by Irene Carr
Cecily went to stand by her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve been told — to leave. Pack and get out — today.’
‘Why?’
* * *
Estelle had gone to the study and had found Charles there. She had turned to leave but he insisted she stay. He had paid her compliments, then held her. Estelle had been living on her nerves for the past week, yearned for support, sympathy and affection, and thought she had found them in his arms.
Then his wife had entered. Millicent had summed up the situation at a glance: ‘Your light o’ love can’t live here. I won’t have it. You can pay her a week’s notice and turn her out. Goodbye, Miss Beaumont.’
* * *
‘I don’t know how I will find a new position,’ Estelle wept, ‘because I haven’t a reference. I’ve nowhere to go.’ She took down her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and began to pack.
‘Can’t you go to a hotel?’ Cecily asked, with the cruel innocence of youth.
Estelle shook her head. ‘I only have a few shillings, and the pay I was given today.’ She opened her hand to show a single gold sovereign. ‘I’ll have to go to the workhouse.’
Cecily had heard frightening tales of the workhouse, but with the comforting knowledge that that fate was for others, not for her and her kind. Now, though, she was talking to someone bound for that institution, with its drab, shabby uniform, its regimentation and gruel. Will you really?’
Estelle nodded, white-faced. ‘I must pack.’
‘I’ll help you.’ Cecily collected and folded garments, emptied the wardrobe. Now there would be no governess — at least for a while. Then she realised she would miss Estelle, and felt a wave of compassion. She went to the money-box on the schoolroom mantelpiece and opened it — strictly against the rules. She emptied it on to her desk, counted the contents, then held out the coins to Estelle. ‘There you are. That’s nearly five pounds. It should help.’
‘Oh, no. Really, I couldn’t,’ the governess protested feebly.
But Cecily was firm. ‘You must. I want you to have it. Where’s your purse?’ And she stowed the money in it.
Then she had another idea and ran down to her mother’s boudoir. She ignored the bookcase full of novels, which was locked, and went to the writing bureau. There she found some notepaper headed with her mother’s name, Mrs Charles Spencer, and their address. Cecily sat down at the bureau, took up a pen and wrote, in her best copperplate, ‘Miss Beaumont has been an excellent governess. I cannot speak too highly of her devotion to her duties, her skill and knowledge. I would recommend her to anyone.’
That was quoted word for word from a reference Cecily had seen when her mother had given it to a departing cook a month or so ago. Now she signed it, ‘Cecily Spencer’, took it upstairs and gave it to Estelle.
Estelle read it. ‘But I can’t present this. If someone writes —’
‘They won’t,’ said Cecily, confidently. ‘And if they do they will write to me and Mother will ask me about it. I’ll tell her why I did it and she will write back confirming every word, rather than air a family row in public.’ She was quoting Millicent again.
Estelle put away the reference, carried her case downstairs and out of the front door. Cecily went with her, waited with her until she was able to hail a cab, then helped her in. Estelle thanked her. ‘You’ve been so kind.’ Then the driver shook the reins and the horse hauled the cab into the stream of traffic.
* * *
A few days later Cecily’s parents went out to a dinner party. ‘Leave out the whisky,’ Charles told the butler, ‘and I’ll make myself a nightcap when we return. There’s no need for anyone to wait up.’
His wife waved a hand at the clothes she had tossed aside when she changed, and ordered her maid, ‘Clear these things away. I’ll undress myself tonight, but see that Miss Cecily goes to bed on time. Then you can retire yourself.’ The last duty should have been carried out by the governess, but she had yet to be replaced.
When they had left Cecily went from her bedroom to her mother’s. There she found her mother’s keys, a small bunch dropped into a drawer of her dressing-table. She ran down to the boudoir with them, and unlocked the bookcase. Inside was Millicent’s collection of risque novels. Cecily selected one and carried it upstairs. It was under her pillow and she was tucked up in bed when the maid came to her.
