by Michael Ford
I took to the servants’ stairs again, up to my room in the attic. Mrs Cotton had thrown off the top sheet on my bed to reveal the rolled-up tablecloth beneath. I’d hoped it would look enough like a sleeping body to fool anyone checking.
Hot tears gathered behind my eyes, but I held them back. God knows I’d cried enough in the past year. No time for crying tonight.
I poured water from the jug and bathed my arm until the bleeding stopped. If she hated me so much, why couldn’t she just let me go? Reliable staff were hard to come by, for sure, but finding someone to do the most menial jobs in the house wouldn’t have taken long. The only conclusion I could reach was that she needed to be cruel to someone, and I filled that role so well.
I wound my father’s watch. Ten turns as always, in remembrance of the man I’d never met. If he’d lived, perhaps things would have been different. My mother wouldn’t have had to come and work at Greave Hall. She wouldn’t have fallen ill. I’d likely never have met Mrs Cotton.
Beneath me, the house went back to sleep as the clock chimed a distant three o’clock. In two and a half hours, a new day would begin. It would be like every other – without hope, without respite. Without my mother.
The bed was damp as wet earth as I slipped between the sheets.
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Chapter 3
I dreamt the same dream as before.
My mother wakes me, calling me down in her lilting voice: ‘Snowdrop, where are you?’ She calls me that because I was born in February, when the snowdrops flower in the Park.
It’s cold in the room, and I climb from the bed stiffly. I check my father’s watch and see that it’s nearly six o’clock already! I pull on my work dress and hurry from the room. The stairs are steeper than usual, so steep that I have to turn towards them and climb down with my hands on each step, like a rock face.
‘Come to me, little Snowdrop,’ calls my mother.
There are tears in my eyes – happy tears. She’s downstairs. Not gone at all. There’s been a mistake. She’s alive!
I reach the first-floor landing, and there are the others: Lizzy, Mr Lock, Rob, even Cook. I don’t stop to wonder why they’re up so early, or why they’re smiling.
‘Go on, then,’ says Lizzy, nodding. ‘She’s in the hall, waiting.’
I round the top of the main staircase and look down. In my dream, it doesn’t matter that these stairs aren’t for servants. In dreams anything is possible, even the dead coming back to life.
The front door is open, and there she is. Mama. She’s wearing a navy bonnet and a dress trimmed with lace. In her hand is a pastel blue parasol. She places it to one side and holds out her arms, beaming. ‘Hello, Snowdrop!’
With a surge of wind at my back, my feet leave the ground. I drift down the stairs, an inch above the steps.
My mother remains outside, still smiling. But as I come closer, the door begins to close. I try to lower my feet to the ground, to run, but I can only brush the carpet with my toes. I land just as the door shuts tight.
I reach for the handle, but it’s not where it should be. The door has no handle at all. I claw at the crack in the frame, shouting, ‘Mama, I’m here! Don’t go!’
Then the hairs on my neck prickle. I want to wake up, but I can’t. And just as I realise there’s no one on the other side of the door, I’m aware that someone else is standing behind me. I turn round.
I woke with my pulse thudding across my chest. Slowly, my eyes adjusted. The leaded frames of the tiny casement window looked like the bars of a prison, and the room seemed smaller than ever. It had once been set aside for sewing and my first memory, aged three or four, was sitting on that window ledge, gazing out over the trees while my mother sat in her rocking chair and sang to me.
My throat was parched. The sun wouldn’t be up for quite some time, and I dressed shivering. I didn’t need to check my watch – I woke at the same time every day without fail.
The scullery was freezing too, as if ice were about to form in the air. I pumped water through into the copper and lit the fire beneath it with a match from the box I kept in my apron.
Then I went from room to room on the ground floor, laying the fires. Mrs Cotton suffered from poor circulation and liked all the fires lit, especially during the winter months. It was a boring daily routine – sifting the cinders, sweeping the ashes, refilling the scuttles and stoking, but these hours of darkness, before anyone else awoke, were my favourite. I could almost imagine that Greave Hall, with its grand rooms and tall ceilings, was my own.
