The Secret Heiress

by Luke Devenish

  Biddy pulled the bed further away from the wall, giving her enough space to squeeze in between, crouched on her knees. There were many years of dust on the particular spot on the skirting, it being too inaccessible for half-hearted maids to reach with their brooms. Biddy scraped at it with her fingers until the words revealed themselves.

  Ida. Go away.

  Shocked, she felt a chill run straight up her back. The skin on her forearms prickled. She shoved the bed into place again as fast as she could, covering the words. The coincidence of seeing her mother’s name was shocking. And yet it could only be coincidence, Biddy knew, some other Ida had once been here, among so many thousands and thousands of Idas in the world.

  The room seemed less appealing.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid, it’s still a lovely room; it’s just a coincidence, that’s all.’ She took deep breaths to steady herself. ‘It’s a coincidence. Don’t be so stupid, Biddy.’

  • • •

  Two days later, attired in some of Sybil’s unwanted clothes, which fit very well, Biddy came downstairs at four o’clock, marking the end of Sybil’s lessons and the start of Biddy’s companion duties for the afternoon. Biddy went to the drawing room, prepared for the task, having found a book that she hoped might be deemed suitable for reading aloud.

  Sybil was already waiting and sprang from a chair, embracing her. ‘Happy birthday!’

  Biddy was taken aback. ‘It’s not my birthday, it was months ago.’

  ‘Happy belated birthday, I meant to say,’ said Sybil, no less excited.

  ‘Well, that’s nice,’ said Biddy, mystified. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell me that your sixteenth birthday was a very under-celebrated affair?’ Sybil asked.

  Biddy winced at the memory of herself, Queenie, and stern Mrs Rattray consuming a day-old sponge cake in five minutes of deathly silence before Mrs Rattray had pronounced the ‘birthday party’ over and made Biddy wash up the plates. ‘It could have been worse,’ she fibbed.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Sybil, ‘which is why we’re putting it to rights. Come in, Mrs Marshall!’ she called out.

  Having evidently been waiting in the hall, the housekeeper entered carrying an iced fruitcake on a tray, followed by Miss Garfield cradling a bowl of fruit punch.

  ‘Oh,’ said Biddy, genuinely surprised.

  As parties went, Biddy had known livelier and better-attended gatherings, if not at the Reverend’s household, then certainly at home, but the thought behind it was touching. Biddy vowed to herself to accept whatever was given in the unique circumstances of her employment, and not to hanker after more. But it was the unique circumstances that had begun to intrigue Biddy. Sybil’s absent relatives, the presumed owners of Summersby, had ‘rules’, it was clear.

  ‘How am I to know when I’m going against something your relatives have wished for?’ Biddy asked Sybil when the little party had been cleared away again. She thought this a very sensible question.

  ‘You mustn’t worry about any of that,’ said Sybil.

  ‘But how will I know so that I won’t do it?’

  ‘Shall we play pinochle now?’ Sybil suggested. ‘I do enjoy that game.’

  ‘I’ve never played it.’

  ‘I shall teach you then!’

  Biddy retrieved the cards and table as directed and began to examine the deck, glancing at the other girl. Sybil’s smile remained a lovely one but behind it Biddy could see the unease she’d first noticed when Miss Garfield had confirmed the companion’s position. Biddy said no more while Sybil instructed her in the game, and they played a hand until Sybil declared herself fatigued.

  ‘Will you answer my question?’ Biddy asked, as Sybil was standing to leave the drawing room.

  Sybil stopped and looked hard at her companion. ‘You must not irritate me, Biddy, I am afraid I need to be insistent on that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Biddy said. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’

  ‘Yet, I think that you might have,’ said Sybil. ‘Do you think the Secret Heiress would?’ The question sounded like something parroted automatically, a phrase repeated by rote.

  ‘Who?’

  Sybil seemed to realise what she’d said and sidestepped it. ‘I shall forgive you for it, for we must all err once. But to err again is less forgivable, don’t you think?’

