by Tessa Arlen
“Violet wrote him a letter while we were waiting up in my room to leave the house. She reassured him that she was being taken care of, and had been given a splendid new start in her life, far better than being a working skivvy for indifferent employers, at any rate.”
Oh Lord, back on the soap box again, thought Mrs. Jackson as Lucinda continued. “Employers who take advantage of women with overwork, poor pay, terrible working conditions, and abuse. With the right government, voted in by women themselves, we can begin to make…”
Mrs. Jackson closed her eyes momentarily as she sat in the sun-filtered shade. The garden’s high walls shut out most of the noise and hubbub of London traffic, but it was a dull, irritating hum in the background. She had worked long hours and days all her life, days of monotonous drudgery when she was younger. There was no trade union for domestic service and she wasn’t sure that if there were, it would make a huge difference in the long run. She allowed Lucinda’s voice to join the background drone of London traffic.
The garden door from the kitchen swung shut and she opened a wary eye. A white cap and a lacy apron fluttered crisply against a smart, violet gingham dress, as a young maid walked across the lawn carrying a large silver tray. She was very young, about fifteen years old, a pretty girl with dark brown hair and large deep blue eyes that flitted from Lucinda to Mrs. Jackson to the garden table laden with newspapers, pens, pencils, and books. She stood for a moment, apprehensive and unsure. Mrs. Jackson rose from her chair and cleared the clutter off the table so that she could put the tray down. The maid did so without speaking or lifting her eyes. She stepped backward, hands behind her back, eyes down, as she had been trained to, then turned and walked briskly back to the house, hands by her sides. On the table were a jug of lemonade, two glasses, and some little things to eat.
Lucinda’s voice became less animated and Mrs. Jackson sat back down.
“I would tell you where she is, but I think it would be wrong to burst in on her and frighten her with apologies. She doesn’t want to return to the village, or the house. She has a much better job near Cambridge, working in a bookshop, and she’s very happy there; she’s made friends…”
“So quickly, in the space of less than a week?” was all Mrs. Jackson could think of to say.
“Yes, Mrs. Jackson, in less than a week. Now that you know how Violet got away from the house, and why she had to leave, I suppose you’ll have to tell Lady Montfort…” There was not an ounce of self-blame about her, thought Mrs. Jackson as she prudently maintained a respectful silence.
“I expect you could do with a glass of lemonade after that.” Lucinda leaned forward in her chair. “Now tell me I did the right thing.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Mrs. Jackson left Clevellan Square in a sort of trance and walked back along the Bayswater Road. Before she got to Lancaster Gate she crossed the street and turned into the Marlborough entrance to Hyde Park. Almost immediately the stink of petrol fumes and the racket of engines and horns receded. She was feeling light-headed and hungry; the glass of lemonade she had had with Lucinda had been too tart, and it was sloshing around in her empty stomach, making her feel queasy. Now that her initial alarm about Violet was allayed, she was not pleased that Lucinda had spirited Violet away from the house, leaving everyone to believe that anything could have happened to her; in fact, she was furious with her. Lucinda’s rescue had denied them all the right to have helped Violet in their own way; she felt it was a vengeful act, an act of spite on the Lucinda’s part.
She stopped for a while and stood under a large plane tree, engrossed in her thoughts. Perhaps Lucinda had taken Violet to provide a distraction. Perhaps she had taken Violet to conceal her as a witness to Teddy’s murder. It was quite possible; there had been almost a spark of madness about Lucinda when she had talked about Teddy, and her hatred of him had been palpable. If Lucinda had murdered Teddy, she had to have had help and taking Violet away had been part of her overall plan. Mrs. Jackson wondered about Lord Haversham. She didn’t want to think of him in connection with Teddy’s death, but he could have been involved. Since childhood he had always been under Lucinda’s sway and they were still the greatest of friends. Lady Montfort would have been perfectly happy for her son to marry her, until Lucinda started demanding independence and said she wanted to study medicine and be an independent working woman.
