by Anne Perry
By the time they were finished Emily was tired and dirty. Her hair had fallen out of its pins, and Mrs. Crawford caught her on the stairs and told her that she looked a disgrace, she had better smarten herself up if she wished to remain. Emily was on the point of retaliating that if Mrs. Crawford had done a hand’s turn herself she would also look a little untidy when she caught sight of Veronica. Pale and tight-faced, she was walking quickly away from Loretta, and the butler with the morning newspapers freshly ironed, going across the hall towards the dining room.
“Yes, Mrs. Crawford,” Emily said obediently, remembering why she was there. She was so thirsty she could taste feathers in her mouth and her back was stiff from bending and lifting. But she would not be defeated by a housekeeper! This was the only place to discover who had killed Robert York and why—and who had pushed poor Dulcie out of the window to her death.
Already she had learned more about the characters of the two women than she could have in a month of social visiting. It was Loretta, not Veronica, who slept in shell pink satin sheets with pillowcases embroidered in self-colored silks. Either Veronica was happy with linen, or she had not been offered anything else. It was Loretta who had the expensive oil of musk perfumes in crystal and Lalique bottles with silver filigree stoppers. Veronica was more beautiful by nature’s gift, with her slender height and grace and those haunting eyes; but it was Loretta who was the more elegantly feminine. She bothered with the details of care, the perfume in the handkerchief and in the petticoats to waft to the nostrils as she moved, or passed, the taffeta to rustle and whisper as she walked, the many pairs of boots and slippers to match every gown and be shown in a glimpse under her skirts. Had Veronica not thought of these things, or did their subtlety elude her? Was there some reason for this difference that Emily did not yet understand?
There was obviously a strong emotional bond between the two women, although its exact nature still eluded Emily. Loretta seemed protective, guarding the younger and seemingly weaker woman after the grief of her widowhood, yet at the same time her patience was thin and she was highly critical. And Veronica resented her mother-in-law while appearing to depend upon her a great deal.
When they changed for luncheon after the morning’s outing, Emily was busy taking care of wet coats and soiled skirts, humping them back and forth to be dried out, brushed off, sponged and pressed—and she had both to do since Edith was missing again. She overheard a sharp exchange as Veronica’s voice rose and Loretta’s remained calm and cold in what was seemingly a warning. Emily tried to overhear, but just as she was about to bend to the keyhole the upstairs maid came by and she was obliged to continue with her duties.
Luncheon in the servants hall was called dinner, and Emily was caught out in misnaming it and received a curious look from the cook.
“Think you’re upstairs, do you, my fine lady?” the housekeeper said tartly. “Well, there’ll be no giving yourself airs down here, and you’d best remember it! You’re just the same as the rest of the girls; in fact, you’re not as good until you prove yourself!”
“Oh, maybe some gentleman acquaintance of Miss Veronica’ll take a fancy to ’er an’ she’ll become a duchess!” Nora pulled a face. “ ’Ceptin’ you need to be a parlormaid to meet dukes, and you ’aven’t got the looks for it. You aren’t tall enough, for a start. An’ you ’aven’t got the colorin’ either. Peaked, you are!”
“I don’t suppose there are enough dukes to go around anyway,” Emily snapped back. “Since even parlormaids have to wait till all the ladies are suited!”
“Well, I’ve a sight more chance than you ’ave!” Nora retorted. “At least I know my job; I don’t ’ave to ’ave a tweeny show me ’ow to do it!”
“Duchess!” Edith giggled. “That’s a fine name for ’er. Walks with ’er ’ead in the air like she already got a tiara on an’ was afraid it might slip over ’er nose.” She made a mock curtsy. “Don’t wobble yer ’ead, Yer Grace!”
“That’s enough!” the butler said with a frown of disapproval. “She’s done most of your work this morning. You should be obliged to her! Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“Edith was busy with mending, and she’s not strong.” Mrs. Crawford gave Redditch a look of irritation which would have quelled anyone less than a butler. “You’ve no call to pick on her.”
