by Irene Carr
Liza stayed on the bridge and watched as William gave orders. Then he turned the ship over to the first officer and said to her, ‘I’ll be five minutes.’ He dropped down the ladder to the deck below and she saw him disappear through a doorway. Liza waited, watching the bustle both aboard and on the quay as a gangway was swung out by a crane to bridge the gap between ship and shore. Then she gasped. First to cross the gangway to the lamplit quay and hurry away was Cecily Spencer, in Liza’s coat, with the bundle of Liza’s clothing under her arm. She passed through the pools of light and disappeared into the darkness beyond. ‘You find this interesting?’ William said behind her.
She jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘I’m sorry. You startled me. Yes, I think it’s very interesting.’ 4
‘You surprise me.’
‘Oh?’
William did not answer the implied question. ‘I’m ready now. This way, Miss Spencer.’ He had a stained sea-bag slung over his shoulder, like that once carried by her father. He gestured to the ladder.
She waited for him to go ahead of her, giving way to the master as she had done all her working life, then realised he was standing back to let her precede him: she was the lady now. She dabbed at her eye, blinked at him and said, ‘I’m sorry. I think I had something in my eye,’ pretending that that was her reason for pausing. She tried to smile and wondered if he had noticed.
‘All right now?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She swept past him and he followed. Liza drew a sigh of relief. She told herself she had been lucky and would have to be more careful. She realised now the enormity of her task. She could never relax, must always be on her guard.
At the foot of the ladder William said, ‘I must see how your companion is, if she is fit to go ashore, or whether she wants a doctor.’
Why should she need a doctor? Liza thought. I was the one who nearly drowned. Then it struck her that one of the men in the boat had probably reported that Liza Thornton had fallen in.
A voice came from the narrow galley close beside them, its door hooked back. ‘She went ashore ten minutes ago, soon as they ran out the gangway.’ Archie Godolphin poked out his bald head. ‘She told me she had people expecting her.’
The fiancé, Liza thought. Cecily had not waited long to go in search of him — and leave Liza to her fate.
William shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘That frees me of a duty, but she might at least have left a word of thanks.’
Liza remembered her manners. ‘May I express thanks for both of us. You rescued us from a frightening experience.’
William raised his eyebrows: that was well said and maybe Cecily had changed. ‘You’re welcome. This way, Miss Spencer.’ He pointed to the gangway, and this time Liza did not hesitate but stepped on to it ahead of him. Archie followed them with Cecily’s suitcase.
The quay was in darkness, save for occasional gas lamps. They walked between cranes and over railway lines, Liza holding up her skirts, until they came to a stretch of roadway. A Vauxhall motor-car stood there with a uniformed man standing by. William hailed him. ‘Have you been here long?’
Gibson, one-time coachman now also chauffeur, put a finger to his cap in salute. ‘Only a few minutes. We heard that you’d been sighted coming in a’tween the piers so I drove down.’
William tossed his sea-bag and Cecily’s suitcase into the rear of the car and Archie stumped away. William said, ‘I’ll drive now. This is Miss Spencer, Mr Spencer’s niece.’
Gibson saluted again, more formally this time. ‘Miss Spencer,’ he said neutrally — Elspeth Taggart, Edward’s housekeeper, had told him her opinion of Cecily after she had overheard Edward and William talking about her.
Liza met his gaze and smiled. As she had been a servant she recognised that this one did not welcome her. Nevertheless, she kept the smile in place. ‘Good evening.’
‘We were all shocked and sorry about Mr Spencer, sir,’ he said, addressing William. William patted his back. ‘I’m sure you were.’ He handed Liza into the front passenger seat of the car, and here she saw a difficulty. She put a hand to Cecily’s broad-brimmed straw hat with its curling ostrich feather, perched on her head. It was unpinned and the Vauxhall was open to the sky. William saw the automatic gesture and said, ‘Ah. Do you have a scarf?’
Liza had not seen what was in Cecily’s handsome suitcase, apart from what she wore now. She could not admit that and said, ‘I’m afraid not.’
Gibson coughed. ‘Excuse me, sir. In here ...’ He fished in some recess inside the car and produced a silk square.
