The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

  I was taken aback. It seemed that she was trying to get rid of me already, and I hadn’t even completed the interview. “I have a very strong will,” I said. “And I’m determined to do well. This is a fresh start for me.” Somehow I managed to not stutter my way through the words.

  Mrs Huxley sighed as though in defeat. “Very well. I’ll take you to Lord Bertie. He likes to talk to our new recruits.”

  Chapter 3

  She moved like a dancer, gliding across the floorboards so that I had to scurry along next to her in my ungainly stride. Even though we walked beneath centuries-old painted ceilings and between luxurious wood panelling, Mrs Huxley did not offer up any history. She remained silent and stiff, eyes always ahead. I, however, craned my neck to see the murals above and twisted my torso to catch glimpses of the courtyard outside. I greedily drank in the faded furniture placed as an Elizabethan or a Jacobean might sit. I caught flashes of stern-faced portraits of Cavalier men atop their horses, feathers in their caps, long ringlets of hair cascading down their necks. I occasionally stared at my own feet, imagining the people who had walked where I was walking. The many maids, some of them no doubt as young and desperate as I was then.

  The ground floor of the house stood eerily still, and the place seemed more like a museum than a family home. Despite the light streaming in from long windows all the way down the hallway, there was a coldness to Highwood Hall that reminded me of its boundary forest.

  “You won’t walk through the main part of the house. This doesn’t belong to us.” Mrs Huxley turned sharply, and we made our way up a carpeted, central staircase. “Today is an exception because you’ve never been here before. But once you start, I’ll show you the servants’ corridor.” At the top of the stairs, she stopped and placed a hand on the wood panelling. “Behind most of these panels is a second corridor hidden from the rest of the house. The servants at Highwood Hall have used these corridors for centuries. We have our own set of stairs too at the back of the house. It’ll take some time to get used to the layout.” She eyeballed me as though unconvinced I’d ever manage to traverse this sprawling estate. I began to think she was right.

  Nothing at Highwood put me at ease. Mrs Huxley was as welcoming as a guard dog. The place felt empty and uninviting, despite its obvious beauty. I was about to meet the family who owned their very own mansion, who had titles and mixed with royalty and came from a bloodline so far removed from my own that I might as well be a rat in the cellar. As we continued down the hall, I had an irresistible urge to turn back and hightail it out of there, and if it hadn’t been for the blisters forming on my heels, I wondered whether I might have done just that.

  Finally, we reached a walnut door with a gilded handle, and Mrs Huxley knocked quietly. I barely heard the “come in”, but Mrs Huxley, finely tuned to the Howards, caught it immediately and led me through to an expansive study. Lord Bertie was sitting behind a mahogany desk, his feet resting on the surface, his chair pushed back into a reclining position. He was staring at his phone and not paying attention to us. I managed to get a good look at him before Mrs Huxley cleared her throat to announce our arrival. He was older, in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair combed neatly into a side parting. He wore high-quality jeans, a striped shirt tucked into the waistband, and tartan slippers. When he saw us, he smiled—it was my first smile of the day—and beckoned me forth. He didn’t seem in the slightest bit embarrassed to be seen lounging.

  “Ah, the new maid. Wonderful. Do take a seat.”

  The new maid gave me pause. Did I already have the job? I’d considered this an interview.

  “Thank you, Huxley.” He grabbed a piece of paper from his desk, and behind me I heard the slight swish of a skirt and the soft closing of a door. The housekeeper had left. “Lovely, lovely,” he said, staring at a sheet of A4 paper, piercing blue eyes trailing back and forth as he read my CV. “Fantastic experience here. And you can start right away?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Whenever you like. I just need to go back to York and get my things—”

  “Good, good.” He placed my CV back on the desk. “Has Huxley told you what we need?”

  I faltered for a moment, somewhat wrapped up in the surroundings, a sense of realisation hitting me. I would be working at Highwood Hall. I noticed framed photographs behind the desk. Lord Bertie shaking hands with Prince Charles, standing next to several politicians, a few prime ministers. So many grey-haired men in suits. “Y-yes. A maid and an assistant rolled into one.”