“Edith is bone idle and wouldn’t be kept if she wasn’t the best seamstress in the city,” Redditch replied quickly, but his reproach was robbed of some of its bite by the slightly wary air with which he immediately followed it.
“I’ll thank you to attend to your own responsibilities, Mr. Redditch. The maidservants are mine and I’ll look after them my own way, which suits Mrs. York well enough.”
“Well, it doesn’t suit me, Mrs. Crawford, to see girls lowering themselves to make mock of each other, and if I hear it again someone’ll have their notice.”
“We’ll see who has their notice, Mr. Redditch,” Mrs. Crawford said darkly. “You mark my words, it’ll be them as can best be replaced.”
That seemed to be the end of the matter for the time being, but Emily, glancing at their faces, knew that battle lines had been drawn and the exchange would not be forgotten. She had made enemies of both Edith and Nora, and the housekeeper would be happy to catch her in any shortcoming from now on. If she wanted to survive, she would have to cultivate the butler’s regard till her position became a matter of his pride as well.
The afternoon was dreadful. Emily had superintended her own maid often enough and had imagined she knew her duties, but watching someone use a flatiron on lace ruffling was a very different thing from doing it oneself, and it was much more difficult than she had thought. The only good thing about it was that she did not scorch anything, so it was possible for Joan to rescue her, and the outcome was a debt to Joan. Emily had no break all afternoon, not even for a cup of tea, and finally rushed upstairs at half past five, exhausted, her head throbbing, back aching and feet pinched in the unfamiliar boots, barely in time to help Veronica change for the dinner party.
After receiving several callers for tea Veronica seemed tired also, and more nervous than Emily could understand. She was not the hostess; the responsibility for the dinner’s success rested with her mother-in-law, so all she had to do was be charming. Nevertheless she changed her mind three times about which gown to wear, was dissatisfied with her hair, and when Emily had taken it all down and put it back up again she still did not feel confident. She stood in front of the cheval glass and frowned at her reflection.
Emily was exhausted, her mind crowded with thoughts of how selfish this woman was. She had done nothing whatsoever all day except visit, eat, and chatter, while Emily had worked like a Trojan, missed afternoon tea, and been picked on and jeered at, and all Veronica could think of was to tell Emily to take her hair down yet again and do it a third time.
“It becomes you very well the first way, ma’am.” Emily only barely controlled the tone of her voice.
Veronica picked up the perfume bottle and it slipped through her fingers, splashing perfume down the front of her skirt.
Emily could have wept. Now the whole thing had to be changed—there was no possible alternative. And on top of that she did not know how to get rid of the stain and would have to ask Edith, who would crow over her ignorance, almost certainly letting Mrs. Crawford know about it, and probably the rest of the staff. She did not trust herself to speak. It was only when she was in the dressing room fetching a fourth gown that she realized that she herself often gave no more thought to her own maid’s feelings than Veronica was doing now.
Back in the bedroom with the fresh gown she saw Veronica sitting on the bed in her petticoats and chemise, her head low, her hair fallen forward. She looked very slight, her shoulders almost childlike, and painfully vulnerable. This was an acutely private moment. Did anyone else ever see her like this, without the glamor and the confidence? Emily wanted to put her arms round her, she looked so bitterly alone; she, to
o, understood widowhood in the shadow of murder. But she knew that would be impossible. There was a gulf between them, at least from Veronica’s side.
“Don’t you feel very well, ma’am?” she said gently. “I can get you a tisane, if you like? As lovely as you are, no one will mind if you are a minute or two late. Come down after the other ladies and cause a bit of a flutter!”
Veronica looked up, and Emily was surprised to see the gratitude in her face. She smiled faintly. “Thank you, Amelia. Yes, I would like a tisane. I can drink it while you’re doing my hair.”
