The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “I just… I feel like I’ve made so many mistakes. You know?”

  “What sort of mistakes?”

  She wiped away a few tears. “Oh God. Sorry. It’s the hangover.”

  But I didn’t believe her. Roisin’s face was smudged with mascara and drawn tight around her eyes and mouth. I knew she was holding something back. I just didn’t know what.

  “Come in, sis,” she said, lifting the duvet.

  Like two sisters in an Austen novel, we lay down together and held hands. Less than five minutes later, she began to snore softly, and I gently eased myself out of her grip. I had a shower, got changed, and went for a walk in the gardens to clear my head. A low-lying mist meandered down to the woods, and a drizzle hung in the air. But the damp was pleasant on my skin after a night of restless sleep. I strolled around the grounds for about thirty minutes, and by the time I got back to the hall, Mrs Huxley was no longer in the kitchen. When I asked Pawel where she was, he said she’d disappeared for her weekly outing.

  I went back to my shared room with Roisin, anxiously curling a lock of hair between my fingers. It wasn’t any of my business where Mrs Huxley went on her day off, but my suspicions nagged the back of my mind.

  Rather than go into my room, I carried on until I reached Mrs Huxley’s quarters. She’d have records in there. My mother’s name could be in those records. What if my mother had left a forwarding address? What if I could find her?

  Pipe dreams. Aunt Josephine would’ve found her by now if she wanted to be found. I calmed myself and placed a palm on the wood, remembering our jokes about Huxley from the night before. Her situation was strange when you thought about it. Most maids tended to be young people just starting out in life without any attachments. Being a maid at Highwood was more like an extension of school or university. It was like putting your life on hold for a short time while you got your shit together and made some money. Whereas Mrs Huxley living in her “quarters” within the house was odd and old-fashioned. She apparently had no family or connections outside the hall, and long-term staff members like Pawel knew nothing about her private life.

  My hand slipped down the wood until it gripped the door handle. It would be locked—I knew it would—and yet I desperately wanted to go in. I wanted to see how she lived, what kind of photographs she put on the walls, whether she was immaculately tidy or a secret slob. I wanted to know what she did in her spare time. Was she in the process of making intricate still life dioramas of Lord Bertie in his office or Margot reclining by the pool with her turban on and a cigarette in hand? Would I find a doll that looked just like me?

  Gently, as though I feared someone might hear me snooping, I pressed the handle down. Of course, it was locked. In a stupor, I went back to my room and sat down on my bed. Roisin opened one eye and then the other. She groaned, rubbed mascara further down her face, and turned on her side.

  “Do you think Pawel might make me a fry-up if I offer him a favour in return?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “What kind of favour?”

  “I don’t even care at this point. I just need grease.” She hesitated, sitting up in bed. “What’s the matter?”

  “I tried to get into Mrs Huxley’s office.”

  “Why?” She screwed up her face at the ridiculousness of it, and a weariness in her eyes told me loud and clear she was way too hungover for this.

  “I think it’s her,” I said. “It has to be. Who else could it be?”

  “What?”

  “The dioramas.”

  “Oh.” She sounded tired, like she had better things to do. I didn’t resent her for moving on and forgetting about my woes. But I was perturbed that no one else saw them as threatening. “Now why would she? She’s strange, I know that, and we had a laugh talking about her in the pub and that. But she doesn’t know you, does she? I guess I can see her resenting the Howards, but she’s up their arses all day and night. I genuinely think she loves them. Maybe too much.”

  “I guess so.” I didn’t have it in me to argue otherwise. “I’ll ask Pawel about that fry-up.”

  “I love you.” She grinned at me.

  “That’s the alcohol talking,” I replied, feeling a smile spreading across my face as I went to the kitchen to beg for breakfast.

  On the way down the corridor, I heard footsteps behind me. When I turned around, Mrs Huxley was coming out of her quarters.

  “But you—” I blurted out.

