by Maggie Ford
Yesterday, boxes of clothes and other things belonging to the girl had been put into storage in the attic room Chambers and Rose shared.
It all struck Ellie as something like sacrilege, as if Doctor Lowe was in a way trying to put away his daughter’s memory. Of course he wasn’t. It must have affected him, for he’d made himself scarce during the short procedure, down in his surgery, while two hired men shifted the lot in accordance with a list he’d previously written up.
Nor did he appear that evening, informing Mrs Jenkins that he’d be at his club and wouldn’t be eating at home. Ellie felt disappointed as she ate alone in his study, but she understood. Of course it would have touched him very much. It must have felt to him as if he were sweeping away the past. Ellie found herself feeling quite emotional on his behalf.
But her transfer into Doctor Lowe’s own household, as it were, had its price. Chambers had shown no gratitude in having her old room back, and now, coming into the study with Ellie’s dinner on a tray – Ellie had yet to use the dining room downstairs – she didn’t even glance at her as Ellie opened the door for her to come in. Stomping past her, she plonked the tray down on the small round table and busied herself setting out cutlery, condiments, napkin, water jug and glass, all without a word.
‘That tray looked heavy, Florrie,’ Ellie offered sociably, trying to break the ice; but an offended sniff for a reply conveyed exactly where Ellie stood with her as Florrie swept past her and out of the room.
‘Done orright for herself,’ Chambers complained to Mrs Jenkins downstairs. ‘You should see her up there, standing there as if she owns the place while I set everything out for her. No offer of ’elp. Too much of a lady now to offer!’
‘She’s not exactly a servant any more,’ was the reply, Mrs Jenkins being very busy making preparations for mutton stew for the next day, at the same time giving young Rose a sharp look to get on with her business as the girl paused in washing up to listen in.
Of course there was nothing to stop the pair of them swapping tittle-tattle tonight in their room, but not down here, in her presence.
‘Who’d of thought she’d be such a scheming little so-and-so when she first came here?’ Chambers went on, going back to cleaning the silver she had left in order to take supper up to the study for her ladyship. ‘If the poor mistress was here now, she’d have a fit.’
‘But she’s not here,’ said Mrs Jenkins with sudden venom. ‘And there’s nothing any of us can do about it, so don’t go airing your views too loudly.’
‘Well, I think it’s a crying shame how she’s using the master and he can’t even see it.’
‘What the master does is his business,’ came the abrupt reminder. ‘And you’d be well advised to mind yours.’
But Florrie wasn’t finished. ‘I’d say he’s got ideas on her other than fatherly ones. Ideas that, if you ask me—’
‘I am not asking you!’ Nora Jenkins cut in almost savagely. ‘So just you keep your mind on your work, girl!’
‘All I’m saying is, she’s got him round her little finger and I wouldn’t bet he fancies her a bit more than making up for him losing his daughter.’
‘Florrie!’ The way Cook rounded on her made her start. ‘That’s quite enough out of you! Mind yourself. Get on with what you’re doing and keep your thoughts to yourself or you might find yourself without employment.’
Florrie chose to show defiance – not too much, being tinged with alarm. ‘Who’s going to sack me? Her?’
‘He will. And don’t put it past him,’ came the rebuke. ‘Parlourmaids are two a penny these days and don’t you forget it.’ Modifying her tone, she went on, ‘You’ve a good place here, and you’re a nice girl – a good worker, after a style – and I wouldn’t want to lose you.’
She grew busy again, turning away though still addressing the girl. ‘The last thing I want in this messed-up household is to have to train someone else. Don’t worry, that one will blot her copybook sooner or later and she’ll be gone. Now finish what you’re doing and off up to bed with you – you too, Rose. Be good now and mind what you say in this madhouse.’ Heeding the veiled warning, Florrie said no more, but it didn’t stop her watching avidly for events to unfold as Cook was predicting. They all guessed what Ellie Jay was up to, wheedling her way into poor Doctor Lowe’s heart and his purse. Day by day, no longer endeared to her one-time friend and workmate, she kept watch on every move Ellie was making, willing it to turn against the scheming little cat.