It took five minutes for Emily to sort through the ingredients available and select a soothing camomile, and another three for the kettle to boil, after which she had to carry the herb tea back upstairs. She met Mrs. Crawford in the hall.
“What are you doing down here, Amelia?”
“An errand for Mrs. York,” Emily replied tartly, and whisking her skirts around the corner of the stairpost she went up without looking back. She heard Mrs. Crawford snort and the muttered words, “We’ll see about you, miss!” but she could not take time to worry over it now.
Veronica greeted her with pleasure, and sipped the tisane as if it were indeed a life restorer. She made no demur when Emily put her hair up as she had the first time and helped her on with the fourth gown, black taffeta stitched with beads. It was very dramatic, and on a less beautiful woman it would have been overwhelming.
“You look marvelous, ma’am,” Emily said sincerely. “There won’t be a man in the room has eyes for anyone else.”
Veronica blushed, the first color in her cheeks Emily had seen all day.
“Thank you, Amelia. Don’t flatter me or you’ll make me immodest.”
“A little confidence doesn’t do any harm.” Emily picked up the stained gown to take it away. She would have to attend to the stain immediately. Perhaps Joan would help her.
She had just got through the dressing room door and was turning to close it when she heard the bedroom door open and saw Loretta come in. She was wearing dove gray and silver and looked very feminine.
“Good gracious!” Her eyebrows rose when she saw Veronica. “Do you really think that’s suitable? It is most important you impress the French ambassador favorably, my dear, especially in front of the Danvers.”
Veronica drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Emily could see her hand clench in the folds of her skirt.
“Yes, I think it’s perfectly suitable,” she said unsteadily. “Mr. Garrard Danver is an admirer of elegant clothes; he does not care for the ordinary.”
Loretta’s face colored deeply, then the blood drained away. “As you wish.” Her voice was tight. “But I don’t know why you are so late. You came up in plenty of time. Is your new maid no good?”
“She’s perfectly good—in fact she’s excellent. I changed my mind about what I was wearing. It wasn’t Amelia’s fault.”
“A pity. You were probably better advised the first time. Still, it’s too late now. Is that a tisane cup?”
“Yes.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Loretta’s voice came quietly, with an edge to it but remaining perfectly controlled. She had moved slightly, so Emily could no longer see her face.
“Veronica, you must not start giving in to nerves. It is a self-indulgence you cannot afford. If you are ill we will call the doctor; otherwise you must exercise a little discipline, put a smile on your face, and come downstairs. You are already close to being late. It won’t do!”
There was silence. Emily pulled the door open an inch wider, but dared do no more in case the movement caught Loretta’s eye.
“I’m perfectly ready,” Veronica said at last.
“No you are not! Being ready is more than having your gown on and your hair done, Veronica.” Her voice sank lower and there was an urgency in it. “You must have your mind prepared as well. You are going to marry Julian Danver; don’t give anyone cause to doubt your happiness, least of all Julian himself, or his family. Smile; no one likes a sulky or nervous woman—women are expected to add to a man’s comfort and pleasure, to be easy company, not a strain! And no one willingly marries a woman whose health is not robust. We hide our petty complaints. Courage and dignity are expected of us—in fact, they are required.”
“Sometimes I hate you,” Veronica said so softly Emily only just heard her, but with a passion that made her skin crawl.
“And that too,” Loretta answered with stonelike calm, “is a self-indulgence you cannot afford, my dear, any more than I can.”
“Perhaps it would be worth it!” Veronica said between her teeth.
“Oh think again, my dear, think again,” Loretta answered her softly. Then quite suddenly her voice changed and became rasping, choked with fury. “Pull yourself together and stop your weak, stupid whining! I can only carry you so far, then you must look after yourself! I have done everything for you that I can, and it has not been as easy for me as you sometimes seem to think.”
There was a rustle of skirts, then the outer door opened and Emily heard an entirely new voice, a man’s, intelligent and individual.
