She stared at the old master she was attempting to copy, and started to settle herself to her work, searching for that particular moment of creation when all sound and outside movement was cut out, but for some reason not finding it. She looked up, frowning, and gazed round, only to find that a young man on the other side of the room was staring at her in the same manner as she had been staring at the old master in front of her.
She immediately turned back to her work, attempting to ignore him. But the moment of concentration still eluded her. Against her better judgement she looked up once more, only to see that he was still staring at her and, worse, that his pencil was moving swiftly, his eyes dropping now and then to his sketch book. The wretch was only drawing her!
Chapter Two
Edith paused to look at herself in the rust-dotted mirror outside the servants’ lavatory. Inside she could hear two of the other maids giggling. They were quite sure that she was about to be hauled over the coals by her father, and they were not alone. Edith too was quite sure. Why else had she been summoned to his business room, after all? She attempted to swallow away the near-hysterical lump that seemed to have grown up in her throat. What had she done wrong?
She let her mind wander back over the past weeks. She had not been caught up in any of the day-to-day domestic scandals that were regular, almost banal daily occurrences at the inn: kitchen boys found stealing mutton chops or sausages, customers trying to become intimate with maids, barmen caught swilling beer when they should be selling it. Employees were always being dismissed on the spot, only to be promptly re-hired, either because their tears or pleas were convincing enough to move Mr or Mrs Hanson to give them a second or third chance, or – more to the point – because it was the weekend, and no one else suitable could be found to take their place. As far as all that was concerned Edith knew that her slate was clean: she had worked hard and long, to the point of exhaustion; she had not annoyed any of the cooks, or succumbed to any temptations. So why was she being summoned?
Now, eyes lowered, she made her way to her father’s business room. She could think of no particular reason why she was going to be punished, but the memory of previous punishments, when she was younger, was never very far from her mind. Her father could be ferocious when roused to anger. His was not a hot fury, but a cold rage, far more terrifying than anything more undignified or flurried, the normal kind of plate-throwing tantrum in which one of the cooks might occasionally indulge.
The door handle in front of her slid in her nervously warm hand as she turned it, but she persevered as her father’s voice called her into the room. She walked slowly towards his desk, towards the familiar sight of his ledgers, his ink well and his long quill pen. As always her eyes fixed on the centre of her father’s waistcoat, around the area of his watch and chain, and then raised themselves a little higher as she heard him say in his distant way, ‘Ah, Edith – there you are: yes, of course.’
Since her mother’s death he had always greeted Edith in this way. It made her feel as if she was something that had been forgotten, something someone had left out by mistake, as if he really meant to be saying, ‘Ah, Edith, she is gone, but you are still here?’
Unfortunately for him, in many ways, Edith was still there, a leftover from his previous marriage, a permanent reminder of the woman he had once loved, a mirror image of the first Mrs Hanson.
‘Edith, this gentleman wants to speak to you.’
Another voice spoke. Edith recognised its dark, velvet timbre, its rich resonance, so different from her father’s light, precise tone. ‘May I put the question to Miss Hanson?’
Edith gave the owner of the voice, the tall, handsome stranger who had walked into the inn and interrupted her housework, a brief look as he turned to her father.
‘Yes, of course.’ Her father sounded almost bored, as if he had already undergone the whole proceeding and already knew the outcome.
‘Miss Hanson, with your father’s permission, I would like to ask for your hand in marriage.’
Dumbstruck, Edith stared up into the brilliant eyes, the handsome bearded face, taking in the carefully tied cravat, the beautifully cut clothes, and for a second it seemed to her that she stood at the gates of paradise, that she must be going to faint with joy. Marriage was not something that she had ever contemplated for herself, since London servants stood very little chance of being married, but she knew from paintings what marriage looked like. It was white, and it was orange blossom, and it was beautiful. She could find no words, having no idea what to say, unable to overcome the habit of years, which was not to speak to a customer unless to direct them to the dining room or the bar.
Her father, seeing that his daughter’s brilliant green eyes had become huge in her small face, felt he should prompt her to a reply.