  She straightened her spine and faced me, wearing the same burgundy dress as the day I came for my interview. “But I?”

  “I thought you were out.”

  “Well, clearly I’m back now,” she said, and I could have sworn I saw amusement dancing across her face, tugging at the corner of her mouth. “What are you gawping at?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Where did you go last night?”

  “The Crossed Scythes.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is that wise? Considering your background.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” I said, “but rest assured I spent the night drinking Coke. We left late and stayed at Ade’s house in the village.” It annoyed me that I justified myself to her, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Ah, young girls and their desires. I had hoped you might be more disciplined, but the maids from the programme never are.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I do hope you’re enjoying your day off. It’s back to work tomorrow, and you have the toilets to scrub.” She walked away from me, gliding in that way she did. I hated her then, for judging me, making me feel less-than.

  As soon as she was around the corner, I ran down to her office door and tried the handle, but it was still locked. It confused me how she managed to walk past my and Roisin’s room without us hearing her. Mrs Huxley glided like a swan on water, but surely we would have heard her movements. The swish of her dress, the hint of a tread on the hard floor. Pawel said she was out before I went back to my room with Roisin. That was, what? An hour ago? Where did she come from? Was there an outside door leading into her office? I needed to know.

  After getting Pawel to agree to fry up some bacon and eggs and deliver them to Roisin, I slipped out of the house and walked around the perimeter. There were many doors on the outside of the house, and some of them I had no idea where they led or even if they were in use. I walked around the east side, between the hall and the stable block, to the location of Mrs Huxley’s office, but I couldn’t find a door, only a window. Peeking through the glass revealed little of note: a tidy desk, a chair and some shelves filled with files.

  “Are you planning to rob us?”

  I shrieked as I spun around, and an amused smile unfurled across Alex’s lips. It was easy to see what kind of mood he was in from nothing but that smile. He was in his charming and handsome mode. The affable Alex.

  “Yes,” I said, my heart pounding. “And I thought I’d start with the housekeeper’s office. That’s where all the jewels are, right?”

  Alex gazed over my head into Mrs Huxley’s room. “Why, I do believe you are snooping. What a little sneak you are. What’s she done?”

  I shook my head. “Well, aside from biting my head off…? Nothing, I guess. Except every now and then she pops up when I least expect her.”

  “You mean like now?” He turned around as though about to reveal Huxley behind him. But there was no one there and he started to laugh.

  “Very funny.” I rolled my eyes. He was easy to like when he was in this mood.

  “Come on, I want to show you something.” He grabbed my hand. I was powerless to him, again.

  Chapter 24

  Every nerve in my hand was aware of his touch, the feel of his smooth skin. Hands that had not worked. Hands that had been cared for. My aunt would have ridiculed them. But she ridiculed everyone except for her late husband, a builder who killed himself before I was born. Someone who understood hard work, just like I should. My hands were red, the skin peeling between my fingers. With my hand in
side Alex’s, I should’ve been embarrassed of my rough skin, but I wasn’t. I suspected he enjoyed the callouses and sores on my hands. There were plenty of smooth-skinned women in his social circles. Alex wanted a different flavour.

  We almost ran around the perimeter of the hall, and I became self-conscious, wondering if Lord Bertie or Mrs Huxley were watching from one of the windows above. Alex’s brogues kicked up the tiny stones on the path. Every now and then, one of the rambling roses caught me on the arm. By the time we stopped, I had a thorn sticking out of the sleeve of my tunic.

  “Here we are,” he said. “The north wing.”

  He stood before a red door. It was far more simplistic than the main entrance, with a regular stone arch that peaked sharply at the top and a large brass knob in the centre. Instead of a door knocker, this door had what appeared to be a modern doorbell fitted. To my surprise, Alex reached into his pocket, removed his wallet, and took out a card. Then he pressed the card to what I’d thought was the doorbell, and it opened with a click.