‘Just the thing.’ William passed it to Liza, who used it to secure the hat.
‘Thank you.’ She wondered who was the owner of the scarf. Gibson swung the starting-handle, then jumped into a rear seat and William drove off. As the Vauxhall passed out of the dock gates, William said, voice lifted above the sound of the engine, ‘This is the south shore. The bridge you can see leads to Monkwearmouth, and Newcastle eventually.’ Liza could see it between the jibs of the cranes, electric trams grinding across it.
A cart carrying coal, drawn by a plodding little horse, iron shoes clashing on the cobbles, pulled out ahead of them. William had to slow to swing round it and the voice came, an accusing screech: ‘You bloody murderers!’ Liza’s head whipped round. There was a shop of sorts, a window filled with what looked like sacks and sticks of furniture. Although this was Sunday evening it was lit by a gas jet and a woman stood in its doorway and shook her fist at the car. She was tall and gaunt, wild of eye, with bushy iron-grey hair under a man’s black cap. All in rusty black, dress and shawl, she pointed an accusing, skinny finger like a claw. ‘You drowned my man!’
‘It’s that mad ould lass from the tagareen shop,’ Gibson said.
‘I know who it is,’ William replied. ‘God knows, I’ve heard her often enough.’ The Vauxhall pulled away and the shrieks faded behind them. Liza let out her breath, which she had been holding. The verbal attack had taken her unawares. She glanced at William, thinking he would give some explanation, but he did not.
They drove up out of the narrow streets by the river, into the town with its street-lights, busy with trams and people, then up a hill beside a park, and turned off into tree-lined avenues.
‘Here we are,’ William said. He steered the car through the open wrought-iron gates, and Liza saw the name cut into the stone of the gate-post: Spencer Hall. The house was set back from the road behind a screen of trees pierced by a semi-circular gravelled drive. There were lights in the windows, three floors of them, but seen only as cracks between the thick curtains; Liza learned later that there were six bedrooms for family and their guests and more for the servants. Steps led up to the front door, which opened as the Vauxhall crunched to a halt outside it.
William left the engine ticking over but swung his legs out of the car, handed down Liza and shouldered his sea-bag. Gibson hauled out Cecily’s suitcase, then asked, ‘Will you be keeping the carriage and the horses, sir? I mean, it was Mr Edward who used them and since we got the car you ...’
William took the case from him. ‘We’ll keep them. Mr Spencer would have wanted it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘But don’t expect me to muck out those stables,’ William warned.
Gibson grinned, evidently relieved that he was not to lose his beloved horses. ‘I’ll garage her, sir.’ He drove off round the corner of the house, heading for the stables and the garage.
A woman stood at the head of the steps and William set down the case to wrap a long arm round her. ‘Elspeth! You’re looking bonny as ever!’
Elspeth Taggart was still rosy-cheeked and erect, but there were streaks of grey in her red hair. ‘Away wi’ ye and your daftness,’ she said brusquely as she detached herself.
He laughed, then said, ‘Miss Spencer, this is Mrs Taggart, our — my housekeeper.’ He made the amendment as he remembered Edward Spencer was now dead. ‘Elspeth, this is Mr Spencer’s ward. She has just been shipwrecked and rescue
d from the North Sea.’
Elspeth bobbed a curtsey, the keys at her waist jangling; the maid at her back copied her. The girl smiled but Elspeth did not. As she straightened, she said, ‘You’re welcome, Miss.’
Liza noted that reserve again. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’ She recognised Elspeth’s type, the lifelong retainer regarded almost as one of the family, with the licence to be familiar or outspoken that was denied to the other servants.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know Miss Spencer was with me,’ William said to her.
The housekeeper pursed her lips. ‘Mr Arkenstall sent word that she was coming but we did not expect her so soon. Still, I made the room ready because I didn’t know which one you would use, the master’s bedroom being rightfully yours now.’
‘Miss Spencer can have it,’ William said.
