by Emily Organ
“Florence, isn’t it?” His voice had a pleasant tone. It was deep, yet soft.
“Yes, sir.” I performed a small curtsy.
“Welcome, Florence!” he said. “What do we call you? Florence? Florrie? Flo?”
He wasn’t what I had imagined him to be. After everything I had heard about him, I had expected his manner to be either rude or dismissive.
“I think Flo sounds appropriate,” said Mrs Glenville, who spoke with a well-bred, clipped accent. She remained seated as she worked on a piece of embroidery. She had sharp blue eyes with faint lines at the corners, and pale skin. Her forehead was wide and her face tapered to a receding chin. Despite this, her features were pretty, and I could see the likeness between her and the young woman who had slid down the banisters during my previous visit. She wore a beautiful satin dress of deep blue that had a tight bodice fastened with countless shiny buttons.
“I shall be happy to be called Flo,” I replied, curtsying once again.
I could feel Mr Glenville’s eyes resting on me, and I couldn’t help but meet his gaze. There was something oddly magnetic about it.
“Mrs Craughton tells me you have come from Mrs Fothergill in Berkeley Square,” continued Mrs Glenville.
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied.
She raised a well-shaped eyebrow before I quickly added, “My lady.”
“And how did you find your time there?”
“I enjoyed it very much, my lady. I was a companion to her as well as a maid.”
She smiled. “Good. Well, we look forward to seeing how you get on in our household. Mrs Craughton will explain everything, but do please ask me directly if you have any questions.”
As Mrs Craughton accompanied me from the room, I felt relieved that my new employers seemed so pleasant. There was some frostiness in Mrs Glenville’s manner, but perhaps I only detected it because I had taken up the position of a servant. Had she known me as Penny Green, she would no doubt have addressed me differently.
“They seem to like you,” said Mrs Craughton as we paused on the servants’ staircase. “Make sure you get a good night’s sleep. Maisie will wake you at six.”
The keys on her belt jangled as she descended the stairs. As I climbed the staircase to my room, the recollection of Mr Glenville’s dark eyes created a tingling sensation in my stomach.
Chapter 10
I woke long before Maisie knocked on my door. As the dawn crept into my room, I lay in bed worrying about the chores I would have to do that day. I felt sure that my lack of experience would be obvious to everyone around me. Perhaps I’d even be dismissed before the day was through. Mrs Garnett had given me some instruction, but I had finally realised how ill-prepared I was.
Maisie was a small, thin, cheery-faced girl, and she put me at ease as soon as I opened my door.
“You must be Flo,” she said. “Come wiv me, I’ll show yer what to do.”
She looked about fourteen, and had a generous dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Some of her teeth were missing and she had a fidgety manner about her. I instantly liked her, and she seemed keen to help me settle in.
I followed Maisie around the house as we crept into silent bedchambers with a candle and lit the fires. Then we lit the fires in the drawing room, morning room and library. I helped with carrying the coal, loading it into scuttles from the coal bunker in the yard. Once the fires were lit, we opened the curtains in the main reception rooms, then dusted and plumped up the cushions, making sure everything was clean and tidy for the family’s use.
There was just enough time for a quick breakfast of toast and a boiled egg at the large oak table in the basement kitchen. I met Cook, a red-faced woman with heavy jowls and a wide vocabulary of curse words. Mr Perrin, the butler, leafed through the Morning Express as he ate, and I tried not to peer over at the paper to read my colleagues’ words.
Mr Perrin had acknowledged me with a perfunctory nod when we were first introduced. He looked about fifty and wore a smart dark suit over his solid, broad-shouldered frame. His expression was one of refined passivity, which could only have been brought about by many years of service. I struggled to imagine him displaying any emotion.
Much as I was wary about giving away any clues to my identity, I realised that I needed to talk if I wanted to find out the information James’ investigation required.
“Mr Glenville has a vinegar factory, is that right?” I asked.
“Yes, Blundell’s,” Mrs Craughton replied. “You must have heard of it.”
“I have. It’s not the same factory there have been complaints about, is it?”
“It might be. Although it’s much the same as any other factory in London. The workers are always complaining. I suppose they’re the ones whose manners are too unrefined for service. I know that sounds rather harsh, but I’m afraid there’s some truth in it.”
We were disturbed by the ringing of the bell for Mr and Mrs Glenville’s room.
“Come on, everyone. Back to work,” said the housekeeper, rising from her seat.
Mr Perrin folded his newspaper and placed it on the table. He and the housekeeper left the kitchen.
“I couldn’t work in a fact’ry,” said Maisie, chewing on a piece of toast. “Too loud and dangerous fer me. And I don’t agree wiv Mrs Craughton. I didn’ ’ave no manners afore I come ’ere, but you learns ’em, don’t yer? Anyways, some rich people don’t ’ave no manners neither.”
“Do the Glenvilles receive many visitors?” I ventured, hopeful that Maisie might be able to give me a few clues as to Mr Glenville’s acquaintances.
“Yeah, they gets a fair few of ’em.”
“Some of them must be important, with Mr Glenville being a factory owner.”
“Some of ’em is, but I wouldn’t know it,” said Maisie. “I can’t never remember their names.”