‘Would you like to marry this gentleman, Edith dear?’ he asked, trying to sound affectionate, which he had realised in a rush could be important if he really was to get Edith off his hands.
Edith nodded slowly.
‘Well. No more to be said, then. The matter is settled.’ Harold Hanson turned to Napier Todd. ‘Just need to name the day.’ He moved swiftly towards his desk with its neatly stacked leather-bound accounts books.
‘As soon as possible, sir,’ Napier told him, his eyes never moving from Edith’s face and form, her hair pinned up tidily under her cap, her service dress clean but stark.
Edith found his gaze thrilling, which was only natural since it told her that he already knew her body, in every way. She quickly looked away, realising that although it was wonderful to be the object of such interest, she could not meet his eyes. She knew that if she tried, she might faint.
‘Well now, Edith, I think it would be opportune for you to leave us now. Quite opportune,’ her father repeated, and nodded his dismissal.
Edith could not wait to leave the room. She closed the door quietly behind her, leaving the two men together, and walked quickly away.
It was not until she reached the servants’ quarters again that the full implication of what had happened hit her. She had not been reprimanded, she was not even going to be punished – she was going to be married.
‘I heard you was in for it, Edie.’
Becky Snape peered anxiously round the door that led down to the kitchens, her blonde hair escaping flirtatiously from beneath her maid’s cap, her large cornflower-blue eyes reflecting her fascination with trouble.
‘That’s what I heard, that you was in for it proper and good; good and proper, like.’ She sounded concerned; Edith had always gone out of her way to make Becky’s life easier, especially when the poor child first started at the Stag and Crown and like all the youngsters was being horribly bullied by Mrs Hanson. Edith had even insisted on taking the blame for some of Becky’s more juvenile errors, knowing that Mrs Hanson would not quite dare swipe Harold’s daughter in the same way she would have done the young Becky Snape.
‘I thought I was in for it, Becky,’ Edith agreed. ‘I really did think I was,’ she repeated solemnly, unable nevertheless to stop her own large eyes from shining, and her face breaking into her always warm and generous smile.
Becky stared at her. ‘So what was it you was in for it for, then?’
‘I’m in for – I’m in for being married, Becky, that’s what I’m in for being. I’m in for being married.’
Edith stared at Becky, the idea only now sinking in. Her strange-coloured eyes widened so much that Becky found herself staring into them, wondering what it was they reminded her of so particularly.
‘’Ere, you just drunk a jug o’ Mr Bancroft’s best ale with your breakfast?’
‘No, Becky, I haven’t, although I don’t blame you for thinking that I might have.’
‘Yer what, then? Yer in for what?’
‘I told you, Becky, I’m in for being married.’
‘Oh, you are, are you? And I’m off to be a cloistered nun, I am.’
‘No, it’s true, Becky. I’m . . .’ Edith paused.
‘I’ve been spoken for today. By a gentleman caller. He wants to marry me, and that means I’m leaving here soon, to be married. I am to be married,’ she finished slowly, quite suddenly smitten by the truth of her own words.
‘I know it now. You been up these last nights drinking the bottle ends with Willy Bancroft by the back door, haven’t you, Edith Hanson?’
Edith shook her head. ‘No, Becky. It is true. No word of a lie. I am going to be married. I really am going to be married.’
‘Very well. So what’s his name then, this man you’re going to marry? What’s his name when he’s at home?’
It was Edith’s turn to stare. ‘Never you mind,’ she said, a little too quickly even for her own ears. ‘That’s my business.’
Becky’s eyes narrowed. She knew Edith well enough to know when she was being evasive. ‘’Ere, you don’t even know his name, do you, Edith? You don’t know the name of this gentleman what wants to marry you, that’s how real your marriage is. You don’t even know his name.’
‘Of course I do,’ Edith lied. ‘But I’m not telling you, Becky. Of course I know the name of the man I am going to marry. Why wouldn’t I know his name, if I’m to marry him?’
