Silence in Hanover Close (16 page)

“If I don’t help, Charlotte will be left high and dry,” he pointed out with a slight smile.

She had forgotten that. She was obliged to climb down, but it was hard to do it gracefully.

“Then I hope you will feel able to continue.” She did not look at him. “We must keep in touch with the Danvers; they are certainly part of it.”

“Does Charlotte know about this—plan of yours?”

“Not yet.”

He drew in breath to comment, then let it out again in a sigh. Seeing men behave like fools was one thing, but he was not accustomed to this behavior in women. He had to readjust his thinking, but Jack was adaptable and had remarkably few prejudices. “I’ll work out a way to keep in touch with you,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Don’t forget, most houses don’t allow maids to have ‘followers.’ And they’ll comment on letters, maybe even read them if they suspect it’s an admirer.”

She stopped. She had not thought of that. But it was too late to withdraw now. “I’ll be careful,” she conceded. “I’ll say it is my mother or something.”

“And how will you account for the fact that your mother lives in Bloomsbury?” he asked.

“I . . .” At last she faced him.

“You haven’t thought,” he said candidly.

For a moment she blessed him for not being patronizing. If he had been gentle it would have been the last straw. She remembered her own early days of social aspiration, the constant struggle to keep up, to say the right thing, to please the right people. Those born to acceptance can never understand the feeling. That was one of the things she and Jack shared, a sense of being outside, accepted as long as they charmed and amused, but not by right. He had felt the sting of unconscious superiority too often to practice it himself.

He was waiting for her to flare up; instead Emily was reminded of how much she liked him. He had said nothing of the risk to her social position.

“No,” she agreed with a small smile, quite calmly. “I would be obliged if you would help me sort out such details. I shall have to say my sister is in service, if they ask me. There are plenty of residential servants in Bloomsbury.”

“Then she must have the same surname. What are you going to call yourself?”

“Er, Amelia.”

“Amelia what?”

“Anything. I can’t use Pitt, they might remember it from Thomas. I once had a maid called Gibson; I’ll use her name.”

“Then you’ll have to remember to write to Charlotte as Miss Gibson too. I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you, Jack. I really am very obliged.”

He grinned suddenly. “I should think so!”

“You are going to do what?” Great-aunt Vespasia’s silver eyebrows arched high above her hooded eyes. She was seated in her spare, elegant withdrawing room, dressed in mulberry silk with a pink fichu at the neck that was fastened with a seed pearl star. She looked frailer than before, thinner, since George’s death. But some of the fire had come back into her glance, and her back was as straight as ever.

“I’m going to go to the Yorks’ as a lady’s maid,” Emily repeated. She swallowed hard and met Aunt Vespasia’s eyes.

And Vespasia stared unflinchingly back at her. “Are you? You won’t like it, my dear. Your duties will be the least part of your burden; even obedience will be less irksome to you than assuming an air of meekness and respect towards the sort of people you normally treat as equals, whatever your private thoughts may be. And do remember, that goes for the housekeeper and the butler as well, not just the mistress.”

Emily could not dare to think of it or her nerve would desert her. A small timorous voice inside her wished Aunt Vespasia would come up with some unanswerable reason why she could not possibly go. She knew she had been unfair to Jack; he had been concerned for her, that was all. She would have been hurt if he had not objected to the plan.

“I know,” she admitted. “I expect it to be difficult. I may not even last very long, but this way, I can learn things about the Yorks that years of visiting couldn’t achieve. People forget servants; they think of them as furniture. I know. I do it myself.”

“Yes,” Aunt Vespasia agreed dryly. “I daresay your own maid’s opinion of you might be a salutary thing for you to learn, if you ever get above yourself. No one knows your vanity, nor your frailties, quite like a maid. But remember, my dear, for precisely that reason one trusts a maid. If you break that trust, do not expect to be forgiven. I do not imagine Loretta York is a forgiving woman.”

“You know her?”

“Only in the way everyone in Society knows everyone else. She is not my generation. Now, you will need some plain stuff dresses and some caps and aprons, some petticoats without lace, a night shift, and some ordinary black boots. I am sure one of my maids will be near enough to your size. And a plain box to carry them in. If you do this highly bizarre thing, you had at least better do it properly.”

“Yes, Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said with a sinking heart. “Thank you.”