  Alex pushed the door wide open and walked in. His face, half in shadow, half in a dim grey light, was skull-like. For a heartbeat, he reminded me of Mrs Huxley with high, sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw. I followed him through to the darkness, my heart beating fast.

  The door closed, plunging us into a penetrating blackness. His voice echoed around me, close and far away at the same time.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “No.”

  A light touch on my cheek. Even without sight, I knew he’d caressed me with one of his pale fingers. My heart pounded harder. Every muscle in my body tensed. I heard him breathing close to me, laboured, excited. And then a light came on overhead, and his face emerged from the darkness just a few inches away. The shock sent a ripple through my taut muscles. He had one hand on the wall behind me, his finger still on the light switch, and his other hand was balled into a fist by his hip. His eyes bored into mine. We stayed there for ten seconds, both still, both rigid, until he leaned away from me and strolled away.

  A thin, shaky breath expelled from my lungs as my body trembled in either relief or disappointment, or both. But without him close to me, I could relax slightly and take in the surroundings. Dust sheets covered the windows, and a naked bulb hung above our heads, casting a golden light on the rubble strewn across the corridor floor. Part of the plaster had been chipped away from the walls, and the ground beneath my feet was uneven with chunks of it scattered around. Dust infiltrated my nostrils, and I fought the urge to sneeze, not wanting to break the silence. I rubbed my nose and held it in, pondering that this wasn’t the dust found in dirty houses; it was the cleaner, sweeter dust of broken mortar.

  “How come Lord Bertie hasn’t finished renovating this wing yet?” I asked, forgetting my place and making conversation with him as though we were equals.

  He didn’t turn around to answer the question. He pushed open the door leading into the next section of the wing. He was part way through as he started talking, so his voice felt far away. “Daddy doesn’t care about the north wing. He knows it isn’t his.” He turned to me. “Hurry up.”

  I quickened my step as I followed him through to the next room, expecting more concrete and broken plaster. Instead, I stepped into a stunning room with painted walls and an embellished ceiling. The mural depicted nature and mythical creatures, with cherubs dancing and butterflies fluttering. I spotted a hummingbird, its delicate wings translucent against the burnt-orange background. I allowed my fingers to reach out towards its beak. Alex slapped my hand away.

  “No touching,” he said. “Not until I say you can.”

  I stood still, waiting, playing his game.

  “Go on then.”

  I wanted to please him, so I went along with it and allowed my fingertips to gingerly meet the cold wall. It was like touching Alex. He was made of the coldest stone. His smile never did meet his eyes. Ade had been right.

  “Do you like it here?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “This will be the morning room.” He pulled down one of the dust sheets to reveal a beautiful stained-glass window twice as tall as I was. The room immediately filled with a warm glow, highlighting the orange paint. “And this will be where I host parties,” he said, gesturing to what might have been some sort of small ballroom or a large dining room. He leant over an old upright piano and played a few bars of Rachmaninoff. It was out of tune and clunky, a honky-tonk version.

  “Why are you showing me this?” The question fell from my lips without much thought. Perhaps I should’ve been warier of him, but he didn’t frighten me. I had so little to lose.

  He moved away from the piano and sauntered towards me, his hands pushed into his pockets. “When I’m married, I’m going to live here with my wife and children. When we have guests, I’ll play the piano for them. Perhaps I’ll play the sonata you’ve been helping me learn. Or some Chopin to keep it romantic. There’ll be a nursery. Mrs Huxley can add more staff to the household to help cover the wing. Lottie can fuck off to live with whatever snub-nosed prig she can find with enough money to feed her coke habit. Margot can go on decomposing in the upstairs room, and Daddy can stay in his office, counting his money. I think I’ll take the north wing, the forgotten north wing.” He came so close to me, I backed away. But Alex wasn’t having it, he placed his hands on my shoulders and squeezed and squeezed. I didn’t make a sound. Not even when his fingernails dug into my flesh through the fabric of my uniform. “Is this the kind of place you’d like to live?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you live before you came here?” He released me, and I ached where his fingers had been.