  Biddy nodded, thrown. ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘You must call me Sybil, remember,’ said the well-to-do girl, assuming her smile.

  Companionship, Biddy told herself as she put away the table and cards, was not the same thing as friendship despite any appearance that suggested it was. Friends considered themselves equals, because without equality friendship couldn’t exist. Companions didn’t consider themselves equals so much as they behaved as if they were.

  Biddy had genuinely hoped for a friend. Yet somehow it still didn’t feel beyond her achievement.

  • • •

  ‘When you have a moment to spare for me, Miss Garfield, perhaps you could dictate the Summersby rules I must follow?’ Biddy stood before the governess with a pencil and notebook.

  The governess gave her a level glance from the library sofa. ‘Wash your hands thoroughly before meals. Refrain from running upon the stairs.’

  Giving the impression of being pleased, Biddy noted these down and waited.

  ‘Don’t sniff,’ Miss Garfield added. ‘The sound of it carries in the halls and is most disquieting.’

  Biddy wrote that down, too, and then looked back to the governess. ‘Aren’t these rules a bit, well, common sense?’

  ‘Of course they are, Biddy, and it dismays me to think you need any instruction in them,’ said Miss Garfield, sternly. ‘Did you learn nothing in your previous service?’

  ‘Of course I did, Miss Garfield, Mrs Rattray trained me very well.’

  ‘Is this the same Mrs Rattray you once claimed to be?’

  Biddy had the good grace to blush.

  ‘Put your silly notebook away and prepare to amuse Sybil for the hour before supper,’ said the governess. ‘If you do then all will be well, you’ll see.’

  Biddy looked about her as if in fear of being overheard. ‘I mean her relatives’ rules,’ she whispered. ‘Can’t you just tell me about those?’

  Miss Garfield bristled. ‘Such rules have absolutely nothing to do with you.’

  ‘They do if I break them.’

  ‘They are not yours to break. They are not your concern.’

  ‘But they are my concern if I’m to be here,’ Biddy pressed. ‘I can’t seem to find anything about them written down anywhere. There’s no leatherbound book of them, and surely that’s where such rules ought to be?’

  ‘Biddy . . .’

  ‘There’s not even a framed needlepoint with them stitched on it either.’ Biddy paused for breath for a moment. ‘And who is the Secret Heiress?’

  Miss Garfield rose from the sofa and stood half a head taller than Biddy, eyeing her off. ‘How do you know of that?’

  ‘Something I overheard,’ said Biddy, losing confidence.

  Miss Garfield’s silence told her there would be no answer forthcoming.

  ‘I’m only trying to be a good companion,’ Biddy pleaded.

  ‘You’ll be a far more exemplary one if you desist from discussing these matters again,’ said Miss Garfield.

  Biddy narrowed her eyes as the governess removed herself from the room.

  She heard her inquisitive mother’s example again, compulsively listing in her head the things that niggled her.

  One. Why would a person’s relatives remain so unknown and mysterious? Why would they insist on it? Why would others enforce it? Why would a person accept it?

  • • •

  Biddy tapped at Sybil’s door and waited in the hallway. When, after a moment, the door had not been answered, Biddy knocked again. When that brought no response, Biddy tried the handle. ‘Sybil?’ she called into the room. ‘I’m here for our fun before supper.’

 
; The room was unoccupied.

  Biddy saw the folded note left upon the lace pillow of Sybil’s bed.

  Closing the door behind her she slipped inside and took the paper, perching on the edge of the bed as she read it.

  I do not require amusement just now, Biddy. When you encounter Miss Garfield or Mrs Marshall later this is not something they need know. Rather, you must tell them the very opposite should they ask: much amusement was provided and you well fulfilled your duty as companion. In truth, you will well fulfil your duty by remaining in my room alone and doing all that might be required to make it seem that I am in here with you. Please do not fail in this. It is very important to our friendship that you succeed, and if you succeed (which I know you will) then I will have cause to ask it of you again. Your loving Sybil.