Late that afternoon, without perfume or the merest rouge to heighten her pale color and clad in a dowdy brown dress and a brown hat, Emily alit from the public omnibus carrying a borrowed and much used box. She walked to number two Hanover Close to present herself at the servants’ entrance. She had in her reticule, also borrowed, two letters of recommendation, one from herself and the other from Great-aunt Vespasia. She had been preceded by a call on the new telephone, which Aunt Vespasia delighted in, to announce her coming. After all, there was no point in applying for this position if it were already filled. Aunt Vespasia had learned that it had not been filled, although there were applicants in mind. The elder Mrs. York was very particular, even though the maid was actually to serve her daughter-in-law. Still, she was mistress of the house, and would say who worked in it and who did not.

Aunt Vespasia had asked after Mrs. York’s health, then proceeded to commiserate with her about the distress and inconvenience of losing a maid in such circumstances. She had remarked that her own lady’s maid, Amelia Gibson, who had served her most satisfactorily, was now, in Aunt Vespasia’s declining years and semiretirement from Society, really more than she required, and was consequently looking for a new position. She was a girl of reliable family, long known to Vespasia, who had also been in the service of her great-niece, Lady Ashworth, whose accompanying testimonial would bear witness. Vespasia hoped that Mrs. York might find Amelia of satisfactory skill and disposition. Vespasia would vouch for her character.

Mrs. York thanked her for her courtesy and agreed to see Amelia if she presented herself forthwith.

Emily clutched her reticule with the letters and three pounds, fifteen shillings in silver and copper (maids would not have gold sovereigns or guineas) and lugged the unaccustomed weight of a box containing a change of dress, aprons, caps and her underwear, a Bible and some writing paper, pen and ink, as she descended the area steps, her heart knocking in her ribs, her mouth dry. She tried to rehearse what she was going to say. There was still time to change her mind. She could turn round and simply go away and write a letter making some excuse: she had been taken ill, her mother had died—anything!

But her feet kept going, and just as she was about to weigh up this lunatic decision in the last moment left, the back door opened. A scullery maid who looked to be about fourteen came out with a bowl full of peelings to throw in the waste bin.

“You be come fer poor Dulcie’s position?” she said cheerfully, eyeing Emily’s shabby coat and the box in her hand. “Come on in then, you’ll freeze out ’ere in the yard. Give yer a cup o’ tea afore yer see the mistress, make yer feel better. Yer look ’alf starved in the cold, yer do. ’Ere, give that there box ter Albert, ’e’ll carry it for yer, if yer staying.”

Emily was grateful, and terrified now that the decision to come had been made. She wanted to thank the girl, but her voice simply refused to obey. Mutely she followed the scullery maid up the steps into the back kitchen, past the vegetables, the hanging corpses of two chickens and a brace of game birds complete with feathers, and into the main kitchen. Her hands were numb in her cotton gloves and the sudden warmth engulfed her, bringing tears to her eyes and making her sniff after the stinging cold on the walk from the omnibus stop.

“Mrs. Melrose, this is someone applyin’ ter be the new lady’s maid, and she’s fair perished, poor thing.”

The cook, a narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped woman with a face like a cottage loaf, looked up from the pastry she was rolling and regarded Emily with businesslike sympathy.

“Well, come in, girl, put that box down in the corner. Out of the way! Don’t want folk falling over it. If you stay, we can ’ave it taken upstairs for you. What’s your name? Don’t stand there, girl! Cat got your tongue?” She dusted the flour off her bare arms, flipped the pastry the other way on the board, and began again with the rolling pin, still looking at Emily.

“Amelia Gibson, ma’am,” Emily said falteringly, realizing she did not know exactly how deferential a lady’s maid should be to a cook. It was something she had forgotten to ask.

“Some folk call lady’s maids by their surnames,” the cook remarked. “But we don’t in this ’ouse. Anyway, you’re too young for that. I’m Mrs. Melrose, the cook. That’s Prim, the scullery maid, as let you in, and Mary, the kitchen maid there.” She pointed with a floury finger at a girl in a stuff dress and mob cap who was whisking eggs in a bowl. “You’ll find out the rest of the ’ousehold if you need to know. Sit down at the table there and Mary’ll get you a cup o’ tea while we tell the mistress you’re ’ere. Get on with your work, Prim, you got no time to stand around, girl! Albert!” she called shrilly. “Where is that boy? Albert!”