If Lord Haversham had known about Mr. Mallory’s treatment of Violet, that would have been enough to stir him to action. She remembered Lady Montfort’s account of Lord Haversham’s rage toward Mr. Mallory at the boathouse. Yes, of course it made sense to his mother that he was angry about his dog. But she remembered quite clearly the young Lord Haversham whacking the living daylights out of the Boswell boy when he pushed Lady Althea out of the tree house. He was so incensed by the boy’s bullying that Mr. Thrower had had to pull him away.
Her stomach lurched and Mrs. Jackson looked at her wristwatch. What was she thinking? She was so tired that she had lost her sense of proportion. Lord Haversham was incapable of murder. She needed food and she needed the quiet of her train ride home for reflection. She had plenty of time to eat a late meal and then catch the half past four from Marylebone. She quickened her pace and turned right down the West Carriage Drive and alongside the Serpentine.
When Mrs. Jackson had been in service as a very young housemaid she had spent her one afternoon off a month in Hyde Park if the weather was fine. Now, she stopped at a drinking fountain to dilute the acidic taste of lemonade, and then walked on up the Broad Walk. There were the usual crowds at Speakers’ Corner. Without stopping, she brushed through several groups; someone was shouting that the end of the world was nigh, as usual. The Salvation Army was packing up their trumpets, trombones, and drums, having spent a profitable morning saving sinners from the evils of drink. The crowd around them dispersed and re-formed around another soapbox evangelizer. This time it was a woman. Actually there were three of them, and they wore the purple, white, and green sashes of the WSPU. The older woman started to speak, and two police constables who had been hanging around, enjoying the Sally Army band and their hymn singing, now stood to attention. The woman was a good speaker. She had a strong voice and spoke with conviction, but Mrs. Jackson had heard it all before, just twenty minutes ago from Lucinda. The crowd at first glance appeared unsympathetic and there was jeering from the lower element, but Mrs. Jackson noticed that a great many quite respectable men and women listened attentively and were annoyed at the continued interruptions from the louts and layabouts in the crowd. She shouldered her way around the outside of the crowd, her stomach growling, and made her way out of the park to the Lyons’ Corner House at Marble Arch. She would treat herself to a jolly good mixed grill before she caught the train, and with a full stomach and hopefully a quiet compartment she would be able to think through what she had learned from Lucinda and her new fears at the possible involvement of the Talbots’ son and heir.
* * *
She caught her train with minutes to spare. A little breathlessly she took out her Bradshaw to check at which time she would arrive at Cryer’s Breech. To her horror, she found that she was on the Manchester express train, which was now clattering through the dreary outskirts of London and gathering speed. She would be in Market Wingley in twenty minutes and then there would be … she thumbed desperately to the next page … there would be a connection from Market Wingley to Cryer’s Breech an hour and twenty minutes later via Little Buffenden. Her journey home had just stretched into nearly two hours. Now she would be hanging around in Market Wingley for an hour, what a waste of time. But being the resilient soul she that was, she thought perhaps it could be turned into a useful hour. She could walk to Harper’s drapery, just ten minutes from the station, and spend some time looking at the new things they had for summer and pick up the black crepe for the servants’ armbands for the funeral tomorrow. She relaxed and enjoyed the reckless sensation of traveling at high speed; someone had told her that the express could
run nearly sixty miles in one hour.
She turned her mind to considering the business of Lucinda and her determination to rescue Violet in such a strangely unpredictable way. Try as she might she couldn’t understand how Violet had been accosted by Teddy on the night of the ball in the garden. She had accepted that Violet had been out and about, because she now knew that it had been Violet on the backstairs. But what was the girl doing outside at that time? Of course she had been rather dense about Elsie’s involvement with Horace Wobbley so perhaps she needed to address this issue a little more thoroughly. Had Violet had an assignation with someone? Remembering Stafford’s advice to her, she instructed herself to think about the situation from a different angle entirely, and she was still deep in thought when the train pulled into Market Wingley.
