The Passing Bells (6 page)

“There she is, the little baggage,” Velda said, sniffing back tears. “Oh, I'd give her such a thrashing if it was up to me.”

Mr. Coatsworth and the footman nodded in agreement, their expressions like stone, but Mrs. Broome only sighed wearily.

“That will do, Velda. Kindly go about your duties.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Velda glared hatefully at Ivy before turning away and going into the room.

“If you need any assistance, Mrs. Broome,” the butler said gravely, “I would be most happy to lend a hand.”

“Thank you, no, Mr. Coatsworth.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Broome. Come along, Peterson.”

The butler and the footman walked stiffly away and Ivy was alone with the housekeeper, who was now pointing down at the floor where the stack of linens were lying.

“Pick them up, Ivy.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ivy whispered. She had forgotten all about them. She bent quickly and gathered them into her arms.

“We do not toss clean sheets and pillowcases on the floor in this house, Ivy.”

“I . . . I'm sorry, ma'am. It's just that . . . that . . .” Events had taken place so quickly that she could hardly sort them out in her mind. Dropping the sheets had been the only feasible thing to do at the time, but how could she make that clear to Mrs. Broome?

“Mrs. Dalrymple sent you to make a bed. Is that correct, Ivy?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Very well, child, go and make it.”

“Yes, ma'am . . . right away, ma'am.”

“And I wish to see you do it. I wish to make sure that you have not forgotten
everything
that you have been taught.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Ivy's face burned, and there was an awful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She walked down the hall with the housekeeper keeping a slow, measured pace behind her, like a turnkey in a prison.

The bed that needed making was a large four-poster, and Ivy made it with painstaking care while Mrs. Broome stood silently watching. When the sheets had been stretched and smoothed and tucked in neatly, Ivy found blankets and a counterpane in a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. She spread them on, tucking in the blankets and straightening the corners of the counterpane and fussing with the folds so that it hung evenly, then she stepped back and waited for whatever comments the housekeeper might have.

“Very well done, Ivy.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

“You were hired as an upstairs maid. I thought that I had made that clear. You were not hired as a lady's maid, nor were you hired as a messenger.” Ivy opened her mouth as though to speak, and Mrs. Broome raised a hand in admonishment. “It would pain me greatly to give you notice. Your vicar has recommended many girls to us over the years, both at Abingdon Pryory and number fifty-seven Park Lane. The Reverend Mr. Clunes has always been a fine judge of character and I have never been disappointed with any girl he has sent us. Girls from Norfolk have always been level-headed, intelligent, scrupulously clean, and honest to the bone. I have never had a bit of trouble from one of them, but your shortcomings in the past half-hour have more than made up for so many years of perfection.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but you see—”

“Please do not interrupt me,” Mrs. Broome said sharply. “There is, apparently, something that you are not aware of yet, and that is
place.
Everyone has his or her place in life, Ivy. Your place, at least for the time being, is that of an upstairs maid at Abingdon Pryory. Velda Jessup's place is that of a lady's maid. Mr. Coatsworth's place is that of a butler . . . mine is managing the household staff. What do you think would happen if none of us knew our place? Chaos, Ivy. An upside-down queer sort of world. Can you imagine Mr. Coatsworth making beds or shining boots? Can you imagine me being told to empty chamber pots . . . and
complying
with such a request? Can you imagine cook and her helpers mucking out the stables? The mind rebels at such thoughts, but that is what you did, Ivy. You neglected—no,
ignored
your place and assumed the place of Velda. You then assumed the place of heaven knows what and went racing through the house like a wild Indian. Mr. Coatsworth nearly had a stroke when he saw you leaping down the main stairs. He thought you must have had a fit and lost your mind.”

“But, Miss Alexandra . . .” Ivy stammered.

