodded. “Him, too. And lots of rock groups. Now, the next question is, what will you be expected to do if you get the job? Just baby-sit, or be like a lady-in-waiting — you know, polishing her crown, fetching her soufflés from the kitchen and stuff?”

  “She has a nanny, Claudia. I’m just supposed to be a companion, help her feel comfortable in America.”

  “Easy!” Claudia exclaimed. “You don’t have a thing to worry about. Just be yourself.”

  “Well, that was what I thought I’d do in the first place —”

  “And whatever you do,” Claudia continued, “just remember, I’ll be there with you in spirit.”

  “Thanks, Claud.”

  “Feel better now?”

  I nodded. “Uh-huh. Um, maybe we should get back to the homework, okay?”

  As I picked up the vocabulary page, I pretended I was in a fine mood. Totally back to my normal, happy self. I did not want to tell Claudia the truth.

  I was feeling worse by the minute.

  “Richard, your cab is here!” Sharon called from the living room.

  My eyes blinked open. I sat up and looked at my clock.

  Eight-fifty.

  Panic shot through me. In less than an hour, the Kents’ chauffeur was going to pick me up. In that time, I had to shower, dress, and eat.

  I’d had a horrible night’s sleep. I must have turned off my alarm without knowing it.

  Dad thumped down the stairs with his luggage. “Wave to the driver,” he shouted to Sharon. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  First things first. I couldn’t let Dad go without saying good-bye. I leaped out of bed and put on slippers and a robe. Tigger, my kitten, slinked into my room and nuzzled my ankles.

  “Morning,” I said, giving him the world’s quickest hug.

  I ran downstairs and into the living room. Sharon was taking Dad’s carry-on bag out to the cab. Since I was still in my pj’s, Dad gave me a good-bye hug at the door. “I’ll miss you, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Me, too,” I replied.

  Whoosh. Out to the cab, an embrace with Sharon, and away he went. I waved good-bye from the door and ducked back inside.

  I, Mary Anne the Mushy, did not shed a single tear. Yes, I felt a little guilty about that. But my mind was already in overdrive.

  The clock in our living room chimed nine. I had to run.

  As I ran upstairs, I heard Sharon shout, “I’ll make you breakfast!”

  Yikes. That was not what I’d had in mind. The last time Sharon had made me breakfast, she’d dropped coffee grinds into the pancake batter.

  “You don’t need to,” I called downstairs. “Really. I can do it.”

  “Nonsense. I’m not doing a thing right now. You go ahead and get dressed.”

  I took a deep breath and ran for the shower.

  Minutes later I was back in my room, fresh and fragrant, pulling on my plaid skirt and white Oxford shirt.

  Beeeeebeeeebeeeebeeee …

  The sound of the smoke alarm made my heart sink. Not to mention the burning smell. I could hear Sharon crashing around and saying — well, I won’t tell you what she was saying. “Sharon?” I called. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine. Fine. Just a little, uh, toaster trouble. Come down any time. I’ll get your coat.”

  I ignored the smell. I tucked in my shirt, put on a wool cardigan, and pulled on some argyle kneesocks. Then I slipped my feet into penny loafers and rushed back downstairs.

  Two empty plates sat on the kitchen table. Sharon was nowhere to be seen, and a crackling sound was coming from the range.

  I ran to the stove. A panful of scrambled eggs was turning dark brown before my eyes, with charred, papery edges. On the counter next to it, four slices of pitch-black bread peeked out of the toaster.

  I shifted into damage-control mode.

  I turned off the burner, switched the pan to a cooler part of the range, and grabbed a spatula. I scraped out what I could, but the eggs were beyond repair.

  As I was putting the pan in the sink to soak, Sharon clambered up the basement stairs. “Ohhh, I forgot —”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “
I’ll clean up,” Sharon insisted. “You eat.”

  I went straight to the cereal cupboard and reached for the Cheerios.

  “I don’t know where I parked my brain this morning,” Sharon said. “I figured your long wool coat would look nice, and I know I stored it in the basement, and —”

  “I brought it up here last night, remember?” I said. “Would you like some cereal?”

  “Uh, sure, thanks. Gosh, I’m so sorry, Mary Anne.”

  “It’s okay.” I took the milk from the fridge and began pouring.

  “Apple cider on mine, okay?” Sharon said. “My kinesiologist says I should go off dairy products. I’m not sure why.”