Ellie was coming to be aware of it. Things were not turning out the way she’d expected. Isolated from the rest of the staff, she found herself ostracized. Florrie, with whom there had been a time when the two of them had hardly stopped chatting together, would now drop what looked like a scornful curtsey without returning Ellie’s efforts at a friendly smile but merely following her with her eyes as she passed.
Mrs Jenkins too seemed exceptionally haughty and correct in her presence, leaving her longing for the days when she would scold her for some little mistake.
Rose she hardly knew, so she didn’t matter; but she missed the old warmth of below stairs. Nor did she feel at ease with Doctor Lowe. Instead of dulling the memory of his exploration in terminating her pregnancy, time seemed to be sharpening it.
It wasn’t only being aware that he knew parts of her more than she herself did; since his wife had left he was beginning to see her as the centre of his world. It was in little things he said, the way he’d take her hand – she’d shrink inwardly from the soft, podgy feel, even though it was always offered in a fatherly way – the little things he’d buy for her – the small box of chocolates, the pretty little trinket, the somewhat expensive lace handkerchief and even a pair of lightweight summer gloves. He’d also arranged a small allowance.
‘For you to buy yourself more personal items,’ he’d said, telling her it was her right, that she was practically becoming his adopted daughter. ‘At least in my eyes,’ he’d said fondly.
It was so ironic. She had worked hard towards exactly this goal, but in fact she had never felt so lonely. Not even Dora to unload her doubts on, talk to about things. Not a soul in the whole world she could count on, except perhaps her tutor.
Maybe it was that Michael Deel was impartial, an outsider. They’d sit in Doctor Lowe’s study, just the two of them, while he taught her how to speak well, doing his best to get her to lose those flat Cockney vowels of hers. He’d see the funny side of it when she put an aitch in the wrong place when she began to talk fast, as Cockneys do: ‘It hain’t ’alf good.’
They’d dissolve into peals of laughter, something that never happened with Doctor Lowe, his regard for her being far too intense. And when Michael put a hand on her arm to recover his composure, it felt so different from when Doctor Lowe did it. His touch was far too emotional and disturbing. Michael’s was light and friendly and made her feel good.
She looked forward to Tuesdays with the eagerness of a child going on a jaunt. As summer waned they were spending less and less time on her elocution lessons and more on her painting. They talked a lot together. He was exciting to talk with and at those times never corrected her when she got the odd word wrong. She queried it once.
He laughed. ‘You’re quick to learn. You speak well when called on to do so, such as when the doctor’s about. So long as he sees you coming along and pays me, I’m content.’ That had them both laughing. But a few minutes later, he sobered. ‘It’s your art that troubles me,’ he said slowly.
She was still giggling. ‘Why should it trouble you? You said I do well and you like what I paint or draw for you.’
‘It’s what you draw and paint for yourself that bothers me. It’s weird.’
‘Oh, that.’ She made light of the words. ‘Every exceptional artist has whims and fantasies – a dark side,’ she offered in a lighter vein as he continued to look at her. She made another, feebler attempt at jocularity. ‘I’m not an exceptional artist, of course.’
‘I’m begi
nning to think you are,’ Michael said, ‘or have the makings of one.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ she said, still trying to be merry; but she knew that Michael was not happy to leave it there.
‘I’ve seen some of the drawings you’ve done lately.’
‘You couldn’t have. I never show them to anyone.’ She pulled herself up too late, but he didn’t seem to notice the error.
‘The doctor showed me a couple of them. He said they bothered him and he asked for my opinion.’
‘He’s got no right!’ she exploded angrily. ‘That was private.’
‘I agree, Ellie. But now I’ve seen some, it bothers me too.’
