The Girl at Rosewood Hall (A Lady Jane Mystery)

by Annis Bell

  Jedidiah was standing in front of a pretty woman whose age Mary found hard to judge. Her tightly coiffed hair and the black dress she wore probably made her look older than she really was. A band of keys hung at her belt. She plucked at Mary’s wrinkled old dress with her thin fingers.

  “I hope she has other clothes?”

  Jed shrugged and dropped the linen sack containing Mary’s belongings beside her on the ground. “Buggered if I know. She’s not been touched. I want my money, as agreed, then I’ll vanish.”

  “She stinks to high heaven!” The woman waved a snow-white handkerchief in front of her nose and took a bundle of banknotes from the pocket of her skirt. “Here. Woe betide you if you’ve been at her. She’ll go to Lulu and you, well, you know what will happen to you.”

  “No, ma’am, I ’aven’t laid a finger on her, word of ’onor,” Jedidiah assured her hurriedly. He seemed very afraid of the woman.

  “As if you had any!” She turned, and her intense, dark eyes fell on Mary. Something dangerous seemed to smolder in them. “Your hair is perfect. And you’re pretty. What’s your name?”

  “Mary, ma’am,” whispered Mary. She squeezed the little wooden figure her brother had carved for her.

  “I am Mrs. Avery, and from now on I will be your mistress. If you do what you’re told and don’t ask questions, we’ll get along just fine. Many things will be new for you, and there will be a lot that you don’t know, but I’ll tell you more about that later. What do you have there?”

  She held out one hand imperiously. Mary hesitantly acceded to her request and laid the little cat in her hand.

  “My brother gave it to me,” Mary murmured.

  For a long moment, Mrs. Avery held the cat between two fingers, then let it drop back into Mary’s hands. “Go inside over there. Jenny is waiting for you by the door and will show you to your quarters.”

  With the little wooden figure wrapped in her fist, Mary crossed the gravel path, marveling at the walls of light-colored stone and the lawn that looked as if it had just been mowed. Flower and herb beds began just beyond a boxwood hedge, and a servant girl—Jenny—sat on a bench by the wall of the house, peeling potatoes. She was wearing a clean, light-gray dress, a white apron, and a bonnet with a starched-lace trim. She screwed up her nose when Mary stopped in front of her.

  “You reek. First thing we’ll get you washed and deloused, then we’ll find you some suitable clothes.”

  A clear growl came from Mary’s stomach. “Sorry,” she whispered, not daring to look at Jenny.

  “Didn’t they give you anything to eat along the way?” With her head held high, Jenny led Mary along a wide corridor, from which various doors led into kitchens and pantries. The smell of bread and roast meat filled the air.

  “Wait here,” Jenny ordered. She ducked into a kitchen and returned with a piece of bread and a slice of meat. “Here. Eat up before anyone sees you.”

  Mary wolfed down the soft bread, then pushed the meat into her mouth in one piece. There was still juice from the roasting pan on the meat, and Mary licked it from her fingers.

  “Didn’t you get enough to eat in the orphanage, then?” Jenny ignored the servants and kitchen hands they passed as they walked along. The place seemed to be swarming with staff. “You did come from an orphanage, didn’t you?”

  “Newbridge,” said Mary. She could hardly keep up with Jenny.

  “Really? Never heard of it. Where is that?” She pushed open a door onto a narrow stairway. Before Mary could answer, Jenny went on. “We’re in the domestic wing. These steps lead up to our quarters on the third floor, and there are passages on every floor that lead into the manorial rooms. You’re only allowed to enter those with me. Behave so as to draw as little attention to yourself as possible. Don’t say a word. Do your work quickly and with no noise. One never knows how the master will react, and you do not want to attract his ire, most definitely not! Remember that.”

  “Yes, Jenny.”

  “Good. Here’s the bathroom. Get undressed. Someone will come to you in a minute.”

  Another maid entered the bathroom and took charge of cleaning Mary, under the strict eye of Mrs. Avery. Mary subjected herself to the cleaning procedure without a murmur of complaint, although she felt humiliated at being treated like a piece of merchandise. Mrs. Avery was more selective in her language and had better manners, but she was as cold and heartless as Sister Susan.