Becky’s fingers shot out and twisted the flesh on the top of one of Edith’s hands, which happened to be resting on a nearby door handle. ‘Go on, tell out, if you know his name so well, then. Tell out the name of your intended, Miss Edith Hanson.’
Despite the pain, Edith continued to smile, determined not to give in. ‘No, I will not tell you the name of my fiancé, Becky Snape, not if you were the last person on this earth I wouldn’t. After all, Becky, you might pinch him the way you’re pinching me, mightn’t you?’
Becky grinned. ‘Yah, I might at that, Edith. Yah, I might well do just that.’ She stopped her flesh-twisting and changed her tactics. ‘When will you tell me then, Edie?’ She looked purposefully forlorn, small and defeated, which did not really wash with Edith, who, fond though she was of Becky, knew she was up to just about everything. It was her way.
‘I will tell you on my wedding day, so you won’t have to wait long, Becky. My wedding day is sure to be quite soon, and if I’m allowed I’d like you to be my bridesmaid.’
Becky stared as Edith turned to go, and the expression in her eyes was one of incredulity mixed with dawning hope. ‘I could be your – bridesmaid? Edith Hanson, get on! Be your bridesmaid, go up the aisle behind you, and wear flowers in me hair like a proper lady? Get on!’
‘No, it’s true, Becky. I shall ask for you to be my bridesmaid. If I’m to be married, you can be with me and hold my bouquet. I shall insist on it!’
The actual date of Edith’s wedding was dictated by the wait for the special licence, this in its turn being dictated by the impatience of both the bride’s father and the bridegroom-to-be. It was applied for as soon as was perfectly possible while the rest of the servants waited in dis-believing suspense, unable to credit that young Edith had been spoken for, and not by the delivery boy, or the brewery man, but by a proper gentleman.
Mrs Hanson was possibly the most bewildered of everyone at the sudden turn of events regarding her stepdaughter, and perhaps because of this she still expected Edith to work right up until her big day. There was no talk from her stepmother of what Edith should wear, or what she might be given in the way of a trousseau, so, perhaps realising, somewhat belatedly, that something was required, her father took Edith aside.
‘I think you should go shopping for a gown,’ he announced a week before the chosen date. ‘I will stand by whatever you choose, for Mother, I know, will select something tasteful for you.’
Because it was her day off Edith had already washed her long auburn hair and brushed it out, instead of pinning it back. Mrs Hanson looked startled when she saw her stepdaughter hurrying towards her clutching her old, thin, grey cloak around her – though not as startled as the proprietor of the discreetly smart local dress shop when he saw how poorly clothed was the young girl being presented to him for a bridal gown. He was not used to dressing servants.
For once in her life Mrs Hanson looked what she must have been feeling, namely embarrassed.
‘This is my stepdaughter, newly arrived from the provinces,’ she said, by way of polite explanation. ‘She is to be married next week.’
Mr North smiled at the young girl standing beside her stepmother. She might be too thin, she might be wearing clothes that frankly he fully intended to see burnt within the next few minutes, but even so he was not surprised that she had been picked to be someone’s wife, for, despite her drab appearance, her odious stepmother, and her pale cheeks, she was truly stunning.
Mr North could appreciate that Edith Hanson’s long, richly red auburn hair and bright green eyes were her most startling attributes, and that the shape of her pale-skinned face with its perfectly set eyes and straight nose was actually classical in its appeal. But the main attraction, and one that could not be missed, was the mouth, the lips of which were full and curved, giving her an air of involuntary voluptuousness.
‘Follow me, Mrs Hanson.’
Despite himself Mr North had to pretend to be deferential to Mrs Hanson, not just because she was a regular customer, but because she regularly entertained the ladies of the neighbour-hood to private luncheons at the Stag and Crown: luncheons at which Mrs Hanson, with equal regularity, wore her best silk and satin gowns, all of them purchased at Charles North of Paris, London, and Vienna. The ladies in question, having viewed their hostess’s fashionable frocks, very promptly made a beeline for Mr North’s premises; for whatever her faults, Mrs Harold Hanson was a handsome woman, who looked very much the part in pintucked gowns of a discreet hue.
