Eventually the ladies would repair to the drawing room while the gentlemen lingered over port and cigars. I wondered if those conversations were more exciting; but the separation of the party was our cue to clear away and wash up. Little Janey helped as best she could; but she was dead tired by that time, and we kept her to handling things which could not be broken.
Carriages were ordered for midnight, and it was all I could do to stay on my feet, trying not to shiver as I held the door open while guest after guest adjusted their wrappings, or exchanged a final joke with Sir William, or pecked milady on the cheek. But as soon as the front door was locked and bolted my duties for the day were done. I dragged myself up to bed, stumbling on the rickety third stair, and undressed to my chemise before falling into bed and pulling the quilt over my head. I had no energy to do more. We would be allowed an extra half-hour in bed on Sunday, but it was never enough.
Was I unhappy? If I had had time to think, I would probably have said yes; but the truth was that I focused almost entirely on getting through the day, on doing my work to the required standard, on not being shown up as an impostor. We were a small staff; Ada had whispered to me in confidence that milady was ‘hard on maids’. My real work for Mr Poskitt rarely entered my head. If I heard voices in the main house, I would listen; if visiting cards, or letters, or a telegram lay on the silver tray in the hall, I would stop and look; if I had the chance I would slip into the study, try the drawers of the desk, and check the pigeonholes. But that was all. My one regular task, which I had grown to perform automatically, was to wait for Sir William’s copy of The Times every morning, sneak into the drawing room, and peruse the personals column for any news from Mercury. But Mercury never wrote, and, closing the paper carefully, I would take it to the kitchen and heat an iron on the fire. Sometimes I wondered if Mr Poskitt had forgotten about me, but then I would shake myself out of it, and tell myself that perhaps today would be the day that I found a note, or heard a conversation, or — something that I could pass on which might allow me to leave. I would not let myself think further than that. And as for thinking of Sherlock… Our life together seemed so unreal, compared to my present life, that sometimes I wondered if it had happened at all.
CHAPTER 30
It was a strange life, to spend my time in the service of people whom I rarely saw. At mealtimes I could not watch them; that would have been rude. I might be summoned at any time by the downstairs bells; but that involved spending a moment in the room to learn the person’s bidding, and scurrying away to fetch whatever was required.
But one day was different. It was a Wednesday, and I had just begun clearing the pantry shelves when a bell jangled in my ear. It was the bell for milady’s boudoir.
‘That’s strange,’ said Cookie. ‘I’m sure Susan’s up there.’
The bell rang again, for longer. ‘You’d best go up, Bessie.’
I washed my hands quickly and hurried up the back stairs. Excitement mingled with fear. I had never had reason to venture onto the family’s bedroom floor. I had never seen milady’s boudoir — what would it be like? I imagined silk wallpaper, delicate furniture, milady reclining on a daybed, perhaps. I opened the connecting door cautiously, and hurried towards the sound of milady’s raised, angry voice. She responded to my timid knock with an exasperated ‘Come in!’
I entered to find milady tapping her foot and glaring at Susan, who stood by with a sulky expression on her pretty face. ‘Bessie,’ said milady, still scowling at Susan, ‘do you see that vase of flowers on the bureau?’
The bureau stood near the window, and on its top was a small vase. The roses in it were drooping their heads, and a petal or two lay underneath. ‘I see it, milady.’
‘Are those flowers in a fit state to be in my boudoir?’
I glanced at Susan, whose lower lip was jutting out. ‘They are not quite fresh —’
‘That isn’t what I asked you. Should those flowers be in my room?’
I knew what she wanted. ‘No, milady.’
‘This is the second time I have found half-dead flowers in here.’ Milady’s voice was dangerously level. ‘Since the flowers downstairs are adequately maintained, you had better add my boudoir to your list, Bessie.’ Her voice had an edge which made me feel as if I were being reprimanded.
‘Yes, milady.’
‘Now take the vase away and deal with it. Every other day, please.’