A moment later a round-eyed youth of about fifteen appeared, his hair standing on end where it grew away from his forehead in a cowlick, a double crown at the back giving him a quiff like a cockatoo.

“Yes, Mrs. Melrose?” he said, swallowing quickly. He had obviously been eating on the sly.

The cook snorted. “Go up and tell Mr. Redditch as the new girl’s ’ere after Dulcie’s place. Go on wi’ you! And if I catch you in them cakes again I’ll take a broom to yer!”

“Yes, Mrs. Melrose,” he said, and disappeared with alacrity.

Emily accepted her cup of tea and sipped it, giving herself hiccups and then feeling ridiculous when Mary laughed at her and the cook scowled. She tried holding her breath and had only just conquered them when the trim, pretty parlormaid came to say that Mrs. York would see her in the boudoir. She led the way and Emily followed. All along the passage, past the butler’s pantry, through the green baize door and into the main house she kept rehearsing in her mind what she must say, how she must behave. Eyes candid but modest, speak only when spoken to, never interrupt, never contradict, never express an opinion. No one cared or wanted to know what maids thought, it was impertinence. Never ask anyone to do anything for you, do it yourself. Call the butler sir, or by his name. Address the housekeeper and the cook by name. And remember to speak with the right accent! Always be available, night or day. Never have headaches or stomachaches—you were there to do a job, and short of serious illness there were no excuses. The vapors were for ladies, not for servants.

Nora, the parlormaid, knocked on the door, opened it, and announced, “The girl to see you, ma’am, about being Miss Veronica’s maid.”

The boudoir was ivory and pink with touches of deeper rose, very feminine indeed. There was no time to look for character or quality now.

Mrs. Loretta York sat in an armchair. She was a small woman, a little plump around the shoulders, an inch or two thicker at the waist than she probably wished, but otherwise the beauty she had been in her youth was excellently preserved. Emily knew instantly that there was steel under the woman’s soft, white skin, and for all the lace handkerchiefs, the waft of perfume, and her thick, soft hair, there was nothing remotely vague in her wide eyes.

“Ma’am.” Emily bobbled a very small curtsy.

“Where do you come from, Amelia?” Loretta inquired.

Emily had already decided the safest thing would be to copy her own maid’s background—that way she would be certain not to contradict herself. “King’s Langley, ma’am, in Hertfordshire.”

“I see. What does your father do?”

“He’s a cooper, ma’am. Makes barrels and the like. My mam used to be a dairymaid for Lord Ashworth, as was the old gentleman, before he passed on.” She knew not to say
died;
it was too blunt a word for a servant to use on such a delicate subject. One did not speak of death.

“And you have worked for Lady Ashworth and Lady Cumming-Gould. Do you have your references?”

“Yes ma’am.” She took them out of her reticule, fingers stiff with nervousness, and passed them over. She looked at the floor while Loretta first read them and then refolded them and passed them back. Both letters were written on crested paper, she had taken care to see to that.

“Well, these seem to be satisfactory,” Loretta observed. “Why did you leave Lady Ashworth’s service?”

She had thought of that. “My mam passed on,” she said, catching her breath and swallowing hard. Please heaven the hiccups did not return! It would be disastrous if Loretta thought she had been tippling at the cooking sherry. “I had to go back home to care for my younger sisters, until we could find places for them. And of course Lady Ashworth, being a lady of Society, had to find someone to take me place: but she said she’d speak well for me. And then Lady Cumming-Gould took me on.”

“I see.” The chill eyes regarded her unemotionally. It was odd to be looked at as if one were a property to be purchased or passed by, without regard to manners or feelings. It was not peculiar to Loretta York; anyone else would have been similar. And yet she would be employed to care for her on the most intimate terms, brush her hair, launder, iron and mend her clothes, even her underwear, wake her in the morning, dress her for dinners and balls, wait on her if she were ill. No one else knew a woman as intimately as her maid. Her husband certainly did not.

“Well Amelia, I presume you can sew and iron and care for a wardrobe properly, or Lady Ashworth would not recommend you. She has a reputation for being in the height of fashion, without vulgarity, although I cannot recall meeting her myself.”