‘It’s all right, Mary,’ said Cecily, ‘I’m in bed, but clear these things away.’ She waved a hand at the clothes she had dropped on to the floor. Mary did as she was told. ‘Goodnight, Miss.’ She turned off the gas-light and left, closing the door behind her. Cecily slipped out of bed to light the gas again, then climbed back into bed, fished out the novel and settled down to read.
Two hours passed, and she heard the clock in the hall chime midnight when she realised she had dozed. That would never do: the novel had to be returned. She pulled on her dressing-gown and flitted down the stairs to the hall and thence to her mother’s boudoir.
* * *
Horace, the second footman, was a tall young man who liked a drink now and again, but alcohol was not allowed in the servants’ hall. Now he stole down the back stairs in his trousers, shirt and socks. He passed through the green baize door into the front of the house and made for the drawing room, where he knew he would find the whisky decanter. He padded through the gloom of the hall and had started to open the door when he realised there was already a light on in the room. He almost fled, thinking his master or the butler might be there, but then he saw that the light was from one of the new-fangled electric torches; they had only been in the shops for a year. It rested on the table and its beam was trained on the sideboard. A man was silhouetted against it and he was shoving items of silver into a Gladstone bag.
Horace was a simple-minded young man, prepared to drink his employer’s whisky but also to defend his possessions. He flung open the door, charged in and grappled with the intruder. He had taken the man by surprise and almost wrestled him to the floor, but then a fist smashed into his face and his grip relaxed. The burglar pulled away and started for the window he had forced and left open. But Horace had not finished. He threw out a hand to seize the thief’s clothing and caught the neck of his shirt. He hung on as the man rained blows on him and tried to pull away. Then the shirt ripped apart from the neck, and Horace fell to the floor.
The burglar was free. He glanced back before he scrambled out of the window, and saw a young girl standing in the doorway, staring at him. Leaving the Gladstone bag where it lay, he yanked aside the curtains and threw himself outside. He ran, with screams shrilling behind him, tearing apart the silence of the night.
* * *
Cecily stood in the doorway, open-mouthed. She had emerged from her mother’s boudoir just as Horace had tackled the burglar. She had seen the open door, heard the commotion and run along the hall. She was just in time to see, by the light of the torch, the intruder: his chest was bare and on it was a tattooed portrait of a voluptuous beauty. Now she ran to the window and peered out but saw no one, only heard the faint hammering of running feet that faded to nothing as she listened.
Cecily turned back into the room to attend to Horace. She had hardly knelt beside him when the butler appeared, panting, a dressing-gown over his nightshirt and a poker in his hand. Another footman and two of the maids, one of them Mary, were at his heels. ‘I woke and came down to see if Mother had returned,’ Cecily explained, ‘then heard scuffling in here and looked in. Horace was struggling with a burglar. He was very brave and hung on but the man escaped.’
She was lauded by the butler for her efforts, then sent off to bed: ‘You can leave Horace to us, Miss Cecily. Mary will come with you and see you settled.’
* * *
‘What were you doing down here at near one in the morning?’ the butler snapped at Horace.
The footman was bruised and bloody, and not a good liar. The best he could manage was: ‘I couldn’t sleep. Had an earache.’ He had one now,
left by the battering he had taken from the burglar, and held a hand to his ear. ‘I got up and went for a walk around, then thought I heard a noise in the drawing room. I dashed in and caught him at it, but he gave me the slip.’
The butler said, ‘Aye.’ He had a shrewd idea of what Horace had been up to. ‘You did well. The master will be pleased.’
* * *
Jasper burst into his house and slammed the door with a crash that echoed up the street of decorous and respectable citizens. One or two crept sleepily to their windows to squint out into the night but saw nothing. The neighbourhood sank back into its usual quiet.
Inside the house Jasper was raging. He panted up the stairs to the bedroom and snarled at Flora, ‘Fetch me a drink!’ She slid out of bed and ran downstairs to do his bidding.
When she returned with a bottle and two glasses he was sitting on the bed, his torn shirt and waistcoat lying at his feet. She said, ‘My! What happened to them?’