‘Thank you, milady.’ My hand shook a little as I reached for the vase. As I made for the door I had to pass Susan, and the venom in her look shocked me so much that I almost dropped the vase. As I crossed the landing milady remarked, casually, ‘One more slip like that, Susan, and you’ll be on the street.’
‘What was it?’ asked Cookie, as I hurried through the kitchen.
‘Flowers,’ I said, not stopping. ‘Milady wants me to do them for her boudoir.’
‘Do what?’ I turned to see Ada at the kitchen door.
‘These.’ I held the vase up. ‘Milady’s asked me to do the boudoir flowers from now on.’
Ada whistled softly. ‘Susan won’t be happy.’
‘She isn’t,’ I said. ‘And milady won’t be, either, if I don’t get these changed.’
I breathed deeply as I entered the garden, but the calm it normally brought me was not there today. I tipped the old flowers onto the compost heap by the shed, found a pair of secateurs, and walked down to the rose garden. It was a cold morning, and the flowers had a thin rime of frost on the edges of their petals. I chose a scented variety and cut three just-opening blush-pink flowers.
I was filling the vase at the scullery tap when Susan walked in. ‘Give me those,’ she said, holding out her hand. It was the first time she had ever spoken to me directly; our paths only crossed in the servants’ hall.
I turned off the tap. ‘Milady asked me to take them up.’
‘No she didn’t. She asked you to change the flowers. Milady’s boudoir is my business, not yours.’ Susan took a step forward. ‘She doesn’t want you in there.’
Ada came through the doorway. ‘Shut up, Susan, and get out of the way. Bessie’s doing her job.’
‘Stay out of it, Ada,’ Susan said, without moving. Ada moved forward, took Susan by the shoulders, and forced her to the side of the room.
‘Get off me!’ Susan cried. Red blotches showed on her face and neck.
‘Off you go, Bessie,’ said Ada. ‘Susan, if you promise to behave, and not bother Bessie, then I’ll let you go.’
I hurried past with my vase of flowers, remembering the rickety third step in time, and tapped on the boudoir door.
‘Come!’ called milady. I took a deep breath and opened the door.
This time I had a chance to admire the room. The wallpaper was the colour of old gold, with an intricate raised pattern. The furniture was darker and heavier than I had thought, carved with elaborate, exotic designs. With its jewel-coloured carpet, the room could have been a chamber in a foreign palace. At its centre, curled up like a cat in a red leather armchair, was milady, reading a magazine. The heavy furniture and rich colours made her seem more delicate, more fragile, but she suited them exactly.
I went straight to the bureau and put the flowers on top, and glanced at milady as I walked to the door. She gave no sign that she had noticed me. Presumably that meant the flowers had passed muster.
I heard footsteps outside as I opened the door, and found Susan hovering, a pile of snowy linen in her arms. She stood back to let me pass, eyes down, before knocking and entering.
Ada had left the kitchen when I got back downstairs. ‘She’s doing the grates,’ said Cookie, rolling out pastry on the marble slab. ‘You must stand up to Susan, Bessie, or she’ll walk all over you.’
I continued to clear the pantry, stacking packets and jars on the big table in the centre. The dull, repetitive movement helped to clear some of the twitchiness I felt, the urge to run, to escape this place and these people, but my brain still raced. The thought of standing
up to Susan frightened me, though I could not have said why. She seemed somehow exempt from the conventions that the rest of us lived under; helping each other, working together, being pleasant. I set a can of water on the fire to warm and went to fetch the soap and a clean cloth. Scrubbing the shelves would help to work my feelings out.
I had no opportunity to speak to Ada alone until the end of the day, when we were undressing for bed. ‘Thank you for helping with Susan,’ I said. ‘It was kind of you.’
Ada put her boots side by side, sat, and rolled down her stockings. ‘That’s all right,’ she said. When she looked up there was an impish gleam in her eye. ‘To be honest, I enjoyed it.’
I fought back a smile. ‘I’ll try and stand up to her myself next time.’
‘You do that.’ Ada pulled her nightgown from under her pillow. Her next words were addressed to her bodice buttons as she undid them. ‘You’re one of us now that Susan’s had a go at you.’