  He pointed at me. “Exactly. And how are you doing with your troubles?” He picked at a fingernail. Some movement next to the desk caught my eye, and I realised that there’d been a dog stretched out along the width of it. A black Labrador whose glossy coat had blended in with the dark mahogany floorboards.

  “I’ve moved on from that period of my life,” I said. “I’ve been clean and sober for a year.”

  “Well done, you.” He dropped his feet to the ground with a thump, and the dog lifted its head. “I don’t know if you know this, but I tend to hire staff from the Providence programme. Like you. I believe in second chances. We all need to get behind a worthy cause, don’t we?”

  I nodded, not sure what kind of cause I could get behind when I was the cause.

  “Do you need to give notice at your current address?” he asked.

  “No. I’m staying at a friend’s right now.”

  “In that case, when can you move into the maids’ quarters?” He bent down and scratched the dog’s ear.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Excellent. Go and tell Mrs Huxley, would you?” He raised his head and winked at me, a grin spreading across his face. His eyes twinkled, as though surprising me with the positive news had been part of a grander plan to make him feel superior about his charitable gesture.

  I sensed the need to be thankful. “Thank you so much,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll go and do that now.”

  “I think you’ll fit in well here at Highwood.” He placed his hands on the desk. I noticed that he was handsome and had probably been even more so when young, his large eyes framed by a set of thick lashes. “We’re very happy you’ll be joining our team here.”

  “Thank you so much for this opportunity,” I said, before slipping out of the office. A bolt of electricity shivered down my spine. I couldn’t work out if it represented pleasant nerves, the kind you get in anticipation of a new beginning, or the bad jitters, the kind that warn you that turning back is your best option.

  Chapter 4

  As it turned out, I hadn’t needed to inform Mrs Huxley of Lord Bertie’s decision. She seemed to know as soon as I approached her outside the study. Perhaps she’d been listening in.

  “I’ll walk you out,” she said in an unemotional voice. Almost morose. “Go home, pack your things, and arrive back at the hall at nine a.m. sharp tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay,” I said, still somewhat taken aback by how fast everything had gone. “Thanks again for…”

  “Don’t thank me,” she said. “Lord Bertie makes the decisions here.”

  The unspoken words hung between us, her implication clear. Given the choice, Mrs Huxley would not have hired me.

  “So, do you live at Highwood too?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What about your husband?”

  We were close to the stairs at that point. She simply turned to me and frowned. Over her shoulder, one of the portraits frowned down on me too; it was like both the house and its keeper rejected me in the same breath. “I like to keep my private life just that. Private.”

  I said nothing out loud, but in my head, I thought wow. Privacy was one thing, but not even talking about partners was another. Perhaps I’d made a mistake saying the word husband. What if Mrs Huxley was a lesbian and defensive around new people who could potentially judge her? We descended the stairs, and I didn’t press. And then she showed me out of the hall via the servants’ entrance. By that point, I was practically limping, my po
or feet ached so badly.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as the door swung closed. “Wow.” This time I said it out loud. I couldn’t help it. My first meeting with Mrs Huxley had been bizarre to say the least. She’d been nothing short of hostile.

  Once out on the driveway, I crouched down to retrieve the trainers from my tote bag and eased the high-heeled pumps from my sore feet. Slipping into those cushioned shoes felt like stepping onto clouds. I squatted near the house, running a finger between the back of the trainers and my heels to check for blisters, when I heard a burst of crunching gravel and the skid of tyres. A red Ferrari hurtled up to the front of the house, spraying stones as it went. I immediately stood, self-conscious of my unladylike squat, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of my canvas bag. Music filtered out from the car as it came to a halt next to a cherubic water fountain. The door didn’t open, but I could see the sports car top down, revealing a man with dark hair, sitting in the driver’s seat. He reached forward, turning the music up even louder.