  “Wouldn’t we do better to cut off her hair? It’s easier that way,” the girl suggested. She, too, wore clean clothes, but of a simpler cut than Jenny’s.

  “No. Her hair is exactly as it should be. Do what you’re told. And here, use more powder!” Mrs. Avery pressed the delousing powder into the maid’s hand, and the painful combing began anew.

  Mary shared a room with two kitchen maids. Both of them came from the north, and they assigned her the bed beneath the drafty window. Because the weather was growing warmer, Mary didn’t mind. She lay on her bed that night and gazed into London’s dark night sky. Only now and then did a star appear through a break in the clouds. Mary murmured her nightly prayer and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  At five thirty the next morning, someone shook her by the shoulder. “Hey, get up!” The strain of the recent days still sat deep in Mary’s bones. As if in a trance, she followed the girl to the bathroom, washed herself, then pulled on the dress she’d been given the previous evening. Before she went downstairs, she pocketed her wooden talisman. Jenny was waiting for her in the stairwell. There seemed to be a servant in the house for every task. Jenny, who Mary classed as friendly, was responsible for the master’s chamber.

  “You’re to come to the second floor with me. Sweep the steps, mop them, take hot water to the master’s rooms, and sweep the carpets. At a quarter past eight, everyone meets in the dining room beside the kitchen. The butler, Mr. Drew, delivers the morning prayer; after that we eat breakfast, and after that we go to work in the master’s rooms.”

  After the unaccustomed hard work, Mary almost fell asleep at breakfast. But the food was surprisingly good and substantial, and she ate two portions of porridge, bread with marmalade, and cheese. At the end of the meal, she popped a boiled egg into her pocket. You never knew . . .

  But as she was leaving the room, Mrs. Avery grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into her office. Although the butler was usually the head of the domestic staff, in this household the staff seemed to have the greatest respect for—or perhaps fear of—Mrs. Avery.

  “What do you have in your pocket?” the housekeeper asked sharply.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” Mary stammered in embarrassment, placing one hand on the egg.

  Mrs. Avery moved directly in front of Mary and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t lie to me!”

  This woman is not like Sister Susan, thought Mary, taking out the egg. This woman is much worse. She has no cane because she doesn’t need one. Mary could sense what the woman was capable of if Mary went against her will.

  A scornful smile spread across Mrs. Avery’s attractive face. “An egg? You’re stealing an egg? Wasn’t there enough to eat this morning? No one here has ever complained that they didn’t have enough to eat. No one has ever left my table hungry! There is no reason to steal anything. Remember that.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I . . . it’s just . . . ,” stammered Mary helplessly. “You never know the next time you’ll get something.”

  Mrs. Avery’s large dark eyes stared at her balefully for a long moment. “You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you, Mary?” she said mildly. “So that you never forget that you are no longer an orphan but a member of the domestic staff of one of England’s most eminent houses, I am going to teach you a lesson.”

  Mary lifted her eyes and looked at Mrs. Avery in apprehension, but saw neither a cane nor a hand poised to strike.

  “Give me that wooden figure.”

&nbs
p; “What?”

  “Are you deaf, girl? The wooden figure you had with you yesterday. I dare say you’ve got it tucked away in your skirt.” Mrs. Avery smiled sympathetically and held out her hand.

  Reluctantly, Mary retrieved the small wooden cat from the pocket of her skirt. “I don’t understand—”

  “But you soon will. A lesson teaches you something.” Mrs. Avery took the cat and looked at it. “Very pretty. Who made it?”

  “My brother, ma’am.” Mary watched in stunned disbelief as Mrs. Avery went to the oven, opened the door, and threw the wooden cat into the flames. “No! Why? I’m never going to do it again,” Mary cried.

  “When you make a mistake, you will be punished for it. I’m glad you will never again steal from our table. I see we understand each other now. Go and get to work. Jenny is waiting for you,” the housekeeper said in a friendly tone.

