Two of the maids glanced at the third standing between them, a gangly young woman with earnest eyes and rabbit teeth. She ignored their nudges and stared, speechless and trembling, at the irate housekeeper.

Mrs. Chubb, fast losing patience, raised her voice. “All right, Lizzie. Perhaps you’d care to explain why you put wrinkled sheets on the beds in three of our guest bedrooms?”

Lizzie ran her tongue over her lips, stammered a few indistinct words, and then lapsed once more into silence.

Mrs. Chubb raised her chin. “What did you say?”

“She said she thought it would save time,” one of the other maids offered.

“Ho, indeed.” Mrs. Chubb uncrossed her arms and dug her fists into her hips. “Well, listen to me, young lady. Your time-saving efforts means that the beds will have to be stripped, the sheets ironed, and the beds made up again. Now, tell me, is that saving time?”

Lizzie stared down at her shoe and traced a pattern with her toe on the tiled floor.

“So guess who’s going to give up her afternoon off to get those sheets ironed and back where they belong.”

Lizzie made a soft sound in the back of her throat.

“We have less than a week to get this place ready for our Christmas guests. So far we’re running behind by almost that much. I expect extra effort from all of you, and that does not mean cutting corners. The Pennyfoot has a reputation to uphold, and if it means we all give up our time off to be ready for Christmas, then that’s what we’ll do. Do I make myself abundantly clear?”

A chorus of “Yes, Mrs. Chubb,” answered her, and the housekeeper nodded. “Then be off with you.” Just before the door closed behind the last maid’s back, she called out, “Lizzie, I want to see those sheets perfectly ironed without a single crease.”

“Bloody good luck with that.”

The housekeeper swung around to face the voice that had spoken from the pantry. Leaning against the doorjamb, the sturdy young woman grinned. “Them flipping twits don’t know how to warm a bleeding iron, let alone use one.”