* * *
Mrs. Jackson liked Market Wingley. It was a quiet, prosperous country town with a large open market square, empty today, and a hotel and ostlery on the south side. From the cobbled square pleasant streets radiated out into the town, with plenty of shops selling useful items. She never went to town on Wednesdays, when the streets were packed with farmers and their families up to town for market day. All the taverns and pubs were full of red-faced farmers drinking beer, and the teashops were crowded with their wives and daughters. But today the streets were quiet and it took Mrs. Jackson just a few minutes to walk to Harper’s, which was in a narrow street that backed the market square.
The bell tinkled as Mrs. Jackson walked into the shop’s deep and narrow interior. She looked down the tall mahogany and glass counter that ran down the right-hand-side of the shop, with display cases underneath presenting a fascinating array of numerous sundries: crochet hooks, darning needles, buttons, clasps, hooks and eyes, embroidery silks, and skeins of wool. Mrs. Jackson particularly liked the wall behind the counter with its rolled bolts of fabric on shelves. A captivating array of colored materials carefully graded in color and fabric from serviceable drab wool to crisp white linen, brightly printed cotton, and vibrant glossy silks, all exuding the particularly pleasant, stringent, sharp smell of formaldehyde used in the fabrics’ dressings: the smell of newness. Pausing to admire a bolt of shot blue silk on display in the center of the room, Mrs. Jackson looked around for an assistant to help her with her simple purchase. She knew most of the people who worked in the shop, but they were busy measuring, cutting, and parceling materials for their customers. She was turning back to a display case of machine-made lace that was almost as good as the real thing, if you hadn’t seen the real thing, which Mrs. Jackson had, when she noticed Mr. Wallace at the end of the shop. He had just finished serving a customer and was sliding a tray of black shoe buttons under the display top of the counter.
“Mr. Wallace, good afternoon.” Mrs. Jackson approached the counter.
“Good afternoon, madam. It’s Mrs. Jackson from Iyntwood, isn’t it? You must have come in about the crepe. It’s all ready for you, if you will excuse me a moment.”
He returned with a neat stack of black crepe strips. “Not particularly heavy, Mrs. Jackson, but it’s funny how parcels seem to get heavier the further you carry them. Far to go? Oh I see, to the station. Well, David will accompany you.”
Mrs. Jackson thanked him.
“There is no need to tell you how very sad we were to hear the news of Mr. Mallory’s … terrible accident,” said in a low voice, his eyes downcast. “Everyone here offers the family our sincerest condolences.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wallace, and how…” She looked down at his nimble hands as they made a tidy portable package of brown paper tied with string, and a loop for carrying. There was no sign of a bandage on his injured wrist. “I heard about your unfortunate accident and I’m pleased to see that your wrist is on the mend.” He looked up at her, a little surprised perhaps that she had noticed.
“Doing very nicely, thank you, Mrs. Jackson. It was nothing at all, really, just a silly rick. Hurt like the dickens at the time, of course. Thank you for asking. I was so disappointed not to be able to play at the ball. I heard it all went off very well.” He finished with his parcel and called to the errand boy to accompany her back to the station.
It was a mystifying little moment, but one that didn’t cause Mrs. Jackson a second thought. She was far more preoccupied with how she would find the words to explain to Lady Montfort the reason why Violet had had to run away from the house.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Clementine was up very early the morning after Teddy Mallory’s funeral. Careful not to appear too eagerly enthusiastic, the Talbots and their house guests all assembled after breakfast in groups in the hall and on the drive, the women exchanging last cries of regret at having ever to leave at all. Gertrude, particularly, wanted to reassure Clementine that indeed she was grateful for their friendship and for Clementine’s loyalty and kindness. She drew her friend away from the throng of departure.
“Going to the Desboroughs’ ball next Friday in town?” Gertrude asked her friend as they said goodbye.
“Oh no, Gertrude, I don’t think we will; so much to take care of here. But please say hello to Evelyn for me.”
“I will, if we go. Hugo is in bate, and I am playing it by ear right now. I feel so drained, I just want to sleep for a week.”
“Rest and take some time.”
“Yes, all very well for you to say, but I end up being so terribly bored. Well, my dear Clemmy, kindest of friends, thank you—it was undoubtedly memorable.” They laughed self-consciously and Clementine knew she would not see Gertrude for a few weeks. There was a lot they both had to erase from the memories of the last week.