  I suppose you would expect a rich, young owner of a Ferrari to listen to some sort of contemporary music. Personally, I would have put money on the soulless electro-pop music played by overpaid DJs at festivals. But no, it was classical. I didn’t know the composer then, but now I could recognise Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody from the first bar. Bold, bombastic and fast. I took a step closer and saw his arms flailing from behind the steering wheel as he mimed playing the notes. Dark hair moved with the soft breeze, and when he turned his head slightly, I saw his profile. Alex Howard, it had to be. Despite the mere glimpse I caught of him, Lord Bertie’s features were evident in his own. That same square jaw, the dark hair. His movements were stiff, controlled, and serious. But he was clearly enjoying himself, and it made me smile.

  The music stopped, and the smile faded from my face. If this was Lord Bertie’s son, I didn’t want him to see me hiding behind a fountain with old trainers on my feet. I attempted to scuttle away, keeping myself tucked behind the fountain. Even worse than him seeing me like that, he might suspect I’d been spying on him, which I had. I know I wouldn’t want a stranger to see me in a private moment. From there, I saw him bound up the steps to the house, his swinging stride brimming with natural confidence. He was slim, tall, and just as handsome as his father. An imperceptible shiver of electricity travelled down my spine as I watched him, knowing that he couldn’t see me there, that I had the first glimpse of the heir to this mansion. And then he was inside the house, out of sight, and I walked away, towards those great iron gates, about to make my way back to the bus stop.

  I allowed myself one last glance back at the house, and from there, I saw Mrs Huxley in the ground-floor window. Perhaps she’d been there the entire time, watching me scurry around the fountain like a crab, spying on Alex Howard. Her expression was grave, as it had been when I’d arrived. I had no evidence to believe Mrs Huxley ever smiled at that point. Her hardness gave me a jolt of fear and uncertainty. I didn’t know why, but I was convinced her solemn attitude revealed some sort of personal issue with me. Lord Bertie had hired me, not Huxley. For some reason, that housekeeper already didn’t like me at all, and I had no idea why. But it made me hesitant for the future. I had a feeling deep down in my bones that Mrs Huxley was not going to make my life at Highwood Hall an easy one.

  But I had to work here. No one else knew how much the interview meant to me. While finding somewhere to live was obviously very important to me, I had another reason for applying to Highwood Hall of all places. As unlikely as it seemed, I had a connection to this grand mansion. It and I were tied to one another with history. My mother once worked as a maid… at Highwood Hall. Twenty-one years ago. Right before she abandoned me as a baby.

  Chapter 5

  On the way back to Paxby, I decided to meander through the woods. Amidst the twisted trees, I could’ve sworn I heard my name on the wind, and for the briefest of moments, I contemplated veering from the footpath to wander into the dense thicket of silver birches. It was a strange sensation, like the call of the void. I had to calm my heart as I carried on down the slope back to the village. It’d been the breeze, nothing more. The breeze and my overactive imagination.

  By the time I reached Paxby, I’d missed the bus by five minutes and my hands were shaking. I spent an hour browsing the gift shops and annoying the staff by not buying anything, all the time wondering if I’d made the right decision taking the job. When I caught the next bus, I spent the journey back to Annabel’s house chewing my thumbnail down to the quick. What would I learn about my mother at Highwood Hall? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

  Annabel wasn’t home, but I found a note on the fridge, letting me know she’d gone to stay over at her boyfriend’s place. That would make things a lot easier, I thought, because then I wouldn’t have to say thank you. I’d never found it easy to express those kinds of emotions.

  My aunt Josephine brought me up after my mother left. While she did the best she could, single parenthood was not an event she’d prepared herself for, and it was not a role she was particularly skilled at.

  I moved out of Aunt Josephine’s home when I was sixteen and lived in a shared flat with two other cleaners. We were constantly competing for jobs, falling out and making up on a daily basis. Our collective income was so low that we even competed with each other for food, queuing up at food banks and soup kitchens. In our tiny flat, we labelled our food and measured the milk because even a sneaky cup of tea could throw a person out of sync for the rest of the week.

