The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Shoot the Horses First by Leah Angstman

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Every Step Counts

Rose Mercaida—the Rose Mercaida of the renowned Henningberg Estates—ran her thumb back and forth over the chipped piece of gilt porcelain until the flesh reddened, then tore, then bled. Absently, she moved her forefinger over the teacup’s rim in the same fashion until that finger, too, bled. The dainty porcelain cup was from her mother Estabelle’s set—the Estabelle Catherton of the renowned Henningberg Estates. As the drops of blood formed on Rose’s fingers, she threw the teacup at the wall, shattering the fragile thing into pieces.

Within moments, she’d walked, counting each step aloud, to the hutch beside the parlor table, swung open its creaky doors, and pulled from its perfect place the rest of the tea set. Rose eyed the pieces, counting each cup once, then again, the matching creamer and sugar bowl, pitcher, tongs, and tiny spoons. And then, she released her hands from the tray. The porcelain shattered along the hardwood floor with such a racket that she heard her husband, Errol Mercaida—the Errol Mercaida of the renowned Blester Park and now of the renowned Henningberg Estates—stir in his study. As the shards flew and rolled and rested where they’d landed, she noted each piece.

Counting the steps back to the sink—twenty-three, always twenty-three—she lifted the bar of lye soap and pumped the water until the rusted, brown liquid fell into the basin below it. Eleven pumps—it always took eleven pumps. She scrubbed her hands until the blood stopped, then counted her way to the broom closet. The way the broom sat on the floor, pushing up one side of its cornhusk bristles into a permanent lump, annoyed her. That would have to be fixed. She’d remember to tell Errol to fix it right away. It could not wait. No, it simply could not, she decided. The thought was broken when she looked down at her fingers and realized the blood had reappeared. She couldn’t touch the broom with blood on her fingers; that wouldn’t be right. So, she stepped the fourteen steps back to the sink, pumped the eleven pumps on the waterspout crank, and scrubbed with lye soap until the blood was gone.

Back at the broom closet, she lifted the broom, then swept the mess in both the kitchen and in the parlor before the blood could form again on her fingers. The blood had helped her concentrate, given her focus. Twenty-three steps back to the sink, and she’d scrub with lye again, then carefully put the broom into the closet in the opposite direction, curving back the bent bristles. That would have to be remedied. And soon. It’d be all she could think on, until Errol fixed it. He’d have to fix it soon.

Weaving through the kitchen and parlor, she looked for stray pieces, evidence of her distress. Oh, how her mother had loved that set! How had one become chipped unbeknownst? Surely Errol was to blame. The lout had never been careful. On her trail through the now-invisible disarray, she noted the nicks in the wall where the culprit cup had slain the early-Victorian fleur-de-lys wallpaper—that would have to be fixed!—and she ran her toe over the hardwood where the beautiful hand-gilt pitcher and teapot had collided with it, noting that it was two strips of the hardwood that required immediate replacement. Before the blood could start pooling again, she wiped a fingerprint from the hutch glass with her handkerchief, then peered inside to right anything that might have moved from the departure of the tea service. Only a Wedgwood bowl had been bumped, and she stoically bumped it back. Something would have to fill this space. She pondered what could possibly fill it, pleased that this thought took her mind momentarily from the problem of the bent broom husks.

Rose stood over the sink basin again, at count seven of pumping, when Errol meandered into the kitchen. She raised her unoccupied hand, warding him from speaking.

“There will be four more,” she spoke brusquely, and noted with respect how Errol calmly waited for four more thrusts before speaking.

“I heard crashing from the study. Is everything all right?”

“No. There is a nick here in the wallpaper. All of this wallpaper will need to be redone. There are two dented boards in the parlor that require replacement. The top hinge on the hutch needs to be oiled. It is creaking and moaning like an old biddy, but do be careful, Err, not to leave a smudge on the glass. And wipe the oil down so there is no trace of it dripping. I don’t like the smell of it, either. Maybe spritz the air with that French cologne I like—”

“Do you have blood on your fingers?” he asked indifferently.

“—I wasn’t finished. This one cannot wait. The broom, Err! I must have a hook installed in the broom closet so that its husks cannot be bent. Its husks are bent. You know we can’t have that.”

“No, no, we can’t have that,” he whispered, looking again over her shoulder. “Are you bleeding? Let me have a look.”

“A little lye will do the trick. Something must fill a space in the hutch,” she went on, staring out the window, noting the smudges along the sill. She counted them. There were four. Why had she not noticed them earlier? Errol must have put them there, the lout. He’d never been careful.

“Lye will only rip it open. Let me bandage it up.” He placed his hands cautiously on her shoulders and turned her toward the wash closet.

She held her breath. The smudges on the windowsill! She had to clean them. There were four of them. It would be all she could think on, until she could return to blot them clean, tidy, right again.

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