Warmth washed over me. ‘Really?’
Ada nodded, her head still down. ‘The last Bessie, Susan and her were thick as thieves. You’d come across them whispering in a corner, giggling, all sorts of silly talk. I never could get on with her, and I was glad when she went.’
‘Why did she go?’ I asked, trying to sound innocent. I fetched my own nightgown and started to unpin my plait.
Ada did not speak again until she had slipped her nightgown over her head. ‘I think Susan turned her head and she started to give herself airs. She was a pretty girl, not out of her teens. She wasn’t with us long.’ Ada moved to the mirror and began to take her hair down. ‘There was talk — but I don’t listen to that sort of thing.’ Her mouth was set firm as she picked up her hairbrush, and I guessed I would hear no more from Ada on that subject.
‘Would you never want to be a parlourmaid, Ada?’
‘Ha!’ Ada brushed with vigour. ‘Good hard work is what I know, not flowers and needlework and silver and waiting on. I couldn’t be doing with that nonsense at meals, it’s bad enough at dinner parties.’ She peered at her hair in the cracked, spotted mirror, laid her brush down, and plaited it into a tail. ‘I thought you might be a bit fa-di-la when you came, what with having lived out, and been married and all. But you pitch in and do your bit.’ She nodded decisively. ‘Now stop chattering, I’m dog-tired.’ Her smile took the sting from her words.
I lay in the dark, thinking. You’re one of us. The words had pleased me, but why? Was it that I had fooled the servants? No, it was more that I had been accepted as part of their community. I frowned. Acceptance is part of your job, a little voice wheedled. But I made a stern memorandum to myself: Don’t forget why you are here. Never forget your real work.
CHAPTER 31
The next morning I tidied and sorted and swept the downstairs rooms just as usual, until the rattle of the letterbox announced the newspaper. Glad of a break, I took it to the drawing room. My fingers were so practised now that more often than not I could open the paper to the right page first time. I walked to the window and scanned the snippets of print.
Mercury leapt out at me. I gripped the paper so hard that I crumpled it.
Queen: Further news imminent. Watch the King. Mercury
I read the line several times, puzzled. It was for me, wasn’t it? Although if the king was Sir William, I certainly wasn’t the queen. I looked up for inspiration. Of course! I was the parlourmaid. The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey. I smiled at Mr Poskitt’s joke, then turned back to the newspaper. Further news imminent. Did that mean another leak had happened? And would it be reported in the paper? I resolved to rise earlier in future and get my work done before the paper arrived, so that I could read the headlines too. What had been handed to the enemy this time? It must be very serious, for it sounded as if it could not be hushed up. I scanned the first few pages for clues, but it did not seem to be public knowledge yet.
I closed the paper and smoothed it, but the creases remained. I would have to press it thoroughly to remove the signs of my perusal. I went to the kitchen, put an iron in the fire, and fetched a clean cloth. By the time I was finished, the newspaper was passable. Be more careful, Nell, I told myself, folding the warm paper precisely in half. I opened the connecting door and almost cried out as I came face to face with Sir William.
He saw what I was holding, and put out his hand. ‘Coffee and toast, please.’ He went into the breakfast room, closing the door. Whatever it was, he knew; his face was as grey as his hair, and while that was as well-brushed and his clothes as neat as ever, he had the dishevelled look of an insomniac about him.
I fled to the kitchen. ‘Sir William is up, and wants coffee and toast,’ I gabbled.
Cookie paused, her teacup halfway to her mouth. ‘Sir William is up? At this time?’
I began to cut bread. ‘I don’t know how he likes his coffee brewed.’
‘I’ll do it while you toast.’ Cookie put her cup down and reached for the biggin pot on the top shelf. ‘It’ll have to be ready-roasted, I doubt he’ll wait for fresh.’ She spooned fragments of coffee into the pot. ‘Send my apologies, will you, when you take it in.’
I nodded. I disliked making toast, for I always ended up feeling as if I had toasted myself as well, but finally it was done. I cut the toast into triangles, put it into the rack, and laid a tray with all Sir William might want. ‘That’s me done until the children are up,’ remarked Cookie, sitting down and drawing her cup back towards her.
