The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

  To my surprise, we came out of one of the wood panels into an upstairs hallway. She turned back and closed the door with a click. It completely melted into the background.

  “How do I find these doors?” I asked.

  Mrs Huxley ran her finger down a barely visible crack in the wood. “You’ll get used to it.” She bustled off, her heels thudding dully against the deep red carpet. And then she stopped next to a narrow door, taking a key from the bunch hanging from her thin belt. “Supplies cupboard. I’ll get you a key tomorrow.”

  Once I had dusters, cleaning products and cloths, she opened a wide wooden door and took me into the library. For one glorious moment, the nasty surprise from the morning faded out of my mind and I was just a girl looking at a beautiful room filled with precious books, inhaling the scent of dry paper, wood and leather. On the far side of the room, three large windows let the sunlight stream in from the front lawns. My movements disturbed the dust, and the golden sunlight illuminated floating lint in the air.

  There were several portraits on the walls, all of serious men in uniforms, then a few horses with beautiful long necks, and one woman staring down at me with soulful eyes in the middle of a round, pale face. The rest of the walls were covered in books. Nothing but leather-bound volumes with gilded titles on the spines filled the space from floor to ceiling. New and old. Faded and fresh.

  “Do not touch the books inside the glass cabinets.” Huxley gestured across to the three glass cases tucked away in a shadowed corner of the room. “Those are the most precious antiques.”

  For the next thirty minutes, Mrs Huxley showed me how to clean the library. From the careful dusting of the books to the wood cleaner used on the floor to the leather cleaner on the chairs and glass cleaner for the cabinets and windows. There was a lot to take in, but it was an effective distraction from the diorama. When she left, I wished for a set of headphones and some music to play as I worked, but I settled for the creaks and groans of the old house.

  I was slow that first time. I know I was. I spent nearly all morning on that room, and I think had Mrs Huxley not been busy, I would’ve received a warning. But I was enjoying myself. I loved reading the spines along the books. From Shakespeare to Milton to the Brontës. My fingers trailed them, walking over each bump and crack in the leather, but I did not dare remove any from their resting places. My aunt Josephine had her faults, but she’d always given me books, and it was books that had comforted me in my deepest, darkest moments of addiction and loneliness. They were more than paper, ink and glue, they were old friends.

  Once finished, I placed my products back in the supply cupboard—which Mrs Huxley had left open for me—and tried to find the door leading back to the servants’ corridor. My fingers groped along the wood panelling, but for some reason I couldn’t find that tiny crack of light that Mrs Huxley had shown me. I went back and forth for a few minutes until I decided to follow the hallway along to the main staircase and quietly slip down it. From there I intended to get to the kitchen, but I realised I’d come down a completely different set of stairs. This one had the same carpet, which confused me, but landed on the other side of the house looking out across many acres of lush green fields. I stepped across the floorboards, putting my hand on the thick stone window ledge and staring out, trying to get my bearings. It seemed that if I went left, I’d be following the direction of the garden and hopefully come back out to the front of the house.

  Luckily, the Howards were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were in their many private rooms: bedrooms, offices, cosy snugs, or the pool house on the other side of the estate. No one stopped me in my tracks and shouted at me to get out. And when I walked past a particularly unusual room, there was no one around to stop me from snooping.

  It was the dining room. A long, windowless room brightened by the exquisite chandelier hanging above the vast table and the open double doors allowing light from the rest of the house to seep in. I couldn’t help myself. I flipped the switch and turned on the chandelier, watching as reflected light speckled the walls. I’m glad I did turn on the light, because otherwise I wouldn’t have seen the mural painted across the wood panels. Every single part of the wall had been painted in warm browns, peachy-pinks and sweet pastels. The mural was made up of Renaissance women with cherubic features, dancing and lounging across the walls. A bright-eyed young girl fed grapes to a dark-haired beauty. What surprised me about the mural was the variation of skin tones. I suppose we’re conditioned to think of historic art depicting white women with perky, apple-sized breasts and curved hips. On this mural, however, were women of all shapes, sizes and ethnicities. It was extraordinary.

  I made my way around the room, taking in every face. One in particular made the air inside my lungs freeze. The woman on the wall lounged on the grass, her back resting against a tree. A young beauty, her dark hair curled around the olive flesh of her shoulders. Her figure was noticeably slim, her face almost gaunt. It made her eyes stand out. Two deep pools of chocolate brown. She looked like me. Or I looked like her. I shook my head and laughed a little. It was simply the dark hair and eyes and the thin face. It could be a portrait of any skinny twenty-something.

  Enamoured, I leaned closer, lifting a finger to trace the lines of the paint, and at that moment, I heard the strangest of creaking sounds. At first I thought it was the house settling, the expanding and contracting of wood as the house heated and cooled throughout the day. But it was followed by a click. I cocked my head in the direction of the sound when a winged angel suddenly opened up and swung out into the room. A man emerged from inside the wall. I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.