The house awoke slowly around me. Cook was first, grunting a greeting as she splashed water over her face and rubbed the back of her neck. She was a great mountain of an Irishwoman, with a red complexion and untidy grey hair. She carried the scuttle through into the kitchen to light her own fire in the range. Then there were sounds from across the servants’ hall. Mr Lock walked in stiffly, dressed in his crumpled butler’s outfit. I remember my mother saying he was once quite smart, handsome even, but he was in his sixties now and looked ten years older.
The minutes wore on, and a sense of familiar dread built in my stomach. Mrs Cotton would be down soon. There was a housekeeper’s room behind the butler’s, but because she was as much family as staff, she’d taken a room on the first floor. Along with her dead sister’s clothes, she claimed it as a right and Lord Greave, it seemed, had made no objection. ‘He wouldn’t know if a troop of monkeys set up under his roof,’ Rob said.
As I was lighting the sitting room fire Rob emerged, half-dressed and carrying his bedroll, from the china closet where he slept. He had to stoop under the door frame and stopped to button up his shirt.
‘How are you feeling this morning, m’lady?’ he asked, grinning to show the gap between his two front teeth. He had always called me that, though Mrs Cotton didn’t like it.
‘I’m well, thank you, Robert,’ I replied.
He paused and softened his smile, standing uncomfortably as though he expected me to say more – something about the events of the night before. I didn’t.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘I shall give Lancelot his breakfast and see you in time.’
‘Oh, Rob,’ I said, ‘thank you for your help. With the bolt, I mean.’
His brow creased. ‘The bolt?’
‘To the coal store,’ I said. I explained that the housekeeper had wanted to know how I got out.
‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Must have been Cook.’
I returned to the fires, puzzled. Cook had never shown much warmth towards me, and I couldn’t understand why she’d help in such a way.
The next fire to light was His Lordship’s. I was about to leave the sitting room when I heard footsteps on the main stairs. They say birdwatchers can pick out the calls of birds in a forest. Well, after so long in a house you get to know who’s coming by the sound of their feet, and this precise soft rhythm belonged to Mrs Cotton. I stopped behind the door and waited for her to pass, as she always did, through the front hall and into the dining room. There she’d wait until Mr Lock brought her breakfast.
I hurried through the hallway and down to the basement, where I filled a jug with hot water for His Lordship’s morning wash. Mr Lock was too infirm to carry it up the stairs any more, and after several unfortunate spillages the role had gradually fallen to me on three days of the week and Rob on the others. I took the steps carefully – I didn’t want to give Mrs Cotton any more excuses for reprimanding me.
Lord Greave should, as master of the house, have taken a grander bedroom on the floor below, but with the death of his wife Eleanor almost twenty years before, he’d asked for a room to be renovated in the attic space, on the opposite side of the house from Lizzy and me. It was small, nestled up in the eaves, and a small fireplace kept the room snug.
Upstairs, I put the jug down outside His Lordship’s door and gave three knocks.
‘Enter,’ said a cracked voice.
It was dark inside, the thick curtains drawn over the single window, the
air heavy and warm. Lord Greave lay in the centre of his bed, his two pillows propping up a pale face just visible like the moon in an overcast sky.
‘Good day, Susan,’ he said.
‘It’s Abigail, Your Lordship,’ I said, setting down the jug beside his washstand. ‘Susan was my mother. She’s passed on, sir. More than a year ago.’
He rolled his head across the pillow on the stiff hinges of his neck. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could feel them on me.
‘So she did, Abigail,’ he said. ‘So she did.’
Without waiting for further instruction, I made my way to the fireplace. Either Mr Lock or Rob had laid the fire the previous evening, so it was a quick job to get it started. I went to the curtains next and drew one aside. A shaft of pale morning light fell across the floor.
‘No!’ Lord Greave cried out.
He thrashed under his sheets, wailing as though bathed in fire. ‘No! No light! Close it, damn you!’