He cursed, then explained: ‘Some bloody fool came in when I was going through the drawers, tried to get hold o’ me. He ripped the shirt off me as I come away. Then there was some stupid little cow screaming the place down. I had to get out quick. I lost the bag and got nothing! Here, give us that.’ He ignored the glass, set the neck of the bottle to his lips and swallowed. Flora waited until he was calmer, then slid her arms round him. He muttered a final imprecation, then said, ‘I wish I’d done for the pair o’ them.’ He turned to her and thrust her back on to the bed.
* * *
The next day Charles called all the servants together and praised Horace, then gave him a gold sovereign. He doubted Cecily’s explanation; she had not waited up for him and his wife before. ‘You should have been in bed, Miss, not wandering about the house in the dark.’
But Millicent defended her daughter: ‘Nonsense! I think she was very brave.’
There Charles agreed with her and handed out another sovereign to Cecily.
It was at the end of the following week that she persuaded her father to take her strolling in Hyde Park. She walked under her parasol, imitating her mother, and watched to see if any heads turned her way. There were guardsmen in red coats, nursemaids by the dozen, pushing prams or accompanying young children, ladies and gentlemen in scores. There were even two policemen patrolling ponderously, side by side. Then, out of the crowd, a tall, hard-faced man appeared. The woman on his arm was expensively dressed, but blowsy.
‘Father! Cecily said clearly. ‘That is the burglar who tried to steal from us last week!’ She pointed a finger.
‘Him?’ Charles said, startled.
The policemen paused in their pacing. ‘What was that, Miss?’ one asked.
The man was still walking towards them. Cecily was hidden from him by the taller men. ‘I saw that man burgling our house last week,’ she repeated.
Charles stepped into the man’s path. ‘A moment, sir, if you please. I want to talk to you.’
‘What the hell d’you want?’
‘My daughter saw you stealing from my house a week ago,’ Charles charged him.
* * *
For a second Jasper did not associate this poised, fashionably dressed fifteen-year-old with the girl in the dressing-gown, her hair down her back. Then he recognised her — and, at the same time, saw the policemen close in on him, cutting off escape. He determined to bluff it out. He laughed. ‘That’s a lot o’ nonsense! When did you say this was?’
‘A week ago today, last Wednesday,’ Charles answered, sounding uncertain now: perhaps Cecily was mistaken.
‘That settles it, then,’ Jasper claimed. ‘I was at home with my wife all that evening, wasn’t I, love?’
‘Course he was,’ Flora backed him up, stoutly. ‘I never heard the like, accusing an honest man on the word o’ some empty-headed young lass.’ She tossed her head.
‘Are you sure, Miss?’ one of the policemen asked Cecily.
‘0’ course she isn’t.’ Jasper grinned, but his eyes glared at her. ‘Little lasses make mistakes so I’ll say no more about it.’
Little lass! ‘I haven’t made a mistake!’ Cecily replied hotly. ‘He is the burglar and he has a picture of a slut tattooed on his chest. Look and see.’
‘Will you come with us to the station so we can confirm what you say, sir,’ one of the policemen said. It was not a question.
Jasper knew it and ran, but the crowds hindered him. Charles gave chase, shouting, ‘Stop! Thief!’ The cry was taken up and a strolling dandy leaped on Jasper, tripping him, and they both crashed to the ground.
Charles was on him at once, and then came the policemen, with handcuffs. ‘All right, sir. We’ve got him.’
* * *
On the day of the trial Cecily received a letter from Estelle Beaumont, her erstwhile governess, in which she said she had secured a position with a good family in Hampshire and was happy. She thanked Cecily for all she had done and the girl went with her father to the court in a happy frame of mind. Flora lied determinedly to save Jasper, but the evidence of Horace and Cecily, particularly her knowledge of the tattoo, was damning.
Jasper was sent down for twelve years and was lucky it was not more. When sentence was pronounced he glared at Cecily and bawled, ‘You little bitch! I’ll see my day with you! I’ll swing for you!’ His curses came back to her as he was dragged down to the cells.
They were echoed by Flora, but Cecily gave her a cold glance of contempt and turned her back. ‘Can we go home now, Father?’