“Gertrude, please take care,” she said as her friend turned and walked toward her waiting husband and the motorcar.
“Don’t you ever worry about me … too much, Clemmy,” said Gertrude.
Standing next to her husband by the front door, Clementine spent the next hour saying fond goodbyes to their guests as if nothing untoward had occurred during their stay.
“Goodbye, and thank you,” she said to the Ambroses. “See you at the Waterfords’.”
“Goodbye, it was delightful,” the Ambroses called out, leaping happily into their motorcar; with so much luggage, they had brought the Lanchester just for that.
“Goodbye, Sir Wilfred and dear Olive, goodbye. Yes of course, if you have left anything at all we will send it on … no problem at all.”
* * *
Downstairs, Mrs. Jackson watched Mable Thwaite, who was leaning up against the scullery door, shouting instructions to Mary and alternatively calling out to Iris in the pantry. Strategically placed as she was, there was no need for her to move an inch, so as she issued her commands she barely turned her head in either direction. Mrs. Jackson gritted her teeth. Mrs. Thwaite would be needed in the kitchen to supervise luncheon in a moment, she thought, as she tried to give instructions to Agnes, Dick, Elsie, and two women from the village who had come up to help put the house back to order for the next few days. She turned in irritation to ask Mrs. Thwaite to lower her voice, then decided not to. Mrs. Thwaite had news and it was important that she was the first to relay it. As Mrs. Jackson had learned the hard way, it was important to keep abreast of belowstairs gossip.
“Did you hear about Northcombe House? Didn’t think you had. They had a burglary there on the night of our ball. Yes, thought that would catch your interest. Saw Mrs. Cumberbunch at the church for the funeral and she told me everything; all the Staunton family jewels, which were worth a packet—gone just like that. They weren’t even aware they had been burgled until the maid went to put the jewels Lady Staunton had worn to our ball back in the silver safe the next day, and it was wiped clean. Not one of the servants saw or heard a thing. Their butler is practically a geriatric so that would explain it. Course, they are covered by Lloyd’s of London, but you can’t replace tradition and history, can you?”
Mrs. Jackson listened to exclamations and a babble of excited chatter from maids and footmen alike; it was a jo
y to hear bad news that didn’t feature Iyntwood. The strain of the last week was beginning to lift, she thought. There were no more policemen asking nosy questions and insinuating violent and improbable behavior. Visiting servants had mercifully gone, and one could actually move around the servants’ hall without having to say “pardon” all the time. There was an atmosphere of holiday in the air.
As Mrs. Jackson started once again on her instructions to her group, Mr. Hollyoak came into the servants’ dining room. He was drawn up to his full height and was patently upset and offended.
“Well, Mrs. Jackson,” he said, his face quite red with annoyance. “Horrid, nasty little animal! If you could see the state of Lady Booth’s room, dog hair everywhere. Behind the sofa … yes, Mrs. Jackson, behind the sofa, are dog droppings; must have gone there this morning. It’s like having a pig in the house.”
Did Hollyoak mean the pug or Lady Booth? Agnes obviously thought so, because she bent over in a fit of giggles.
“Agnes, stop it at once.” Mr. Hollyoak had had enough. His voice, sharp with irritation, cut across the servants’ hall, and Mrs. Jackson hastily went over to the maid as Agnes gulped down tearful laughter. “The events of the last week have had a disgraceful impact on the discipline in this house.”
“Yes, indeed they have Mr. Hollyoak.” Mrs. Jackson took Agnes by the shoulder and steered her away. “Pull yourself together, Agnes. Now go up to the room and clean behind the sofa; open the windows and spread baking soda on the carpet. Later this evening, dust it up and wash the area with a very dilute solution of vinegar and warm water. Agnes? Agnes? Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Jackson, I am on my way now … baking soda and later diluted vinegar water…” Agnes stuffed her apron in her mouth to stop herself from another bout of hilarity.
Mrs. Jackson turned back to Mr. Hollyoak. He was still fuming.