I smiled, trying to hide my disappointment. Perhaps Mrs Craughton or Mr Perrin would be more helpful.
Maisie showed me how the water pump in the yard worked, then we carried water up and down the servants’ staircase to each bedchamber and to the nursery. It wasn’t long before my arms and legs began to ache and my corset felt extremely restrictive. Mrs Garnett had warned me about the physical demands of a maid’s work, but I had been rather dismissive on this front.
Mrs Craughton told me to clear the plates after breakfast, but when I reached the dining room I noticed that the family hadn’t quite finished eating. I waited in the room by the servants’ door, grateful for a brief rest. The walls were wood-panelled, and heavy, red velvet curtains hung at the windows. There was a large, glass-fronted dresser at one end of the room, and a shaft of morning sunlight glinted on the treasures within it.
Mr and Mrs Glenville sat at the long, mahogany dining table with the young woman I recognised as the banister-sliding Sophia, alongside two other adolescent children. One was a young man with red hair, like his mother and sister. He had an odd, twisted way of sitting, and as I watched I noticed that his arms suffered from some form of involuntary movement. Despite this, he was able to eat his breakfast quite proficiently. It dawned on me that this young man must be Maurice, the Glenvilles’ eldest son. I had heard him described as an idiot, but I saw no sign of mental incapacity as I looked on.
A pretty, dark-haired girl also sat at the table, and I guessed she was the younger sister of Sophia and Maurice. I couldn’t remember if James had told me her name. She looked about fifteen.
Mrs Glenville discussed the plans for the day with her children, and I avidly watched their progress with each cup and plate, waiting for the moment when it would be appropriate to begin clearing the table. The Glenvilles didn’t appear to be in a hurry.
Mr Glenville said little, occupying himself with reading some newly delivered letters. He had noticed my presence, and on two occasions had looked up from his correspondence and smiled at me. Those two glances were enough to spark the strange, ticklish sensation in my stomach again. I tried to keep my eyes
averted, but it was difficult not to look at him every now and then.
A sharp tone in Mrs Glenville’s voice drew my attention back to the conversation.
“You’re not getting involved with any sort of demonstration.” She glared at her daughter, who sat across the table from her. “Such events are dangerous. They attract all manner of troublemakers.”
“No, this is a different sort. There is no need to worry, Mother. Many of the people there will be women.”
“One of those women’s suffrage events? You are not to go, Sophia!”
I felt my heart flip. It struck me that Sophia was talking about the march Eliza had mentioned to me.
“You could come with me, Mother.” The corners of Sophia’s mouth rose into a mischievous smile.
“Such impertinence!” Mrs Glenville snapped.
“I didn’t intend to be impertinent, Mother. It was a genuine invitation.”
“Mother has no interest in women’s suffrage. You know that,” said the younger sister.
“But perhaps she should. Perhaps you both should. Don’t you wish to have the vote, Jane?”
“I don’t know.”
“There is no need for it,” said Mrs Glenville. “And the breakfast table is no place to discuss politics. In fact, I have no wish to discuss politics at all. It’s not a womanly pursuit.”
“But why not?”
“Sophia...” Mr Glenville warned. He had put down his correspondence and was listening intently.
“Women have enough to attend to, Sophia,” said Mrs Glenville. “Their homes and families provide more than enough to occupy their thoughts and time. I don’t wish to hear another word on the matter.”
“But what of the future, Mother?”
“Sophia, we don’t need to hear any more,” said Mr Glenville.
“More girls are receiving proper schooling now,” continued Sophia, disregarding her father’s warning. “Do you think well-educated women will find satisfaction in being confined to their homes?”
“Of course they will!” her mother retorted. “It’s their duty! And while I agree with improved education for girls, I don’t believe it should entitle them to live the life of a man. What a preposterous idea! Men and women have different roles, and that’s the way it always has been.”
“But what if a woman doesn’t wish it to be that way?”
“Then she must learn to accept it. It’s what my generation has done and the many generations which have gone before us also did. Imagine what my own mother would think if she heard you talking this way. Imagine how disappointed she would be. You have been educated to be a lady, and that’s the role you must pursue, just as I did. Marching about in parks complaining about one’s lot in life is not only ungrateful; it shows a lack of respect for society and order. You have been brought up to be a better young lady than that.”
“Dorothea Heale will be there.”
“Sophia, that is enough!” Mr Glenville brought his fist down on the table, startling everyone, including myself.
There was a loud clatter of crockery, and several pieces of cutlery fell to the floor.
“You know better than to argue with your mother!” he warned.
Sophia stared back at her father, her eyes unblinking. Jane looked down at her hands, and Mrs Glenville mopped her brow with her serviette.
Mr Glenville held his daughter’s gaze for some time before looking away. Once he had returned to his correspondence, Sophia stood and dropped her serviette onto her plate before walking away from the table.
“You sh-should excuse yourself b-before leaving,” said Maurice.
It was the first time I had heard him speak.
“I’m too angry!” she snarled in reply.
The door of the dining room closed behind her with a slam.
“That child!” said Mrs Glenville to her husband. “I can’t bear it any more, Alexander. I really can’t!”