‘I don’t see why it should. It’s what I fancied doing at the time and what I do in private is my business, no one else’s.’
‘But every drawing’s the same: a male figure and a recumbent female figure. There are lots of them – and proper: not sketches but meticulous drawings, done with care and full of detail. At least from what one can see for the black mess overlaying them.’
‘It’s just a bit of silliness.’
‘But always the same picture?’
‘What did Doctor Lowe say about them?’ she challenged, alarmed.
Michael shrugged. ‘He merely asked what I thought they represented. I said I had no idea and he put them away. But it has me stumped now. So why always the same drawing?’
It was Ellie’s turn to shrug. ‘Nothing. Just what I fancy doing.’
He lightened a little. ‘Well, one thing. You draw the human form with great skill and accuracy, Ellie. You could become a portrait painter.’
Ellie too brightened. ‘I wouldn’t mind that,’ she said. ‘But different.’
‘How do you mean – different?’
‘The way I’d see faces.’ She couldn’t explain what she meant, but she knew there’d be dark, dark thoughts hidden, only hinted at with a brush, every twist of the features cruelly and starkly revealed. The idea brought a small thrill, but she couldn’t tell that to Michael. It would have worried him.
Fourteen
Ellie was having breakfast with Doctor Lowe when Mrs Jenkins brought the post. Nearly a month had gone by since he had told Ellie that eating in his study was rather silly.
‘The staff are quite aware of the situation, my dear,’ he’d said. ‘I say that whether they accept it or not is up to them. I intend us to have our meals in the dining room together in future.’
Until now, other than breakfast in his study, he’d snatch a quick lunch in the dining room between surgery hours. In the evening he would eat there alone as he’d always done, though he seldom entertained since his wife had left. For Ellie those two meals had been taken up to her in the study.
Now it was being openly recognized that he’d practically adopted her, unofficially of course. He’d even started taking her on little outings now and again, maybe on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.
So far he’d taken her to Hyde Park, where ladies and gentlemen on horseback would parade up and down the soft, well-trodden bridleway called Rotten Row, ladies riding side saddle, sedate and elegant, as they socialized with friends and acquaintances, a great attraction to others. In the still-light evenings of late summer, similar people would drive back and forth between Marble Arch and Hyde Park Corner while the crowds strolled by. Seeing it all, Ellie decided that she would one day have a carriage worthy of the upper crust.
Once, he’d taken her to visit a museum, which intrigued her; another time the National Art Gallery, which had her eyes boggling at all the wonderful paintings that put her own petty efforts to shame.
He had also taken her up west for a lunch at the Ritz. She’d felt out of her depth and, though vowing that one day coming here would be second nature to her, on that day with elegant waiters seeming to be looking down on her despite her nice dress and hat, and with all that tinkling of fine china and the hushed conversation, she was glad when it was time to leave.
They’d gone once by Underground, she having told him that up to the time of her mother’s death she’d never been out of her own neighbourhood. She savoured the novelty of it with every inch of her being.
On a couple of occasions he’d taken a cab; other than that, they’d be in the small doctor’s carriage used for making his rounds. Until then she’d never been in a carriage, private or otherwise, and felt quite the lady. But more than once, stuck in a seething jam of cabs and carts, carriages and horse buses, it seemed the Underground was probably quicker and safer.
On Sunday mornings he had begun taking her to church. In the old days it had been the practice of all the staff to attend at least once a month in an organized group while he and his wife and daughter, when she was alive, would attend separately. After his loss it had fallen away, so Ellie was told.
She knew their outings were the subject of much tittle-tattle from the staff, but she didn’t care. She was making the most of it. The better she got on with him the more he indulged her. She was saving quite a tidy sum from the allowance he was giving her. She’d told him she wanted to open a post-office account, which pleased him, seeing her as an astute young person.
‘But not a post-office account, a bank account,’ he’d suggested. ‘Far more interest to be gained.’