Elspeth inclined her head and ushered them in, took Liza’s coat, hat and borrowed scarf and hung them up. ‘Your dinner’s ready as soon as you are. I expect you’ll be wanting to change.’ She led the way upstairs, William carrying suitcase and sea-bag. He left the case in the room given to Liza, said, ‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ and left.
The room was large with a big double bed and a bright fire burning in the grate. Elspeth swept a swift glance over it to see that all was in order then said, ‘Martha will look after you,’ before she followed William.
Liza was left with the girl and smiled at her as she unlocked the case with the keys Cecily had given her. ‘How old are you, Martha?’
‘Sixteen, Miss,’ she replied shyly.
Liza could remember when she was sixteen, only five years ago but now she felt as if she was a hundred. ‘You’re young to be a lady’s maid.’
‘I’m not, really,’ Martha explained. ‘I think Mrs Taggart had to give me the job because the other two maids are having their night off. She took me on because she knew my mother when she worked here.’ She added anxiously, ‘I hope she’ll let me keep this job.’
‘Tell her I’m pleased with you.’
‘Thank you, Miss. Shall I run your bath, Miss?’
‘Run it?’ Liza looked for the bath, then saw the door. ‘Yes, please.’ In all the houses in which she had worked there had been hip baths, placed as needed in the bedrooms. The maids toiled up long flights of stairs with huge jugs of hot water to fill them. Now Martha passed through the door into a bathroom and spun taps to bring forth steaming water. Liza had seen this phenomenon but never experienced it. She flung open the lid of the suitcase and saw a pair of Cecily’s shoes. She pushed them hastily to the back of the wardrobe, out of sight. Martha darted back to help her undress. Liza found that strange — she could have made a suggestion or two to help the girl, tricks of the trade, but bit her tongue because that was not in the role she was playing.
‘This was the master’s room,’ Martha told her. ‘Captain Morgan’s room has a bathroom as well. Mr Cully, he’s the gardener, he looks after the boiler, or Mr Gibson does it.’ She looked startled by the old button boots and Liza hastily explained how she had lost her own in the wreck and had been lent a pair by a servant girl.
‘You were lucky she was the same size, Miss.’
‘Yes, wasn’t I?’ Liza agreed.
‘I’ll set them by the fire to dry.’
* * *
In William’s room, Elspeth Taggart rooted out his soiled laundry from his sea-bag. ‘Guid God! You’ve torn this shirt from top to tail! Another one! I’ve never known a lad to tear so many.’
‘Sorry. It split as I pulled it off,’ William, wrapped in a bathrobe, said.
Elspeth tutted over it. Then she said absently, ‘Yon lassie is not as I expected her to be.’
William grinned. ‘How did you expect her?’
‘Ye ken — the fine lady looking down her nose. And she still has a trace of a North Country accent. I’d ha’ thought she would ha’ lost it after all these years in the south.’
‘True. But she was here until she was five and I suppose once you have the accent you never lose it entirely.’
‘Aye ...’ But then she forgot about the girl’s speech. ‘And you’ve got a hole in this jersey!’
* * *
Liza soaked and almost slept in the bath: her ordeal and adventure, the nights at sea with little sleep, were telling on her now. She jerked awake when Martha called through the door, ‘Shall I put out the blue dress, Miss? I can iron it and have it ready in five minutes.’
Liza had never seen it but did not care. ‘Yes, please.’ She dragged herself out of the bath and found that her case had been unpacked and its contents put away, her clothes laid out for her and Martha waiting to help. She dressed, pulled on the old button boots — warm now and almost dry — then made her way downstairs. She paused nervously on the threshold of the drawing room. William stood by the fire, a glass in his hand. He had changed into a sober suit and was clean-shaven.
He came to meet her. ‘Dinner is ready, but would you care for a drink first?’
‘No, thank you, except perhaps some water.’
That surprised him. He would have expected the Cecily Spencer he knew to call for something stronger. ‘I think we can manage that.’ He downed his whisky. ‘We’ll dine now, Elspeth,’ he called. ‘Water for Miss Spencer, please.’ Liza saw the housekeeper bustling about in the dining room next door. Then he turned back to her. ‘I was just looking at that photograph. It was taken when you were seventeen and first went to that finishing school, but you look taller in it than you do now.’
