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exception of the library, no apparent purpose, back to the servants’ stairs and up to the second floor. I followed as she maneuvered through a series of inner hallways, opening an occasional door and commenting, “This is Mrs. Mayhew’s drawing room, right?” or, “This is Mrs. Mayhew’s bedroom, right?” Finally Mrs. Crankshaw opened a door and motioned for me to precede her inside.
    “And this is your sitting room,” Mrs. Crankshaw said, “where you would’ve been served your dinner, if you’d been punctual.” Preoccupied with admiring my surroundings and worried I might never find my way again, I ignored the housekeeper’s barb.
    My sitting room? I thought. I’d never had my own sitting room before. Seems I had my own bath as well. As Mrs. Crankshaw explained, the sitting room, with its polished cherry woodwork and pale rose damask wall coverings, was part of a three-room suite consisting of sitting room, bedroom, and bath. A large oak desk covered in green leather and silver writing accessories beckoned. Instead I approached the bookshelf and scanned the titles of a variety of reference books: a current atlas of the city of Newport, the latest Social Registers of Newport, New York, Boston, and several other cities, a Newport city directory, an American and an English Who’s Who, an Almanach de Gotha, and Burke’s Peerage .
    “Since Mrs. Pemberton, the former social secretary, is not here to acquaint you with your duties, it falls to me,” Mrs. Crankshaw said. I could feel my stomach clench in anticipation. “As Madam’s secretary, you are expected to maintain her calendar, answer her mail, and pay her personal bills.”
    I breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Crankshaw hadn’t mentioned anything that I hadn’t done for other employers before. I began to relax as she approached a large white closet that took up one side of the room.
    “You are to have the menus approved, which should be my job,” Mrs. Crankshaw grumbled. “And mind I don’t take well to those that waste Chef’s time.” Before I could reassure her on that measure, she continued. “You’re to put together guest lists and seating arrangements while avoiding any social faux pas. You’re to address all invitations by hand and deliver them personally. You’re to deal directly with florists, caterers, and social entertainers.” The list of duties went on and on.
    Although I maintained perfect posture and didn’t blink, I squeezed my perspiring hands together. Menus? Guest lists? Social faux pas? This was not going to be my typical assignment after all. I hoped Monsieur Valbois wasn’t the temperamental type.
    “Madam will decide if and when preprinted invitations are necessary. If you need anything that is not here, you tell me, not Madam. We have a standing order with George H. Carr, on Thames. Is that clear?”
    “Yes, thank you,” I said, despite being not sure at all if everything was clear.
    “Right, now here’s the stationery,” the housekeeper said, nodding her head and opening the double doors of the closet to reveal more stationery than I’d ever seen outside of a stationery shop. Notepaper of all sizes, some inscribed with the Mayhew family crest and some simply with ROSE MONT embossed across the top in gold, were stacked tightly next to their accompanying envelopes. Notebooks, pads, pencils, erasers, pens, and bottles of ink were tucked into boxes neatly to one side.
    “This does meet with your approval then?” Mrs. Crankshaw said, challenging me to say otherwise.
    I knew she meant the duties in their entirety, but I couldn’t keep my awed gaze from the contents of the closet. Organized to perfection and almost glimmering under the electric light, the stationery was just waiting for me to put it to good use.
    I am up to this challenge, I thought as I smiled at Mrs. Crankshaw, who raised an eyebrow at me in response. In fact, I couldn’t wait to begin.
    “Yes, Mrs. Crankshaw, I think it will do me quite