I pulled the drape, and the room was dark again. I could see his shadowy figure sitting up in bed, like some petrified shrunken goblin. His top half was unclothed and I turned away, ashamed. It wasn’t right for a servant to see her master in such a condition.
‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer, though I could hear his slow breathing.
‘Very good, sir.’ I tiptoed out of the room, glad to close the door behind me.
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Chapter 4
When I reached the scullery again Rob was back inside, his cheeks flushed. Rowena was winding around his feet, her belly hanging low.
‘By God, it’s cold out there,’ said Rob. ‘How’s the master?’
‘Bad,’ I said. ‘He didn’t want any light in the room.’
Cook and Rob shared a look. ‘He’s suffering for the boy,’ said Deirdre. ‘Fading away. If Samuel doesn’t come back safe it’ll be the end of His Lordship, mark my words.’
Two loaves of bread were cooling on the side. I hadn’t eaten since nine o’clock the previous night, and with three hours of work behind me, my stomach was a hard knot. It made a sound like distant thunder.
‘Go on then, will you,’ said Cook. ‘Mrs Cotton’s eating hers and you may not get a chance later. There’s dripping in the pantry.’
I found the dish on the shelves and perched on the bench beside Rob. He cut the bread and I smeared over a layer of the goose fat left from Christmas. We didn’t get much time for meals – it was a case of fitting them in around chores. Mrs Cotton didn’t like to see us eat.
I was finishing my second slice when there was a knock at the downstairs door.
‘That’ll be the coalman,’ said Rob. ‘Tell him we only need a couple of sackfuls to keep us to Monday. And mind he doesn’t wipe his hand on the door frame again.’
Adam was waiting outside, hopping from foot to foot, with his hands in his armpits. His face was almost black with coal dust, which made his eyes seem to glow white. Despite his grubby appearance, he was a ray of sunshine in my life and a reminder that there were others worse off than myself. Both Adam’s parents were dead too, and he’d been plucked from the workhouse by a coal higgler and grocer with the unfortunate name of Crook, to help on his errands. Behind him in the lane was the coal cart and Archer the carthorse, head bowed into his nosebag.
‘Morning, Adam,’ I said.
‘Bloody freezing!’ said Adam, looking past me longingly. ‘What’s it like in the lap o’ luxury, hey?’
‘Well,’ I replied, putting on a posh voice, ‘the caviar jelly we had last night was ruined by the presentation. You know I can’t eat except off a gold-plated spoon.’
We both laughed. ‘We’ll need two hundredweight, please.’
Adam returned to the cart and came back lugging the bags. He lifted the hatch, emptying them in. It seemed odd that only last night I’d crawled through the same way.
A cloud of coal dust rose up around him.
‘Guess where I was yesterday?’ he panted.
Adam claimed to be fourteen like me, but he was still half a head shorter. I took most things he said with a pinch of salt.
I put my hands on my hips and gave him the wryest expression I could muster.
‘Buckingham Palace?’ I said. ‘No, let me guess. The theatre?’
‘Chuckle, chuckle,’ he said. ‘Actually, Miss Tamper,’ he went on, leaning against the door frame until I pushed his black fingers away, ‘I went with the old Mr Crook to –’
‘Enough chatter,’ said Mrs Cotton icily from the door.
That was Adam’s signal to leave. He skipped out of the gate with a cheeky grin and I locked it after him. He was humming a song to himself as he led Archer by the reins. I envied his freedom to come and go as he pleased.
I went out to sweep and scrub the front step at nine. It didn’t matter what happened behind closed doors, but to show a clean step to the world was supposed to mean something. Anyway, with the various postal deliveries or occasional visitors, the steps soon became scuffed.
‘Happy New Year!’ said a voice.
I looked up to see Lizzy standing there with a little case. Elizabeth had come to work in Greave Hall in around 1852. She was three years older than me, seventeen to my fourteen, and had been forced into service when her father was hurt in a factory accident. She had straight brown hair that she pinned up when working, almost black almond-shaped eyes and a kind face. She was a plump girl, with rosy cheeks and a soft way of talking. Her mother was lost long ago to the workhouse, but she had a sister living over the river, with a young baby and a wastrel husband. Though Lizzy never spoke about it, I knew that at least half her wages went to make up for what he drank away.