  I dumped Sharon’s cereal and fixed her a new bowl. Then I served us both and started wolfing down my portion. Sharon apologized at least three more times.

  I should never have answered her. Or I could have at least waited until I’d swallowed, because during the third “It’s okay,” a glob of smushed-up Cheerios and milk fell out of my mouth onto my clothes.

  Ding-dong!

  I jumped straight up at the sound of the doorbell. “My skirt!” I shouted.

  Sharon lunged for a sponge. I took it and sopped up the mess as best as I could.

  “Does it show?” I asked.

  “It’s a kilt,” Sharon replied. “I think it has Scotchgard.”

  Ding-dong!

  “Coming!” Sharon shouted. Then she turned to me with a warm smile. “You look absolutely wonderful. Don’t worry a bit.”

  We ran to the door. My knees were shaking. I closed my eyes and prepared for the worst.

  Sharon pulled the door open.

  A man in a gray uniform and cap was standing on our porch. “Morning!” he said with a big smile. “George McArdle. I’m here for the Kents. I believe I’m supposed to pick up Mary Anne?”

  An American accent. I don’t know why it calmed me down, but it did. I checked my skirt. It looked completely stainless.

  I exchanged good-byes with Sharon and followed the chauffeur to his limo. As he held the door open for me, I imagined all my neighbors staring out their windows in awe.

  It felt soooooo cool. I sank back into the soft leather seat of the limo. To my left was a small TV; to my right, a refrigerator.

  “Thanks, Mr. McArdle,” I said.

  “Call me George,” he replied as he climbed into the front seat. “You know, I’ve always loved this house. When I was a kid, I thought it was haunted.”

  “You live in Stoneybrook?”

  He started up the limo and pulled away from the curb. “No, New York. I work for a Manhattan car service. But I grew up here. Most of our clients work for the United Nations, like the Kents. When I heard they needed a driver to and from Stoneybrook, hey, I jumped at the chance.”

  We chatted all the way to the Kent house. George was such a nice conversation-maker, I forgot about my nerves.

  Well, almost. As we pulled into the driveway, a stout woman with salt-and-pepper hair came out a side entrance of the house and bustled toward us. As George let me out of the limo, she cried out, “Miss Mistu! Welcome. I’m Miss Rutherford.”

  “Hi,” I said, shaking her hand. “Actually, I’m —”

  “Come right in. The Kents are eager to meet you.”

  Miss Rutherford turned and walked back toward the side door. I cast a quick glance back at George and he gave me a thumbs-up.

  In I went. Miss Rutherford led me through an enormous kitchen, where a man and a woman were preparing food. “This is Mr. and Mrs. Krull. They’re our chefs. Mary Anne Mistu.”

  “Hi,” I said. “Uh, my name is really —”

  But Miss Rutherford was already in the next room. “Victoria? Mary Anne is here!”

  I followed her through a dining room and into a big parlor. The first thing I noticed was a large moose head staring at me from the dark wood walls.

  The second thing I noticed was a man and woman rising from burgundy leather chairs. The man was handsome and trim, with thinning black hair and a goatee. The woman was tall, with pulled-back reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. She looked as if she could have been a model.

  Just beyond them was a roaring fire in a huge, stone fireplace. To its left, across the room from the Kents, a small girl arose from a sofa, where she had been playing with a family of little dolls.

  Victoria had dark eyes and silky brown, shoulder-length hair, tied back with a red velvet bow. She was wearing a Laura Ashley floral-patterned jumper, a crisp white blouse, and brand-new suede flats.

  I felt as if I were on a movie set. My throat was parched and I hoped they couldn’t see the pounding of my heart through my cardigan.

  “Sir Charles,” Miss Rutherford announced, “this is Miss Mary Anne Mistu.”

  “So good of you to come,” the man said, extending his hand.

  My legs locked. I stared at his hand. If Victoria was a princess, what were her parents? A duke and duchess? Count and countess? Was I supposed to shake his hand or kiss it?

  Sir Charles decided for me. He took my hand and shook it. “And this is Lady Kent … and Victoria Elizabeth.”

  After a round of “pleased-to-meet-yous,” Victoria sat back on the sofa and picked up one of her dolls. “These are the Wuppertons. They’re my doll family.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  I lowered myself toward the sofa. Then I thought it might be impolite not to sit nearer to the parents. I froze in mid-squat and cast a glance toward Sir Charles.

  “Please,” he said with a reassuring nod.