‘Miss Bagshaw?’
Although Miss Bagshaw was standing expectantly by the large cheval mirror in the palely lit salon ready to leap into action, alert to the need for sales, Mr North nevertheless clapped his hands with authority, so that not only Miss Bagshaw but her two young assistants sprang to attention with almost soldierly respect.
‘Bridal gowns, Miss Bagshaw, bridal gowns.’
Miss Bagshaw could not help looking startled. Her eyes went from Mrs Hanson to Edith and back again, and for the briefest of seconds Mr North could see that she was wondering if the bride was the older of the two women rather than the pathetic, drably dressed young girl with the startlingly coloured hair standing beside her.
‘My stepdaughter is marrying next week,’ Mrs Hanson announced to the startled vendeuse, but she said it in such a way that Miss Bagshaw was quite able to imagine that she had not previously ever had much to do with this stepdaughter in her thin grey cloak and poor shoes. ‘She is marrying Mr Napier Todd, the famous portrait painter.’
The occupants of the salon stared at Edith with some interest. A portrait painter, while not a belted earl, was nevertheless perfectly respectable. After all, Her Majesty the Queen regularly entertained such people, and it was well known that some of them stayed for months at a time at Balmoral, painting portraits of everyone from Her Majesty’s daughters to her beloved dogs.
However, if the older people in the room were only mildly impressed by Napier Todd’s credentials, Edith was profoundly stirred. The fact that her husband-to-be was called Napier Todd and not John Smith was exciting enough, but the fact that he was a portrait painter was more than exciting, it was enticing. It meant that Napier Todd was not just a businessman like her father, but someone who painted famous or perhaps even aristocratic people, like those she had sometimes glimpsed riding or driving through Richmond Park, their matching teams of greys or bays pulling them through life with an ease which, to a humble maid such as Edith, seemed unimaginable.
‘There is very little time to prepare, all so sudden,’ Mrs Hanson continued, giving the kind of tremulous smile that was intended to invite immediate sympathy.
‘Would you care to step this way, made-moiselle?’ Miss Bagshaw asked Edith.
It was Miss Bagshaw’s wise custom to use a smattering of
French to her customers, if only because it tended to reassure them of the fashionable standing enjoyed by the Charles North salon. Besides, she had discovered over the years that customers addressed as either ‘madame’ or ‘mademoiselle’, for reasons even she herself did not fully understand, would respond better to her guidance, the inference being that she must have spent time in a Paris salon.
Edith looked at her stepmother, who nodded briskly, and led the way to the room reserved for fittings. There Mrs Hanson left her, and beckoning to Miss Bagshaw walked the vendeuse a little way further up the main room. ‘She will need new sous-vêtements,’ she murmured discreetly, and Miss Bagshaw, understanding immediately just what was needed, hurried off in the direction of the lingerie cage.
It was not difficult to choose the right style of underwear for one so young and slim, but it was hard to find enough of the undoubtedly tiny size that was required. Her selection made, Miss Bagshaw hurried past Mr North, who was approving a parade of white dresses being unveiled by her two assistants. Mr North eyed the armfuls of camisoles and silk stockings piled high in the vendeuse’s arms, and sighed inwardly with relief. His brother-in-law ran just such a business as his own, but he had no Miss Bagshaw upon whom he could rely. No one who could sum up a size with one glance and come up with exactly the right measurements of a customer, no one who could flatter with the perfect, carefully placed remark, no one who could soothe his feelings at the end of a long day like his own Miss Bagshaw.
‘In here, Mademoiselle Hanson.’ Miss Bagshaw opened a door to a large well-lit changing room into which Edith passed, followed by the vendeuse, who then deftly closed the door behind them, thus shutting out the second Mrs Hanson. ‘You may place your own under-garments here, mademoiselle.’ Miss Bagshaw held out some discreet sheeting, and laid a selection of underwear on the banquette behind them. ‘Then I suggest that you try this, and that – and this other.’
Friday's Girl Page 4