“Are you ready, my dear? It’s time we went to greet our guests.”
That must be Piers York, the only person in the house Emily had not met. “Veronica, you look quite ravishing.”
“Thank you, Papa-in-law.” Veronica’s voice shook even with those few words.
“I am quite aware of the time, Piers,” Loretta said briskly, no trace of her previous emotion remaining; she had transformed it into a slight irritation at being checked up on. “I was reminding Veronica. She has a new maid, and new maids always take a little longer.”
“Oh, has she?” he said mildly. “Don’t think I’ve seen her.”
“No reason why you should,” Loretta answered. “You have enough to do without organizing the servants.”
Veronica was disposed to argue. “It wasn’t Amelia’s fault, it was mine. I changed my mind.”
“A costly thing to do.” There was warning under Loretta’s polite comment, and Veronica must know that as much as Emily. Only Piers was seemingly unaware of it.
“Nonsense, my dear. Lady’s privilege.”
This time Loretta did not argue. Again she changed, her tone becoming courteous and familiar. “Oh, Veronica and I know each other very well. We have shared much grief, so I assure you, my dear, we have no misunderstandings. She knows exactly what I mean. Come, it is past time we were downstairs. Our guests are due, and the Hollingsworths at least are never late. Most tedious.”
“I think they’re all rather tedious,” he said frankly. “I don’t know why we keep on having them here. Can’t see that it’s necessary.”
The rest of the evening was miserable. The kitchen was chaotic as the cook superintended the finishing and serving of a dozen different dishes. Mary was frantic with pastries, gravies, sauces and puddings. Redditch was busy in the cellars and the dining room, where John was, and Albert kept rushing back and forth. Nora was primped up and sweeping around with her skirts swishing, her apron so white and full of lace it looked like a breaking sea as she ordered the housemaids around imperiously. Prim was up to her elbows in the sink trying to get a start on the washing up, at least the saucepans, but as soon as she finished one pile another descended on her. Everyone’s temper was short, and any supper was to be snatched as the opportunity arose, only cold game pie being available—about the last thing Emily felt like eating.
It was not part of her duty, but Emily helped with the clearing up, washing and polishing glasses and putting away extra silver and plates. She could not comfortably go to bed leaving Mary, Prim, and Albert with that monstrous pile, and she needed as many allies as she could earn. Mrs. Crawford was now unalterably an enemy, since the butler had made his regard unfortunately plain. Nora was jealous and kept referring to Emily as “the Duchess,” and Edith made no secret of her contempt.
It was quarter to one, the wind whining outside and seeking every crack in the
windows and every open door to send daggerlike drafts. Sleet battered against the glass when Emily climbed the last bare flight of the attic stairs and crept into her small, icy room. There was only a candle to light it and the bed was so cold it felt wet to the touch.
She took off her outer clothes and pulled on her nightgown over all her underwear, then turned back the blankets and slid into bed. She was so cold she was shaking and the tears came to her eyes in spite of all her determination. She rolled over, burying her face in the frozen pillow, and cried herself to sleep.
6
FOR ONCE CHARLOTTE managed to contain both her astonishment and her anxiety when she heard from Jack Radley about Emily’s extraordinary decision to disguise herself and go to the Yorks in service. Fortunately Jack had called early in the afternoon, so she had had plenty of time to recover her composure by the time Pitt returned home a little after six. Consequently he knew nothing about it and assumed in contented ignorance that Emily was sitting at home, where all Society and Pitt himself expected her to be.
He was deeply distressed over the death of the maid, Dulcie, not only because he had liked her but because he felt guilty. It was unreasonable, and he told himself so. She might very well have fallen out of her window accidentally and the whole matter was merely one of the numerous domestic tragedies that happen every year; but he could not seem to shake the fear that had she not told him about the strange woman in the house and the missing jewels, and had he not been careless enough to listen to her with the library door open, then she would still be alive.