  Biddy sat and thought about the letter for a long time, a smile on her face. She could not help letting her thoughts wander to Lewis Fitzwater, the handsome young man whom she had not seen since the morning at the hut when he had left little Joey in her care. She thought about Lewis’s soft lips upon hers; a thought that could only be a thought because she had not actually experienced it.

  When Sybil returned to the room an hour later, Biddy was playing her umpteenth game of solitaire. She looked up and grinned at the well-to-do girl, who grinned happily back, giving nothing away as to where she had been. Biddy did not ask and did not allude to the contents of the note at all. The two girls began a different game of cards, laughing in fun until the bell for supper rang.

  Sybil seemed radiant as she descended the stairs, Biddy following one step behind, hands crossed at her waist. Taking their seats at the dining table together, Biddy looked at Sybil with new eyes as they ate their simple meal.

  Sybil was involved in a clandestine romance. Biddy knew every one of the signs. This was the real reason why Sybil had wanted her here.

  Biddy was the smokescreen.

  • • •

  Seeking ways to fill the hours when a companion was not required, Biddy invaded Mrs Marshall’s domain. Oddly, it seemed to her, no replacement cook had been found and Mrs Marshall remained the source of Summersby’s meals. Biddy came to know Mrs Marshall’s narrow, albeit tasty, repertoire well. She observed Mrs Marshall’s kitchen duties without comment from a chair at the scrubbed pine table; silence being a rare thing for her, but a more natural state for Mrs Marshall, who was used to working with very few staff around her at the best of times. After a while the housekeeper forgot that Biddy was even in the room. Then, without being asked, Biddy made brown soup from the meat bones leftover from Monday’s roast beef. Mrs Marshall, thrown upon discovering what Biddy was doing, observed Biddy’s work with high scepticism, but said nothing about it. Finally, when Biddy stood aside from the stove, Mrs Marshall deigned to sample the work. She still said nothing, but was apparently happy enough with the results, for the soup was served with supper.

  Biddy repeated the process, again without Mrs Marshall saying a word about it, this time using bones from the boiled mutton. Then she prepared Scotch broth wholly on her own initiative from the neck of a mutton forequarter. Mrs Marshall again tasted both these soups, making her approval apparent only in her act of allowing them to be served.

  ‘Summersby has no mincing machine,’ Biddy remarked as the housekeeper prepared yet another roast beef dinner.

  Mrs Marshall stopped. ‘Summersby has no need of one.’

  Biddy shrugged. ‘Still, with the purchase of a mincer, I could use the leftovers to make rissoles for breakfast,’ she said. ‘The Reverend always liked it. I just add some onion with a little parsley and thyme.’

  Mrs Marshall narrowed her eyes while Biddy smiled from the table.

  ‘The brown soups were well received, if unexpected,’ said the housekeeper, ‘but they are not required of a lady’s companion, and it must be said, do debase the position.’

  ‘Tripe,’ said Biddy.

  Mrs Marshall flushed red and dropped her dishcloth. ‘What did you just say to me . . .?’

  ‘Tripe and offal,’ said Biddy, winningly, ‘I’m very handy with them, too. Tripe done with onions; it’s always a tasty supper and very pleasing near the end of the week when the housekeeping budget’s slim. You can go a long way with tripe.’

  The housekeeper glared at her. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

  ‘Did you give up the idea of finding another cook then? Is that because you actually rather like cooking? I like it, too,’ said Biddy.

  ‘That is none of your concern,’ the housekeeper spluttered.

  ‘Of course it’s not, but the happy state of Summersby is, at least a bit, if I’m to be a part of things here. Miss Sybil might want a companion, but truth is she only wants one when she’s not hard at work on her lessons, which is much of the time, or resting, which is quite often, too. I wasn’t brought up to be idle, Mrs Marshall, and I don’t care if it debases the position or not. Perhaps you could use another pair of hands in here? I know I could use the company – and the learning. There are many things you could teach me about running a great house like this, and I, for one, would like to know them.’

  The housekeeper slowly smoothed her apron. ‘As if I have the time or inclination to teach anyone anything, especially some slip of a girl who’s landed her position with nothing more than lies and coincidence.’