  “Dolly Wupperton has a cold,” Victoria explained. “I must put her to bed and call the doctor. He’s at the orphanage right now because it’s flu season.”

  “Victoria, dear,” Lady Kent said, “you’ll be excused to the nursery in a moment. But before you become too involved, I’d like to have a word with Miss Mistu.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Victoria replied.

  “It’s Spier,” I blurted out. “Mary Anne Spier.”

  Sir Charles cocked his head. “Odd. Miss Rutherford gave us the wrong information.”

  “Our apologies, Miss Spier,” Lady Kent went on. “Now. Sir Charles and I are each here on special projects for the United Nations. He is a military attaché, and I am in cultural affairs. Although his is a bit briefer project, mine is likely to last six or seven months.”

  “Both of us will be required to travel abroad quite a bit,” Sir Charles went on. “And as prodigiously capable as Miss Rutherford is, she has not been in the States before this. Naturally, we’re concerned about Victoria’s amusement and companionship.”

  “Naturally,” I repeated.

  It just shot out of my mouth. I wanted to shrivel up and die. I hoped he didn’t think I was imitating him.

  “Of course we will meet your organization’s customary fee,” Lady Kent said. “And your hours will be flexible to accommodate your own schedule.”

  They both fell silent.

  “Uh … okay,” I said with a shrug. “That’s … fine with me. I mean, I’ll bring it up with the club. You know, at our meeting …”

  I sounded like a total nincompoop.

  “Now, Victoria,” Sir Charles spoke up. “Why don’t you let Miss Spier accompany you to the nursery.”

  “Yes, sir.” Victoria grabbed her dolls and stood up. “This way, please.”

  Yes, sir? Yes, ma’am? What a way to talk to parents!

  I followed Victoria through the house. She led me to a carpeted, high-ceilinged room with Beatrix Potter wallpaper and a toy cupboard that lined an entire wall. In the middle of the room was a huge Victorian dollhouse. Miss Rutherford was puttering around, straightening up.

  “Looks much friendlier since we put up the wallpaper,” she said. “Last week it was a hideous gray-brown.”

  “I liked it,” Victoria announced, sitting down next to the dollhouse.

  “Well, you’ll just have to force yourself to look at Squirrel Nutkin, dear,” Miss Rutherford replied with a laugh.

>   With that, she bustled off.

  “Isn’t she frightfully old?” Victoria said in a loud whisper.

  “Well, I hadn’t really thought that —”

  “Mrs. Wupperton is not quite so old.” Victoria knelt by the dollhouse, holding one of the dolls. “She’s flying to Brussels tomorrow. So quick, quick — she must kiss Dolly good-bye.”

  I sat down next to Victoria. “Who’s this?” I asked, picking up a primly dressed woman.

  “She’s Dolly’s fat old nanny. Put her down, she has to clean, clean, clean.”

  I glanced toward the door. Fortunately Miss Rutherford was nowhere in sight.

  “Hmmm,” I said. “Can I be the doctor?”

  “Ohhh, no, he’s busy at the laboratory.”

  “The nurse?”

  “You’re far too young.”

  Victoria wouldn’t let me be the housekeeper or the older sister or the dog, either. I even suggested becoming an imaginary American friend, named Rachel. To that, Victoria said, “Dolly absolutely can’t stand Americans.”

  Don’t worry. When it comes to kids, my ego is pretty strong. I figured Victoria was just letting out her insecure feelings about being in a new country.

  “Well,” I said, “Rachel feels bad about that. She would love to meet someone from England.”

  “Of course she would,” Victoria said. “Everyone does.”

  Whew.

  I kept trying. I was determined to break through.

  It felt like the longest morning of my life. By the time Victoria’s parents appeared in the doorway with Miss Rutherford, I had gotten absolutely nowhere.

  “Well, how are we getting on?” Lady Kent asked.

  “Just lovely,” Victoria said dully, without looking up.

  “Splendid,” replied Sir Charles. “Miss Rutherford, you will work out a visiting schedule, then?”

  Miss Rutherford turned to me. “You’re available Tuesday, after school?”

  “Uh, well, I think so —” I sputtered.

  “Very good,” Miss Rutherford said.

  “Excellent!” Sir Charles echoed.

  “Aren’t you happy, dear?” Lady Kent asked Victoria.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Victoria replied.

  Me? I couldn’t wait to leave.

  * * *

  I think George sensed how I was feeling on the way home. “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “They’re kind of nice when you get to know them.”