‘Of course.’ In the cab he said, ‘You did very well.’ Then, ‘Did his threats upset you?’
‘He’ll feel differently after twelve years. And, anyway, he’ll be an old man then.’
She did not lose any sleep over it and soon forgot the affair.
Jasper would not.
7
DECEMBER 1902, NORTHUMBERLAND
‘Ah! You villain! I shall not surrender myself to you!’ Liza, soon to be seventeen and playing the part of Lady Angela, clasped her hands to her bosom in anguish. The audience cheered. The sketch was being performed in the hall at the Grange. The members of staff without parts squatted on the stairs while the Gresham family, parents and three of their four children, sat on chairs in front of them. The stage was the floor of the hall, the ten-foot width of it, flanked by ‘wings’ of temporarily rigged curtains.
‘You have no choice,’ the villain sneered. ‘You must wed me or take the consequences.’ Gillespie, in false beard, pointed his pistol and the audience booed.
‘Never!’ cried Liza. ‘Death before dishonour!’
‘Ooh!’ wailed family and staff alike.
‘You reckoned without me!’ Toby, the Greshams’ eighteen-year-old eldest son, home from school for Christmas and dressed as a naval officer, burst from the wings to cheers. He was popular with all the staff, tall and good-looking, with a ready smile. Now he stumbled on a trailing curtain but recovered to say, ‘Take that!’ He fired his pistol but the cap only fizzled. Gillespie clutched at his chest, then fell —carefully but flat.
Liza threw out a hand. ‘Saved! My hero!’
And the curtain came down, to rise again so that the cast could acknowledge the applause.
‘Author!’ Jonathan Gresham bellowed, and Gillespie took a bow on his own. Then Jonathan went on: ‘You all did well. First class. But an extra cheer for the leading lady.’
Liza blushed. This was the happiest Christmas she had ever known, but it was the culmination of three happy years, a time when she had worked hard but taken pleasure in it. She had found the Grange was not so isolated as she had thought and she had come to love the countryside. There was a village only ten minutes away, with a church and a shop but no pub. She had guessed that that was why Bridie had left. Liza had learned to dance. In the evenings all the younger members of the servants’ hall would practise their steps to Gillespie’s fiddle. It was their sole entertainment in the winter.
Soon after Gillespie had taken her on he had announced in the kitchen: �
�Mrs Gresham wants an assistant for Madame Jeanne, somebody to do sewing two days a week. Any takers?’
The staff were seated around the table for the evening meal, the butler at the head. He glanced up and down the lines of faces, but they avoided his eye. One said, ‘Not me. That Frenchie is ower fussy and bad-tempered.’ Vanessa Gresham’s French maid was a motherly woman of forty, dumpy and smiling, but with high standards and an acid tongue for those who did not measure up to them. She was not present because she was attending her mistress on a visit to another part of the county. Gillespie sighed. He was reluctant to order one of them to do the job, knowing there would be argument and excuses and probably a blazing row with Madame Jeanne.
Then Liza said, from the foot of the table, ‘Can I try, please, Mr Gillespie?’ In her excitement and embarrassment at speaking out in front of them all it came out in a squeak. But it eased the tension. There was laughter and a call of, ‘You sound like a little mouse, Liza.’
She blushed, but the butler grinned at her. ‘You can try. Report to Madame Jeanne when she returns tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The others smiled because she had taken the job none of them wanted, but Liza was delighted. She believed this was a step on her way to becoming a lady’s maid one day, for which sewing and dressmaking were essential skills. Would her needlework satisfy Madame Jeanne?
The Frenchwoman had the same doubts and pursed her lips. ‘We shall see.’ After two weeks she told Liza, ‘You will do. You have a lot to learn but I think that will come.’ To Gillespie she said, ‘The little one is ver’ good,’ and at her urging he asked Vanessa Gresham if Liza might be sent to learn dressmaking one day in each week. Since then she had spent Thursdays in Newcastle, setting out at dawn and returning near to midnight. But she learned, to Madame Jeanne’s satisfaction.