“It won’t be much longer now,” he replied calmly.
“I can’t wait until she’s married,” added Jane. “I’m counting down the hours to her wedding day. Then she’ll be Mrs Dudley Lombard and won’t be under our roof any longer!”
Mrs Glenville got up from her seat and the others followed suit. My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped forward to clear away the plates. I felt like an intruder, and was sure that I wasn’t supposed to be privy to the family’s most private moments. I sympathised with Sophia’s sentiments, but I felt sorry for her family that she had been so rude to them.
“Thank you, Flo. I apologise that you had to witness that on your first day here,” said Mr Glenville.
“She could have witnessed far worse!” laughed his wife.
Chapter 11
After helping with the breakfast plates, I scrubbed the front steps and mopped the tiled floor of the hallway. Having done what I had thought was a good job, Mrs Craughton informed me that my work had been less than thorough.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was fortunate not to have to do too much cleaning for Mrs Fothergill. I became more of a companion to her after a while.”
“So you have already mentioned,” said Mrs Craughton, scrutinising my work.
I tried to wield the mop as expertly as I knew how.
“I witnessed an argument between Miss Sophia and her parents at breakfast,” I ventured. “Is that a common occurrence?”
“Sadly, it is. She’s a headstrong girl.”
“How old is she?”
“Almost eighteen. Her birthday is this Saturday, and there will be a small celebration in her honour.”
“A happy event!”
I pushed the mop around the base of the grandfather clock.
“Perhaps, although I wouldn’t be too hopeful about that. There always seems to be a hiccup where Miss Sophia’s concerned.”
“I suppose it’s her age.”
“It’s not just that.” Mrs Craughton lowered her voice to a whisper. “She’s one of the most ungrateful girls I’ve ever met! She has it all, yet she’s never content with it. I don’t understand her. She’s marrying into the Lombard family, and they’re exceptionally rich. You should see the house she and Master Lombard are to move into in Barnes! It’s quite a place. I’m hopeful that marriage and children will refine her manners. It can’t come too soon! You may have noticed that most of us in the household are impatient for their wedding day to arrive.”
“What are the Lombards like?”
“They’re held in high regard, and are good friends of Mr and Mrs Glenville. You’ll meet them at the birthday celebration.”
She peered into the bucket and pulled a disgusted face. “Haven’t you noticed that the water needs changing?”
Lunch was a quick meal of bread and butter. I felt relieved to be able to sit down for a short while, even if it happened to be on an uncomfortable wooden chair at the kitchen table. As we ate, Mr Perrin continued to peruse his copy of the Morning Express. My fingers itched to pick it up and leaf through the stories.
“I’ve written a list of items which require cleaning in Mr Glenville’s study,” said Mrs Craughton, passing a sheet of paper to Maisie.
Maisie screwed up her eyes and peered at it, while biting her thumbnail.
“It needs to be completed this afternoon,” added the housekeeper.
Maisie looked up at me and grimaced.
“Is something the matter, Maisie?” asked the housekeeper.
“You keeps forgettin’ I can’t read, Mrs Craughton.”
The housekeeper sighed, took the paper from Maisie and thrust it in my direction. “I take it you can read, Flo?”
I nodded. “I can.”
“You can clean the study this afternoon, and Maisie will work in the morning room.”
“Can you write, an’ all?” Maisie asked me.
“Yes.”
“P’raps yer can learn me. I want ter read ’n’ write.”
“Maisie came from the workhouse,” Mrs Craughton explained. “I think they should
give children lessons in there. That way they’d have more chance of making something of themselves.”
“I can teach you to read and write, Maisie,” I said.
“Would yer?” She pulled her thumb away from her mouth and grinned widely. “Aw, thank you, Flo!”
“In your own time, though, please,” urged Mrs Craughton. “No learning letters while you’re supposed to be working.”
“Of course not,” I replied.
“Mr Perrin,” the housekeeper said, turning to the butler. “I have prepared the menu for Saturday. Shall we discuss the wine?”
“Yes. I’ve already decided on Pommery 1876 for the champagne.”
“That’s your favourite, isn’t it, Mr Perrin?”
“It’s Mr Glenville’s favourite, although I do enjoy a glass myself when the occasion allows it.”
Mrs Craughton turned to me and Maisie, glaring at us as though we were no longer supposed to be there.
“What are you two waiting for?” she scolded. “Take yourselves off and get back to work.”
On my way to Mr Glenville’s study, I passed the girls who had slid with Sophia down the banister. They were better behaved now that they were under the care of their strict-looking governess.
I knocked at the door of the study and heard no reply. I slowly pushed the door open and was relieved to find the room empty. I felt wary of encountering Mr Glenville too often in case I accidentally said something which would give away my identity.
The room was gloomy, but not dark enough to justify lighting the gas lamps. I lit a candle so that I could read Mrs Craughton’s list more easily. I had been instructed to light the fire so the room would be warm for Mr Glenville’s use later that afternoon; once I had done so, the room felt more welcoming. A bookcase stood against one wall containing a number of leather-bound volumes, which included works by Dickens and Shakespeare.