  Her friendliness is like a knife that cuts you to pieces the minute you make a mistake, Mary thought, and quickly left the room.

  Jenny was waiting for her on the first floor. “Oh my, did she nab you? What did you do?”

  Sniffling, Mary wiped her eyes. “It was just an egg. I put it in my pocket. Why is that so bad? They’ve got enough eggs here!”

  “That’s not the point. You have to follow the rules. Just think if everyone here simply took what he wanted.”

  “I see that, but she burned my carving. It was all I had left of my brother.”

  “Be glad that’s all she did. She can be quite horrible, our Mrs. Avery. Mr. Drew tends to lash out with his cane. Not her, though. Watch out around her, Mary! She’s got a soft spot for the master and would do simply anything for him.” Jenny led her from the domestic wing into the manorial rooms.

  “Oh!” Mary stopped in her tracks. She had never seen such a magnificent place in her life.

  A wide corridor stretched before her. Doors opened into rooms on both sides, and at the end of the corridor, two curving staircases rose to a gallery. From the hallway on the ground floor, she could hear the rattling of crockery. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the domed ceiling, while in alcoves and corners she saw paintings, wall hangings, statues of white marble, ebony elephants with real tusks, and sinister-looking figures with many arms and gaping mouths. Everything had an exotic feel to it, and the paintings depicted foreign landscapes.

  “You’ll get used to it. Come on!” Jenny showed her where the linen closet was. Mary took fresh bedding, and Jenny led her into the first bedroom.

  The room was dim, but Mary could make out deep-red silk wallpaper, golden candelabras, soft carpets, cushions, a divan, and a four-poster bed. She looked around the room wide-eyed. A heavy, sweet smell hung in the air. When a small figure stepped out of one corner, Mary shrieked.

  The man was barely as tall as Mary herself. His skin was dark and he wore a turban. In his belt, he carried a dagger.

  “Ignore him,” Jenny whispered in her ear. “His name is Ramu. He’s the master’s personal servant. The master spends a lot of time in the colonies. He brought Ramu back from there. He belongs to a cult, I’ve heard, and he can kill people with a scarf.”

  “What?” Mary looked anxiously at the small Indian man, who took no notice of her and went about his own business.

  When Mary went to open the curtains, Jenny hissed, “Hands off! They stay as they are. Come here and help me change the bedding. We do it every morning.”

  “Fresh sheets every morning?” Mary could not hide her amazement at so much extravagant luxury.

  While she helped Jenny and learned how to pull the sheet so tight that not the slightest wrinkle could be seen, she kept looking across at Ramu. As a young child, she had lived in the London docks area and had seen some exotic-looking people, but she had never seen an Indian like Ramu. He was cleaning a water pipe, and sometimes his eyes glowed in the room’s dim light.

  “Jenny, that isn’t true, is it? About the scarf?” Mary whispered.

  “It is. Now hush. He’s got ears like a rabbit. Take the old bedding and let’s go,” said Jenny.

  Mary picked up the pile of fine bed linen and was about to follow Jenny when the door was pushed open and a tall, brown-haired man entered. Jenny instantly bowed, so Mary did the same and waited with her eyes lowered.

  “You. Come here,” the man ordered.

  “Go! That’s the master!” said Jenny quickly.

  Mary held the pile of wash tightly and took a step toward the master of the house. He wore a velvet jacket with a golden crest on the breast pocket. Mary had never seen such a handsome man before.

  “Put down the washing. I want to see you. You’re new.” He approached her, and Mary hurriedly pushed the washing into Jenny’s arms. Jenny immediately stepped back out of sight.

  The man exuded the smell of soap and something spicy that Mary did not recognize. He walked around her, raised her chin briefly, and held her blond curls between his fingers. Finally, he smiled at her benevolently and stepped away again.

  “Ramu, I have a problem with . . .” He paused and cast a warning glance toward the two maids.

  Mary stood as if paralyzed, but Jenny hissed at her, “Come on!”

  Two days after her initial encounter with the master of the house, she saw him speaking confidentially with Mrs. Avery outside his bedroom. Mary was hidden from view by a statue of a Hindu goddess.