  The comment stung but Biddy’s calm expression showed no trace of it. ‘It’s not as if I can’t pull my weight. Why don’t you ask me something?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Ask me something,’ Biddy repeated, ‘about household tasks; cooking, cleaning; things a useful girl ought to know. Ask me. Go on. I’m far more useful than I look.’

  ‘This is a waste of my time,’ Mrs Marshall muttered.

  ‘Scared, are you? That’s a shame.’

  Mrs Marshall nearly fell backwards onto her stove at being spoken to with such impudence, but somehow she found the wit to right herself and, infuriated by Biddy, cast her eyes about the room until they landed on something to call her bluff. ‘There. In the bowl,’ she said, pointing to where a plain brown mixing bowl sat upon a dresser top. ‘Think you know it all, do you? What’s in the bowl?’

  ‘Oats,’ said Biddy.

  ‘Wrong!’ the housekeeper started to crow.

  ‘Scottish oats,’ Biddy clarified, without even needing to look at the contents. ‘There’s a difference, obviously, Scottish oats being far superior.’

  The housekeeper didn’t miss a beat. ‘What makes them superior?’

  ‘Well, the conditions in which they’re grown, of course. That oats can grow at all in Scotland is a miracle, with such poor soil, so rocky and hard, and very cruel weather – there’s hardly a growing season to speak of there, and nothing to harvest until well into autumn, I’m told. Each grain is a triumph, really, and that’s what they bring with them: triumph. I wouldn’t make porridge with anything but imported Scottish oats, and I’m relieved, Mrs Marshall, to see that you wouldn’t either.’

  The housekeeper’s mouth hung open before she had the presence of mind to close it. Robbed of reply, given that Biddy was correct, she returned to preparing the roast. Biddy wasted no further time, getting up from the table and moving towards a tray of apricots that one of the gardener’s boys had brought in and left near the door.

  ‘Very fine fruit here,’ said Biddy, hefting the tray towards the sink, ‘they’ll make a lovely jam, don’t you think, Mrs Marshall? And don’t you worry any; I’ll break the stones with a hammer. The creamy white kernels are the very best bits in a good apricot jam. It amazes me how few people know this.’

  Mrs Marshall looked up only once more. ‘You’ll find preserving jars in the stillroom,’ was all she said.

  Happy, Biddy headed into the room where Mrs Marshall aired her cakes and bread, and stored various sundries. She gave a little leap in the air once she was sure the other woman couldn’t see her. Then, for the sheer joy at what had been achieved, she gave another little leap a
nd another again. Biddy pulled herself together then, not wanting it to seem like she was rubbing some kind of victory into the other woman’s face, and began gathering what she’d need for the jam. For the first time she felt able to assess the contents of Mrs Marshall’s stillroom shelves properly. Two inviting cakes stood beneath glass lids, waiting to be iced. A crusty loaf of soft, white bread lay invitingly beneath a cloth.

  There was a fine array of preserving jars in varying sizes and Biddy selected ten of the smaller sort, better suited for the breakfast table. She picked up and examined some of the other things stored along with the jars and noted bits of chipped or orphaned glassware that she guessed Mrs Marshall clung to for reasons of sentiment. A flash of sapphire blue caught her eye and, shifting some larger things aside, Biddy found an old perfume vial lost at the very back of the shelf. Biddy retrieved it and held it to the light from the upper windows. It glowed like a blue jewel in her hand. There was nothing inside. She put the thing back where she found it, until something made her turn to look at it again as she assembled the other jars. It was very pretty. Biddy wondered if it would be missed if it fell inside her apron pocket.

  Deciding it wasn’t worth the risk to her current good standing with the housekeeper, Biddy let the vial be but succumbed instead to the lure of the soft white bread. With memories of all the thick slices denied her while in the Reverend’s employ, Biddy lifted the cloth from the loaf and carved herself a slice as thick as her wrist. As she did, a pleasing waft of herbs rose from the bread.