Alarm bells rang in Liza’s head. He had taken the photograph from the mantelpiece and held it out to her, pointing. Oh, God! she thought. Cecily had casually dismissed the photograph. The sepia images swirled before her eyes then steadied. She saw it was of a group, a dozen or more girls, one or two taller than the rest. She picked out the young Cecily staring stiffly at the camera. But with so many on the photograph their faces were only a quarter-inch across, one very like another. It might have been herself peering out.
Could she pass it off ? ‘I was tall for my age but the other girls caught up.’
‘Of course,’ William said. He replaced the photograph and Liza breathed again.
He led her in to dinner, pulled out her chair, then took his own at the end of the long polished table. Liza could manage this part easily, had often observed as a maid. She awarded marks to Mrs Taggart and the maid who served the dinner now, and to the cook. There was oxtail soup, followed by a sirloin steak, excellently cooked, but she was too tired to eat it. She gave up at the dessert when she caught herself nodding over it and William staring at her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I must retire. I found the journey quite exhausting.’
‘Can I help you?’ He came round the table in long strides to pull back her chair and help her to her feet.
‘No, thank you. I will be all right.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’m sure I will feel better tomorrow.’
Mrs Taggart hurried past her. ‘I’ll send up Martha.’ Did Liza detect a note of sympathy in place of the hitherto distant stare? She could not be sure and climbed the stairs, let Martha undress her and crept into the bed with its stone hot-water bottle.
‘Goodnight, Miss,’ said Martha, and closed the door softly. Liza blinked at the shadows cast on the ceiling by the fire in the grate. She had never been cosseted like this and sighed luxuriously, sleepily.
She had been lucky so far but she would have to be careful. She was not among friends here and she recalled how coldly Gibson and Mrs Taggart had greeted her. William Morgan’s gaze seemed to probe right through her and see something he did not like. She was afraid of being found out. This play, drama or farce, had been devised by Cecily. She had used Liza’s gratitude for saving her life to make her play the leading role. But Liza, not Cecily, would suffer the strain of the performance and the retribution if she was unmasked. William would not be forgiving.
She had to maintain the impersonation for four weeks. It seemed like an eternity but she had survived today and
that was enough for now. If only she could hold her little daughter. She slept.
* * *
Meanwhile Cecily was curled up in a sleeping-carriage, on a train thundering south towards London and Mark Calvert.
13
MONDAY, 21 JANUARY 1907, SUNDERLAND
Liza woke to see the glow of sunshine behind the curtains and stretched lazily. It was good to come to life gradually in the big bed, to feel refreshed and at ease. She was ready for the day. A clock on the mantelpiece above the fire, ashes now, told her it was eight in the morning. Time she was up.
There was a knock at her door and Martha entered. ‘Good morning, Miss Spencer. I’ve brought your tea.’ Liza was reminded of who she was supposed to be and on her guard again. The girl set the tray on the bedside table and drew back the curtains. ‘A fine day, Miss. I hope you slept well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Liza had been on the other side of this ritual of morning tea for years, but it was the first time she had been in receipt of it.
‘Mrs Taggart said she would accompany you to the shops this morning if you were agreeable. Will I put out a dress? This green one?’
‘Let me see.’ Liza got out of bed and went to join Martha at the wardrobe. The clothes Cecily had left her were expensive but not to her taste. No matter, she would have to make do. She settled for the green dress. Having made the choice she wondered if it would fit her. The red one she had worn the previous day and the blue for dinner had both been long. The green proved no better. She told herself that William would not notice and Mrs Taggart would just look down her nose.
When she was ready she descended the stairs. Breakfast was served in the dining room; one place was set at the head of the long table. No one was in the room and tall french windows looked on to the garden at the rear. She opened them and stepped out into the sparkling morning. She was about to go back for a coat but saw the greenhouse, a blaze of colours within, and crossed to it. She peered in, shivering, and a tall, heavy man rose up from among the blooms. He opened the door to admit her and put a finger to his cap: ‘Miss Spencer? I’m Cully, the gardener.’