  “Have you noticed our new arrival, sir?”

  “The little blond? Of course. What would I do without you, Mrs. Avery?” The master smiled at his housekeeper appreciatively.

  Mrs. Avery blushed and touched her hair. It was an unexpectedly feminine gesture that Mary would not have expected from the stern woman. But she could see that Mrs. Avery not only idolized the master, she was in love with him. Did he realize that? He probably thought it was impossible. Socially speaking, the housekeeper was far below him, after all.

  “In two weeks, after the regatta, I’ll be holding a small, private function. Take care of everything necessary by then.”

  “With pleasure, sir.” Mrs. Avery curtsied, then walked past Mary without noticing her.

  28.

  The London Season was one continuous party. It was easy to lose track of all the invitations if one didn’t pay attention. Jane was pondering what was next on the agenda when Alison greeted her.

  “At last, a moment to ourselves! I’ve just been for a stroll. Come on. I want to show you our conservatory.”

  Lady Alison hooked her friend’s arm in hers and pulled her along through the bright, tastefully decorated rooms of her London townhouse. Every piece of furniture and every painting pointed to the long and honorable tradition of the two families united by the marriage of Thomas and Alison. Alison was actually listed as a successor to the throne. As the eighty-fifth in line, her chances of ever ascending to the crown were certainly slim, but the connection to the royal family brought her and her husband many advantages and made them highly desirable company in society circles.

  Jane felt a pang at the sight of a collection of blooming orchids. She thought of her uncle, who had loved orchids very much. “They’re beautiful, Ally,” she said, her voice heavy with emotion.

  Her friend squeezed her arm. “I can well imagine what you’re thinking about right now, but don’t be sad, Jane. That would be the last thing your uncle would want.”

  “You’re right. He always looked on the bright side. Unfortunately, when it came to his son, too.”

  They strolled slowly among the planters and shelves. Every plant had a small sign stating its name and origin. Jane stopped at a strangely formed yellow bulb that looked as if it was rolled together from a single leaf. “A cobra lily from China. How exotic.”

  Alison smiled absently. “Oh, the gardener buys all of these fancy plants and is very proud of them. I don’t really care. I like roses and violets and prefer to be outside in the gar
den. But Thomas says expensive plants are as important to a good reputation as artists, but the plants are easier to look after.”

  Being a patron for aspiring young artists was considered good form among society’s wealthy aristocrats. While Jane enjoyed visiting the art galleries and loved the Sunday exhibitions put on by the Royal Academy, she certainly didn’t feel the need to commit herself to any one artist. She bought pictures she liked if they were not exorbitantly priced, but was not foolhardy enough to describe herself as an art expert.

  With a smile, Jane replied, “No doubt he’s absolutely right. Tell me, did you ever manage to find out anything about the orphan girl I mentioned?”

  Alison’s blond curls shimmered golden in the afternoon sunlight falling through the glass roof. “The girl, yes, of course. I prompted my cook, Bertha, to ask around. She said that there are a number of houses that prefer to take orphaned children as domestics, mostly because they’re young and malleable and apparently less likely to run away. Whether that’s true or not, I couldn’t say. I’ve heard the opposite said as well. Florence, for instance, says that there were two very young girls with her who found themselves pregnant and ran away. One of them was seen”—she cleared her throat self-consciously before continuing—“in a brothel.”

  “The poor girl. Isn’t that so unjust, Ally? Some louse gets a young thing like that pregnant and then gets off scot-free, but the girl lands in the gutter,” Jane protested.

  Alison looked at her in consternation. “Well, that’s something she should have thought about ahead of time. They’re just as much to blame if they go leading the chaps on.”

  “Not all of them do that, Ally. And what if they’re forced?”

  “You can speak your mind to me, Jane, but watch out or you’ll find yourself with a bad name.” Alison took a breath and continued. “What I wanted to say was that Bertha said that Lord Hargrave is known for being picky about having pretty young maids in his household. And besides, his parties are notorious—for the domestic staff, too. Imagine, once a week they hire a pianist or a violinist for the staff, and they have dancing and a special meal in the kitchens!”