The sight of her smiling face made me feel ashamed. If things had worked out differently, she would be returning to a house in panic and a note saying goodbye.
‘And a Happy New Year to you,’ I replied, then lowered my voice. ‘Mrs Cotton’s not at home, you’ll be pleased to know.’
Lizzy smiled and held up the case. ‘I’ve got a new hairbrush and two pairs of warm stockings. There’s a comb for you too.’
I stood up and left the scouring brush and cloth to give her a hug.
‘Something happened,’ I said. ‘Last night.’
‘Oh?’ Lizzy said, worry creasing her eyes and looking past me into the house. ‘Is everyone all right?’
‘They’re all fine,’ I said. ‘Rob will tell you, I’m sure.’
I finished the steps on my hands and knees. By the time I was done my fingers were red and aching. I swept the dust and leaves out into the road.
I saw Mrs Cotton approaching from a distance, huddled into her new mink coat. I hurried inside.
The first post arrived at ten. His Lordship hardly sent any letters now, and in the past year the incoming correspondence had dropped off too. Some days we received no post at all. That day there was just one letter, and Mr Lock took it straight up to the attic. Shortly after, he came to Mrs Cotton’s side and asked in a whisper if he could have a word with her in private. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but there was a sense of urgency in his tone that made me turn from my boot polishing. Normally Mr Lock did not speak to Mrs Cotton unless absolutely necessary. I saw in his face a glimmer of excitement. Even the deep, dark pouches beneath his eyes seemed to have lifted.
I looked across at Cook, but she was busy rolling pastry. If she had picked up on the flicker of tension in the air, she concealed it well.
Rob was sent to harness Lancelot, grumbling about His Lordship’s whims. When Mrs Cotton came back below stairs, her movements were more brisk than usual. Lizzy was following in her wake. We were told to gather in the servants’ hall, the open area at the bottom of the main stairs.
‘I have important news,’ said Mrs Cotton. ‘His Lordship has received a communication. From the War Office.’
Samuel. It had to be. I felt suddenly afraid. Had poor Sammy been killed? Cook’s hand covered her open mouth with a whimper; he was a favourit
e with her – and with all of us. The image of Samuel dressed in his uniform on his going-out parade flashed across my mind. God help us if something bad had happened.
‘His Lordship’s son is returning from the Crimea,’ said Mrs Cotton, bringing a sigh of relief from us all, ‘but he’s been wounded. How badly, we’re not sure. Rob is taking His Lordship to the War Office to find out any more details they may have and it’s up to all of us to make preparations for his return. Elizabeth, Abigail – I’ll need you to make sure everything is ready.’
‘He will live though, will he not?’ asked Cook.
She would not normally have dared interrupt Mrs Cotton, but the housekeeper didn’t even turn to look at her. She stared instead at me.
‘We don’t know yet,’ she said, ‘and it’s not our place to speculate. His Lordship requires that you all go about your duties as usual until we have further news.’
As she left up the main stairs, we traipsed into the kitchen. Cook sagged on to her bench.
‘I pray to God he’s all right,’ she said. ‘If he were to die – oh, it would be too much!’
‘For His Lordship too, I reckon,’ said Rob grimly. ‘It’d fair finish him off.’
Mr Lock grunted. ‘Let’s not have such talk, Mr Willmett.’
‘We don’t know that he’s very bad,’ said Lizzy, stroking Cook’s shoulder. ‘Many men come back from fighting and make good lives for themselves. Samuel always was a strong lad, wasn’t he?’
I was silent. Poor Sammy. I suppose I already thought he couldn’t be too bad. They wouldn’t bring him home if he was near death’s door, would they? Despite my anxieties, the thought of having him home brought a smile to my lips. I was staff and he was the master, but he was like a brother to me too – a friend whom I could trust. He’d been called up just about the time my mother fell ill, and afterwards I’d wished so much that he could have been there in those dark days. Now he was coming back, the balance of power in the house might shift again.