  Chapter 9

  He was tall enough that he bent his head as he stepped through the panel into the room. And when he stretched to full height, he leaned over me slightly. I realised that I was rooted to the spot, not far from where he’d entered, and that I should take a step back to allow him room to manoeuvre. To my surprise, as I was stepping away, he placed his finger on his lips and grinned. I gave him a quizzical expression in response.

  “I’m trying to escape my father,” he said in a low voice. “He wants to talk business.” He made a face, stretching his lips into a grimace, and then his eyes sparkled.

  When he began to laugh, I found myself laughing with him, as though I was in on the joke. Perhaps I could explain it away by nerves or those bright blue eyes as clear as deep water.

  “I’m Alex,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Are you our new maid?”

  “I am.” And then I realised that I was standing in the dining room for no real reason, and I blushed. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be in here. Sorry. I got lost.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “I still get lost. This place is a labyrinth, and half the corridors are hidden behind the walls. A lot of fun when you’re ten and your little sister is afraid of the dark though.” He flashed me a grin. He swung the hidden door open again. “This little corridor leads to the servants’ hallway. We have them in lots of rooms. If you follow it, you’ll end up back at the kitchen so fast that Mrs Huxley won’t even notice you were gone.”

  He’d correctly guessed that I was worried about Mrs Huxley’s wrath, and I thanked him for the tip. But before I ducked into the hidden passageway, I had to address the mural.

  “This room is so unusual,” I said, nodding to the painted women.

  Alex leaned against the wood and let his gaze travel lazily around the room. It was as though he just now saw the room through my eyes, taking in the splendour for the first time. And while he was still, I noticed again that his face in profile was a beautiful thing. He was how I imagined Lord Bertie to have been in his youth, angular and yet soft, boyish but still deeply masculine.

  “It’s new,” he said. “It’s not ancient like most of the things in this house. My mother commissioned it before she died. We still add to it sometimes. A nymph or an angel, whatever takes our fancy. It’s a work in progress.” When he mov
ed, it took me by surprise and I physically started. Then he strode across the room, stepping around the head of the table to one of the painted women. She was pictured in a flowing dress, her eyes lifted as though she were staring at the sky. Her hair flowed down to her waist in caramel waves. “This is my mother. We added her to the wall after she died.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I walked over to him and stood by his side. I saw her close up for the first time. Her features weren’t quite accessible to me because of the movement in the painting, from the flowing hair and rippling dress. She danced away from the painter, shielding herself like a person who didn’t want to have their photograph taken. Half her face was in shadow, which seemed like a strange choice considering she was Lady Howard, the former mistress of the house.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” They were empty words, but they filled an awkward silence.

  He rested two fingertips on the side of her face. He had strong hands, I noticed, and for some reason that surprised me. “I’m sorry we lost her.” He allowed his hand to drop and turned to me. “But that’s life, isn’t it?”

  I gazed up at him, in his shadow, feeling tinier than ever. Looking back, I believe it was probably the uniform that made me feel that way. I decided that it was time for me to go, so I stepped away, about to make my excuses and return to the kitchen, but he opened his mouth to speak.

  “I saw the package you were sent this morning. I can’t believe anyone would be so cruel.”

  The truth is, I’d forgotten about it for a moment, and then all the fear came creeping back in. I wrapped my arms around my torso for comfort. “I don’t know who knew I was coming here. Apart from the friend I shared a house with.” A generous way of describing my sofa surfing.

  “We won’t stand for it,” he said. “There’s no bullying at Highwood. If we find out it was someone here, we’ll deal with it.” Then he frowned. “Daddy will anyway.”

  “Thank you. That’s good to know. I should probably be…” I jabbed my thumb towards the hidden passageway.

  “Yes, you don’t want to keep Huxley waiting.” He let out a sharp exhale through his nose. “To be honest, she even scares me a little bit.”

  I knew he was being kind, so I smiled in return. “Thanks for showing me the way.”

  “I’ll give you a tour one day. I’ll show you the other hidden doors and the north wing if you like. There’s a secret peephole above the main staircase too.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh yes. You can see through the big portrait of the duke.”

  “That is insanely cool. Do you use it often?”

  “I used to use it on Lottie quite a bit. She used to play with her Barbies on the stairs. She didn’t know it existed until she was ten, so I managed to make her think I had psychic powers until then.” He grinned. “By the way, I wanted to ask you a favour.”

  “Me?”

  He laughed. “Yes, you. I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a trained pianist and I play a little when I’m not working in the business.”

  I thought back to the first time I saw Alex in the convertible, fingers moving along to the music. Now it made more sense. I just shook my head.

  “I have to practise an awful lot, and I need a page turner to help me learn the music.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’d be every Friday at seven. Would that be okay for you?”

  I had nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. I didn’t have friends to visit, pubs to drink in or nightclubs to dance in. “That’s fine.”

  “Great,” he said. “Wait for me outside the music room just before seven. I’ll clear it with Huxley, and she’ll show you where to go.”

  “Okay.”

  “I look forward to it.” He smiled. It was a pleasant smile, an easy one, but it didn’t seem warm. I thought perhaps that he was still thinking about his mother and that sadness crept into his expression. And then, he said my name before he left. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt seen.