I struggled out of the kitchen with the loaded tray. There was no answer when I tapped on the breakfast-room door, but I heard the crackle of turning pages. I turned the knob, gripped the tray, and entered.
Sir William was in his usual place, the newspaper spread in front of him. His head was down, reading. ‘Leave it on the table,’ he said.
I put the tray down and began to set out the items.
‘Just leave it.’ I withdrew, closing the door softly. Then I thought again, and reopened it.
Sir William looked up, a hint of annoyance in his face. ‘Excuse me, Sir William,’ I said, ‘but should I ask Tom to get the trap out?’
‘Oh! Yes, that would be useful. And there is a Bradshaw — a train timetable — in the top left-hand drawer of my desk, in the study.’ I bobbed and hurried out.
I found Tom sitting on the mounting block in the stable yard, smoking his pipe. ‘What brings you out here, Bessie?’ he called. ‘Come for a riding lesson?’
‘Sir William wants the trap, please.’
‘Does he, now?’ Tom blew a smoke ring.
‘Yes, and quickly. I must go in.’ My boots slapped on the cobbles. I looked back as I closed the door. Tom had got up and was talking to Blaze, rubbing his nose.
I found the timetable where Sir William had said it would be. I took a second to try the drawers beneath, but they were locked as ever. I tapped on the breakfast-room door and laid the Bradshaw beside Sir William’s plate. The newspaper was closed now; folded haphazardly, its pages all anyhow. Half a triangle of toast lay abandoned on the plate; the rest was still in the rack. ‘You ought to eat more than that, sir, if you’re going all the way to London.’ The words were out of my mouth before I had thought of my impropriety. ‘I am sorry, sir, I didn’t mean —’
‘You are right.’ Sir William’s eyes were on his plate. ‘I should. But I find myself without appetite.’ He thumbed through the timetable and ran his finger along the page. ‘Ah yes, that will do.’ He let the book fall closed and pushed back his chair. I opened the door for him, standing back to let him pass. Then I went to the hall-stand and, as I did on most mornings, helped him on with his coat. His hat had a light scattering of dust on the top, which I hastened to brush off. ‘I do apologise, sir, I hadn’t got to your hat.’
Sir William put it on. ‘I have disturbed the routine of the house, I perceive.’ He put his gloves on while I drew back the bolts of the front door and levered it open. The trap was waiting with Tom on the box, holding Blaze to a short rein. Blaze wa
s trying to toss his head, impatient to be off.
‘Quick as you can, Tom,’ Sir William called as he got into the trap. ‘I want to catch the seven-thirty.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ Tom reached for his whip. ‘Come on, Blaze!’ I raised a hand as the carriage moved off and, to my surprise, Sir William lifted a hand in reply. I waited until the carriage was out of sight before closing the door.
Cookie tutted as I delivered the remains of breakfast back to the kitchen. ‘Trouble at work, I’ll be bound. That’s the only thing that puts Sir William off his food.’
‘Do you think?’ I asked casually, as I shook crumbs into the slop bin.
‘I know,’ said Cookie. ‘Now don’t you have work to do, Bessie?’ She looked at me pointedly, and I took the breakfast things to the scullery for washing.
As I scrubbed and rinsed the china I turned the morning over in my mind. It was barely seven, and yet everything seemed different. Mr Poskitt’s message had galvanised me. I was a spy, not a servant. I cursed myself for the attention I had paid milady at the expense of Sir William. I cast my mind back to dinner the previous night. Sir William must have known the news then, and I had noticed nothing. That would cease. This morning I had made an effort for Sir William, even forgetting my place in the process, and been rewarded with more speech than I had ever had from him before. I would continue in that path as long as it worked. Any doubts as to my usefulness were gone, for Mr Poskitt had contacted me at last, and his message indicated that the case was not solved. That I was needed. I allowed myself a smile of quiet satisfaction, and stacked the plates in the rack to dry.
In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2) Page 16