Mrs. Broome stiffened. “Miss Alexandra is very young and inclined to dramatics. It is up to the staff to take her current, and I trust transitory, spirits into consideration and to keep them from demolishing the orderly procedures of the household. Miss Alexandra should not, of course, have asked you to dress her in the first place. And she should not have asked you to run downstairs with a message for Miss Foxe. She should have waited for Velda to return, or rung down to me, and I would have sent someone up to her and dispatched a footman, who would have delivered her message in a proper manner. I cannot admonish Miss Alexandra, but I can, and must, admonish you or you may do something similar again. In the future, when asked to do
anything
that is not a regular part of your duties, you shall decline—in a polite and respectful manner, needless to say—and will immediately convey the request to one of your superiors—to a valet, a lady's maid, a footman, a parlormaid or, in the unlikely circumstance that no one of such status is available, to either Mr. Coatsworth or myself. Do you understand, Ivy?”

Ivy could only nod her head numbly. Mrs. Broome then reached out and patted the trembling girl on the cheek.

“I shall not give you notice, Ivy, never fear. You have a sparkle and a brightness that I find most engaging. If there are no more unfortunate lapses of mind, I shall start to train you as a parlormaid within the next six months. That will mean more pleasant duties and a bit more money to send home, which I'm sure will be appreciated.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The words were barely audible.

“Now, finish tidying up here. Check the towels in the drawer, open the windows and air the room. The countess's nephew is arriving from America tomorrow and will occupy this room. We wish it to be nice and pleasant. When you have finished, you will go downstairs and Mrs. Dalrymple will instruct you further.”

And then she was gone, moving majestically out of the room, a tall black-clad, white-haired woman who held the power of life or death over everyone at the house with the exception of Mr. Coatsworth and the outside staff. Ivy held her breath until the woman was safely out of sight and hearing, then she sank down on the window seat and buried her face in her hands. She had come so close to losing her position, and then what would have become of her? She couldn't go home, not with the baby due any minute and Da having enough trouble putting food on the table and paying the rent and seeing to it that her brothers and sisters had decent clothes and sturdy shoes to wear to school. Oh, sweet Jesus, don't let me get the sack, she prayed,
ever.
She felt like blubbering, but the tears wouldn't come and so she rested her suddenly feverish face against the cool window glass. She could see the side garden, an old brick wall smothered by clematis, and part of the driveway. The shiny blue car came suddenly into view, going very fast, Miss Foxe clutching the steering wheel, her red hair shiny in the sun. Miss Alexandra was looking backward and waving, one hand clamped on top of her straw sailor, the long brown velvet ribbons fluttering in the wind. “Goodbye,” she was shouting happily to someone. “Goodbye . . . goodbye.”

And that was
their
place, Ivy thought with a sharp pang of regret. It
was
a queer sort of world, come to think of it.

3

Hanna Rilke Greville, Countess Stanmore, sat at her writing desk fronting a deeply set bay window in the sitting room of her suite. The window overlooked a small formal garden, where ordered ranks of boxwood shrubs and roses formed precise geometric patterns when viewed from above. The countess was wearing a green silk peignoir with a downy fringe of marabou feathers around the collar, cuffs, and hem. Her long blonde hair was now unbraided and brushed into smooth, shiny waves that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She was forty-five, seven years younger than her husband, and, except for a slight thickening around the hips and the beginnings of a double chin, had retained the golden good looks of her youth. That she was Alexandra's mother there was no doubt. She was the mirror of her daughter's middle age.

Hanna listened to the stuttering roar of a car engine as the machine receded down the driveway toward the Abingdon road a mile away. That would be Lydia and Alexandra leaving for London, she reasoned correctly, refilling her coffee cup from a silver pot. She did not entirely approve of women driving cars, although more and more of them were doing so these days. There were advertisements in all the better magazines showing stylishly dressed young women seated happily behind the wheels of Vauxhalls, Benzes, Morrises, and other sporty makes. Alexandra had begged that she be given driving lessons, but the countess had refused to allow it. She was frightened enough by Charles having his own car. There were so many accidents. One read about them almost daily.