She’d never been inside a bank, much less opened an account with one. It had made her feel very important, but slowly she became quite familiar with the interior of the little branch that she now entered boldly to add her small but regular contribution to the amount already building in her impressive-looking savings-account book.
‘But you mustn’t let saving become your sole interest,’ he’d advised. ‘The allowance I give you, my dear, is so that you may dress nicely and make me proud to show you off to others.’
That made her smile, as if she were his little indulgence. Openly she obliged, but in secret hoarded as much as she could to further her plan when the time came. To this end she’d often tell him, while feigning a shamefaced expression, that she had overspent. She happily suffered his mild rebuke that she must learn to handle money better, knowing that he’d give her a little top-up with a warning to be more careful. This also went towards that day when she would track down the man who never left her mind.
This morning she sat over a simple breakfast, watching Doctor Lowe open his mail, each envelope slit with a silver letter opener, each carefully read before the next envelope was opened, each piece of mail methodically put on to its separate pile.
She never spoke while he was doing this; nor did he. But today he suddenly sat forward, his brows coming together in a frown.
‘Oh, dear!’ he finally exclaimed.
Ellie continued to sit quietly, though she itched to know what had so startled him. As he glanced up at her, she couldn’t help a quizzical glance. It was apparently all he needed.
‘Mrs Lowe requests to return home. It seems she has had a falling-out with her sister.’ He shook his head in a sad gesture. ‘It does not do to rely on the continuing hospitality of a relative. Sooner or later something comes to a head. It’s bound to. Most married couples have differences of opinion. It is quite another matter when someone who is no doubt outstaying their welcome disrupts a marital relationship. I rather think her presence has most likely come between husband and wife.’
‘Will Mrs Lowe come back then?’ Ellie asked cautiously. She didn’t want to be the one seen to be interfering in this marital relationship.
He returned his gaze to the letter. ‘It seems she will have to. Little else one can do.’
Ellie felt her heart beginning to sink. Gone those little trips with him. Not that she enjoyed being in his company, but it gave him time to think of her as close to him; hence his joy in having her tutored, seeing her well clothed and, more than that, his generosity to her with money.
Placing the letter on its own on his desk, he looked up at Ellie again.
‘It is only Christian to accept her back. This is her home. Though there is one thing that she wil
l have to understand: no more complaints at my interest in you, my dear. I’ll not have her say anything against you, nor snub you, nor expect you to resume your previous role in this house.’
‘What about my sister?’ Ellie ventured. ‘She and me… I mean she and I weren’t allowed to associate with each other, and I missed Dora awfully – even more when she went away with Mrs Lowe.’
Doctor Lowe smiled. ‘Don’t worry yourself, my dear; I will make sure that is rectified.’ He got up and came round the desk towards her. ‘It must have been such a very sad time for you to be parted from your sister.’
Ellie tried not to shrink from his embrace, fatherly though it was, his arm about her shoulders drawing her close as she sat. Releasing her, he patted her hand. ‘I would never see you unhappy, my dear child. Never.’
* * *
Christmas at the Lowes’ family home was like nothing Ellie had ever experienced and she revelled in every moment of it. She’d never seen so much food as was on that table and continued to be served during the entire evening until by bedtime she felt utterly bloated.
Mrs Jenkins and Rose were both included in the evening. Florrie had gone home to her own family in North London, but Rose, having no family, remained here. In larger establishments the staff probably would have had their own party below stairs, but since there were only two of them here Doctor Lowe had them to join in, Mrs Jenkins getting very happy on port wine.
Ellie did feel a little awkward before them, being addressed as ‘miss’, no longer one of them – awkward, too, having Mrs Lowe nearby while utterly ignoring her. But she was no longer bothered: she had Dora here now, and neither Mrs Jenkins’s exaggerated deference nor Mrs Lowe’s silent pique could get under her skin any more.