  “I didn’t live anywhere. I was sofa surfing.”

  He gave me a small smile. A knowing one. His finger grazed my cheek again, and he leaned towards me. “Do you trust me yet?”

  “No.”

  He wrapped his arms around my waist. His body was so close to mine, I felt his heart beating. But rather than kiss me, he pressed his cheek against mine.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “I want you to trust me,” he said, not answering my question.

  “Is that what you said to Chloe too?”

  At the mention of her name, he stepped away from me and turned around. Her name touched a nerve, but I didn’t care. I didn’t know what he wanted from me.

  “Did you bring her here?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, still not facing me. It made no difference, I thought.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want. Come on. It’s time to go.”

  Not wanting to end up locked in the north wing, I followed him back the way we came, pausing in the orange room to touch the beak of the hummingbird. Why did he bring me here? Perhaps he wanted to taunt me with a life I’d never have. The touches, the hot and the cold, the soft and the rough, the glimpse into a future that did not belong to me. It was all part of the game.

  Alex held the door open for me, and we came out into the fresh air. For the first time since I’d mentioned Chloe’s name, he looked at me.

  “Listen, I do want you to trust me. I’m sorry if I’m… cold. You have no idea what it’s like to live in this family, to be the heir to this.”

  “Yeah, must be a real hardship,” I replied.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. Around him, the breeze moved through the vines of ivy creeping up the stone walls. While the ivy moved and breathed, Alex stayed as still as a statue. I had felt his heartbeat, seen the twinkle in his eyes once. For the first time, I was frightened by how quickly he changed. “I know I’m privileged. Do you think I don’t know?”

  I shrugged. “I hardly know you at all.”

  “Well, I know, all right. But that doesn’t change the fact that I have the weight of generations on my shoulders, and I have to carry traditions I’d much rather not.”

  “You can’t use me as escapism,” I said. “That’s not who I am. I’m worth more than
that.”

  “I know. But you’re enjoying it too, don’t deny it.”

  I said nothing.

  “I have to go.” He took a step back. “We’ll talk soon. In the music room, perhaps. I like spending time with you.”

  “Okay.” I leaned back against the red door, waiting for him to leave.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, almost angrily. “Don’t spend so much time with the gardener.”

  My lips twitched with an emerging smile, but I smothered it. “Is that an order?”

  He turned around and strode away, his answer coming back to me on the breeze. “Yes.”

  Chapter 25

  Monday came and went in a blur. I scrubbed the bathroom floor, but Mrs Huxley found dark spots underneath the sink, so I did it again, and then she decided the toilet wasn’t clean enough. I scrubbed the tiles in every bathroom in Highwood Hall that day. My knees were raw and bruised by dinner.

  She punished me for staying out on Saturday night. Roisin didn’t get quite as much punishment, but she did have to polish the silverware alone while I cleaned the bathrooms, and we didn’t serve at lunch either. Mrs Huxley had help from some of the kitchen staff instead. We’d been demoted to the worst jobs, with her always hovering in the background, a harsh word ready and waiting. Not good enough. Do it again. Concentrate.

  The whole day saw my mind in a state of flux. I’d begun to stagnate in this house, doing nothing but the cleaning I was hired to do. But the diorama of me remained in Lord Bertie’s office and I still didn’t know who had sent it. I still hadn’t figured out a way to get information out of Mrs Huxley without her knowing about my mother.

  At the end of the day, Roisin and I collapsed into our beds and slept deeply. There were no late-night chats, and there were no nightmares either. I’d never been so exhausted.

  Tuesday was much of the same, with Mrs Huxley again splitting me and Roisin into different parts of the hall. I dragged a heavy vacuum cleaner up and down the stairs, dusted the far corners of the ceilings. Then she sent me to mop the kitchen floor. I didn’t see Alex or Ade for either of the days. Later I learned Alex had gone to work in London for a few days, which meant my constant anxiety about bumping into him had been completely unwarranted.