She finished her coffee and set to work, pushing her sleeves back over plump white forearms. The top of the oval desk was nearly obscured by stacks of papers filled with her neat and almost microscopic handwriting. She had a formidable task almost completed—the schedule and guest lists for the many balls, fetes, entertainments, and extravaganzas planned for the balance of the summer, the “season” in London. The last two weeks in June and all of July would be spent at Stanmore House, the Greville mansion at number 57 Park Lane. The earl was not happy about it, of course, preferring to stay in the country. In previous years he had managed to avoid going up to London for the social whirl of those six weeks, but Alexandra had not been of age then and it hadn't mattered to Hanna whether he came up for the full time or not. This year was different. She had insisted firmly that he attend every function, meet every guest, for his daughter's future lay somewhere among the papers before her.

Somewhere. She sorted through the papers slowly, reading each name that she had written down, the guest list for each and every gathering. The list of names was long: two hundred for the ball on Friday, the nineteenth of June; three hundred and fifty for the gala on July Fourth—Independence Day . . . red, white, and blue bunting everywhere . . . the American ambassador as the honored guest. List after list: thirty for dinner on July 12; twenty-five for a picnic at Henley; forty seats reserved at the Drury Lane Theatre to see Chaliapin in
Ivan the Terrible.
On and on. Everyone who was anyone had found his or her way onto Hanna's lists and was grateful to be there. Stanmore House had always been the glittering focal point of the entire London season. It was a clever trap, for sprinkled liberally among the names of Lord and Lady this, and the Viscount and Viscountess that, were the names of a score of young men, highly eligible bachelors all, and one of those names—and, oh, how she wished she could point to it—would soon be Alexandra's betrothed.

“Who?” she wondered, whispering the word, her finger moving slowly down list after list as though reading Braille. “Albert Dawson Giles, Esquire . . . The Right Honorable Percy Holmes . . . Mr. Paget Lockwood . . . Thomas Duff-Wilson.” She paused at that name. A barrister . . . Inner Temple. Twenty-five years of age. Wealthy from inherited money . . . a fine sportsman—Anthony would be pleased at that—a nephew of Lady Adelaide Cooper, one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting, and certain to be knighted in a year or two. The man's name fairly leaped at her. Yes, it stood out above all others, and she sorted through the lists to make doubly certain that he had been included on all of them.

“Terribly busy, my darling?”

She gave a little jump of surprise and turned on her chair to see the earl standing behind her.

“Oh, you startled me. I didn't hear you come in, Tony.”

He bent his head and kissed her softly on the nape of the neck.

“Of course not. I'm quite skilled at sneaking into boudoirs.”

“That isn't a skill a
gentleman
brags about.”

He kissed her once more through the river of hair. “I am not always a gentleman, Hanna.”

“No.” She laughed, reaching up for his hand. “You're quite a rogue sometimes.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze and then turned back to her work. “Pull that armchair over, Tony, and let me go over these guest lists with you.”

“Heaven forbid. That's your province, Hanna . . . invite whom you like. You've never made a wrong choice yet.”

“It's a little more important this year and you know it. Do you realize that these papers probably contain the name of our future son-in-law? That's a sobering thought, Tony, and I'd like to talk to you about some of these young men.”

The earl frowned and walked slowly to the window and gazed down at the garden, his hands folded behind his back.

“I'm not concerned about Alexandra. I know that you will pluck just the right fellow out of the pack and that she will be happy over the choice. I have all the faith in the world in your ability to do that. No, I have no worries about Alex. It's Charles who disturbs me.”

Hanna picked up a gold pencil and tapped it lightly against the edge of the desk.

“He's just going through a phase, Tony.”

Lord Stanmore smiled wryly. “That's what Fenton said about Roger . . . going through a phase.”

“Fenton? Is he here?”

“Yes. Got in last night. He'll be staying a few days. Damn glad to see him. Why is it that I can talk to Fenton and I can't talk to my own son? There's such a wall between us, Hanna.”

“You were both chatting away at dinner last night.”