  And then I found myself drowning out my problems in the worst, most expensive of ways. Drink and drugs. Eventually I managed to get a place in the Providence programme, a local drug rehabilitation centre, which was where I met Annabel and she helped me get back on my feet. But growing up the way I did with an aunt who didn’t want me there, expecting me to be grateful for the meagre scraps of affection she threw in my direction, made it hard for me to show that gratitude to anyone else even though I truly did appreciate everything Annabel had done for me.

  That night, I ate leftover macaroni and cheese, put the radio on as I packed my belongings, and set an alarm for six a.m. the next morning. My last night on Annabel’s sofa resulted in twisting and turning in borrowed sheets. I tried to sleep. I tried hard. All I could think about was Mrs Huxley watching me from the window. When I pictured her face with those high cheekbones and the pursed lips, I dreaded going back there. In fact, I tried to talk myself out of it several times in between restless snoozes and unsettled dreams.

  In the end, I finally drifted into a deeper sleep, and my alarm blared unexpectedly, breaking the settled silence around me. It took a moment to allow it all to sink in. The interview, Highwood Hall, Lord Bertie and his son. Mrs Huxley. A young woman who had left her baby behind to be a live-in maid two decades ago. I sat up, stretched and rubbed sleep from my eyes, still deathly tired. Annabel wouldn’t be here to see me leave, and I was sorry for that. I was sorrier for what I was about to do, but I saw no way of getting around it. After a shower and a cup of coffee, I opened up the cereal cupboard, took out a purple biscuit tin, and removed forty pounds from Annabel’s emergency fund. Then I scribbled her a note explaining what I’d done, where I was going, how sorry I was and how grateful I was. It was easier to write than say to her face. I placed the note on top of the one she left me the day before, and then I backed away, tears gathering in my eyes.

  Annabel and I met in the programme, both achieving sobriety at around the same time. She, however, had a family to help her rebuild her life. She’d taken me in—a stray with nowhere to go, Josephine had given up on me by that point—and let me stay with her until I found a job. This was how I thanked her, by stealing one last time. But if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to afford my bus fare to Paxby.

  I was halfway to the door when I stopped and turned around. She’d put up with a lot from me. She’d seen me at my most desperate and listened to every sorry story I’d told her. She’d been so hap
py for me when I got the interview for Highwood Hall. I slipped the gold ring from my finger—the one present I treasured from my aunt—and left it in the middle of the kitchen table. Then, finally, I left.

  Chapter 6

  This time I caught a taxi from the bus stop with the money I took from Annabel’s house. When the driver pulled up to the gates, I paid him, slung the rucksack over my shoulder, and pressed the buzzer. I noticed that the disembodied voice belonged to Mrs Huxley. Before opening the gates, she reminded me to use the servants’ entrance, and I tried to bite my tongue. As if I would be stupid enough to make that mistake twice.

  “Is that all you have?” she asked as she waited for me with the door swung open.

  I nodded, not wanting to explain my circumstances to her. She backed away from the doorway to let me in, trapping me within the walls of my new home. My new sanctuary. I wondered how long I would be here.

  Mrs Huxley did not slow down her stride as she talked. The woman seemed to have an endless supply of breath. “You’ll be sharing a room with Roisin, our second maid.”

  That wasn’t surprising to me. I’d assumed that the servants’ accommodation would mean sharing with at least one other girl.

  “You’ll meet her at breakfast in thirty minutes,” Huxley continued. “And then, I’ll take you through your tasks for the day. It’ll take time”—she glanced at me sideways—“plenty of time, I’m sure, but you will slip into the routine.”

  We walked through the kitchen as we had the previous day, but the kitchen staff were too busy to do any more than nod a hello to me. Then we entered a much more austere corridor of plain walls—a deep green shade like ivy leaves—with several black doors on the right.

  “This is your room.” Huxley came to a halt. She removed a key from her pocket and handed it to me. “I suggest you unpack and come to the kitchen right away. There is a uniform set out for you on the bed.” Her lips twitched as though she was attempting a smile. I was so shocked that I failed to return it.