  Chapter 10

  To my surprise, I didn’t receive a tongue-lashing when I returned. Instead, she glared at me with cold, dark eyes until I mumbled an apology and stared at my shoes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Roisin hovering next to a supply cupboard, biting her lip, eyebrows scrunched together. What was she concerned about? The diorama? Or Mrs Huxley’s clear dislike of me.

  “Perhaps I’d best have Roisin supervise you for the rest of the day.” She sighed wearily, taking a key from a hook on the wall. “You can do the laundry together. The bed sheets need washing.”

  As the housekeeper left, Roisin passed me a large tub of detergent and beckoned for me to follow her down to the cellar. We were met by two large industrial washers, a tumble dryer and three baskets overflowing with white sheets. I bent down to collect an armful of sheets and stuffed them into one of the machines. Cloying air made my hair stick to the back of my neck each time I bent and lifted, but despite the hard work, it was nice to finally be alone with Roisin.

  “So I guess my first day has been a bit of a disaster,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry about the box. I don’t understand it.” She huffed and puffed while bundling the sheets, but I could still tell that she meant it.

  “Me neither. I mean, what a welcome.” I shook my head. “And Mrs Huxley.”

  Roisin rested against the machine. “Oh, I know. She’s not the friendliest woman in the world. But you get used to her, you know. Or, rather, she gets used to you.” I noticed her easy smile and the way her cheeks dimpled. The cellar was lit dimly, but her light copper hair stood out against the shadows, brightened by the naked light bulb above us.

  “She hates me. Lord Bertie hired me, not her. I think I’ll be out of here in less than a week.” Saying the words lifted a weight from my chest, letting the fear out. “Maybe she sent me that… thing.”

  “She wouldn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She’s not like that.” Roisin dropped an empty basket to the ground and straightened up. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”

  “You know that for sure, do you?”

  She shrugged. “I choose to believe it.”

  We slammed down the machine lid, and it echoed through the cellar, like the rumbling of thunder on a stormy day.

  “The more I think about that… box, the weirder I think it is. Someone took the trouble to create this… this intricate piece of art just to tell me I’m going to die. By falling down the stairs apparently. Maybe it’s God telling me to keep off that bloody staircase.”

  Roisin laughed. “Maybe. Listen, I’m sure Bertie will get to the bottom of it. He knows everyone. MPs, other rich bastards, police officers probably.”

  “Must be nice to have connections,” I said. “The only people I know are in prison or rehab.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it fell flat. The washing machine churned, water and white cotton spinning and mixing. “Someone doesn’t want me to be here, and I don’t know why.”

  “That seems unlikely,” Roisin said.

  “It was addressed to me. It depicted me dead.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. It was awful.” She bit her lip. “Look, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but…”

  Next to us the machine clanged and whirred. I leaned closer to her, eager to discover what she knew. “What?”

  “The girl you replaced. Well, she left quite abruptly. She didn’t give notice or even say goodbye to anyone. We shared a room, and I got back after a long day to find all her things gone. Not that she had much to begin with. I think she had an argument with Mrs Huxley, because I saw them near the staircase, the spiral one, and Chloe—that was her name—walked away crying. I tried to catch up with her, but she didn’t want to talk.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Do you think it was her? Do you think she sent me the box?”

  “I don’t know. But she was troubled. She came from the Providence programme.”

  “I did too.”<
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  “I know,” she replied. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Chloe had this stubborn streak that didn’t go down well with Mrs Huxley. She was independent and hated being told what to do. They had this battle of wills thing going on that no one was going to win. If Huxley told Chloe to clean the library first, she’d dust the stairs instead. If she was asked to clean the floors, she cleaned the chandeliers. She’d do whatever the Howards wanted, but with Huxley it was a whole other story. Chloe used to say how that woman had too much power and she wanted to take her down a peg.”

  “I can relate to that feeling,” I said.

  Roisin laughed. But then the smile faded from her lips. “Look, it’s best not to go there with Huxley because you aren’t going to win. It’s pointless. It’s like getting your horns locked with a bull and both of you are going at it with the same strength.” She mimed two fighting bulls with her fingers that made me laugh out loud. “Like, I don’t know if I should tell you this, but there’s more. It’s a secret though, so keep it to yourself, all right?”

  “What?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Chloe and Alex Howard were having an affair.”

  Chapter 11

  Getting ditched by your own mother strips away the safety net and never truly allows you to be naive. It had always been hard to shock me with outrageous gossip. I didn’t go to sleep with a comfort blanket. I slept with one eye open, wondering what could happen to me next. It certainly didn’t surprise me to learn that the attractive, rich, young heir to Highwood Hall had been sleeping with the maid. But I did find it interesting. Firstly, because now I knew Alex had a thing for maids, and secondly, because it seemed the girl I’d replaced left under a storm cloud. Perhaps the diorama was her strange way of telling me to get out. It was either a warning or a threat. I wasn’t sure which.