When the footman opened the door, my mistress stepped in with the dust and light of the street. She was even prettier than I recalled. Pink tinged her cheeks as she laughed, echoing the feathers and flowers in her poke bonnet. Her style of beauty would not please all; with her large, dark eyes and voluptuous lips, it was rather full-blown. But her figure was soft and curving, her hair fashionably dark, and she possessed what my Guide to the Toilette called a ‘carnation’ complexion, where neither the rose nor the lily predominates.
She turned to her husband, who followed close behind, and tapped him lightly on the arm with her shut fan.
Sir Arthur’s appearance was more stately: tall with well-shaped calves. His face was square and handsome. His expression tended towards gravity.
Burns moved forwards officiously, ready to divest Lady Rose of her outside things.
‘No, not you,’ she chided, holding up her fan. ‘My Stevens should be here. Where is Stevens?’
With burning cheeks, I crept out from behind the pillar and dropped into my best curtsey. Lady Rose bestowed a smile upon me. It was the first I had received all day.
‘There she is! Charming.’ She addressed her husband as I took her bonnet, gloves and jacket, ‘Did I not tell you she was charming, Artie?’
‘Indeed, I hope you will be happy in our household, Stevens,’ Sir Arthur replied with a benevolent air.
I kept my chin down towards the floor, not only to avoid Burns’s glare, but to conceal my fierce blushes. My own mother had never described me as ‘charming’. With a plain, somewhat fleshy face and mousy hair, I was exactly what a lady’s maid ought to be: unremarkable, designed to blend into the background.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I managed to say.
Lady Rose strode towards the stairs. ‘Come, Stevens, we dallied longer than we intended to; we were so pleasantly detained at the warehouse. You must dress me for dinner.’
I followed, cradling her spencer jacket like a newborn. It was a little dusty from the streets, but that would brush out.
Lady Rose’s suite of rooms was on the second floor of the house. A lighter, airier space I never did see. Without Burns breathing down my neck this time, I was able to appreciate the little decorative touches. All was arrayed in pale lemon, except for the furniture, which was painted white. A dome spread over one wall, draping silk-fringed curtains either side of a Grecian couch bed. Vases full of fresh flowers were dotted here and there.
‘Do you like it?’ she asked. ‘My husband had it all fitted out for me. Is he not a dear? I have never met a man with such exquisite taste.’
‘It is very elegant, indeed, my lady.’
I placed the bonnet on its stand and the gloves on their stretchers. Having cast my eyes over Lady Rose’s gowns, I knew which to recommend for dinner. But before I could list the merits of crimson silk, she seized both of my hands in her own.
‘Oh, Stevens, I am so glad that you are come!’ Her voice dropped an octave, losing some of its polish. ‘Another day with that odious Burns would make me scream. She is my mother-in-law’s creature, you know.’ Releasing me, she dropped onto the stool before the dressing table. One hand swept across the surface, knocking the combs and brushes askew. ‘There! I did that every time she left the room to frustrate her. She was so particular about the arrangement – it must be the very mirror of Mrs Windrop’s! As if I should follow the patterns set by a stuffy old lady.’
I did not hazard a smile. She was winning, girlish, not at all like my previous employers, but half of me feared this was a test. ‘I did attempt to lay out the silver-backed set a little differently, my lady. I thought the hand-mirror should be easier to reach on the right, and that the pin tray could go just there . . .’
Lady Rose propped one elbow on the table and began to twirl the short curls at her forehead. ‘Oh, you may do as you wish with it, Stevens. For my part, I only want these rooms to be a place of refuge. Artie is so very dear, but as for the rest of them, they are quite insufferable.’ She smiled back at me in the glass, artless as a child.
It was reckless of Lady Rose to talk so candidly in my hearing. She could have no conception, beyond our previous short meeting, that I was not every bit as stuffy as the others.
For an occupation, I moved behind the stool and began to unpin her hair. It came down in gentle waves to the small of her back. There was a good weight to it; I should be able to coax it into all manner of styles. Picking up the brush, I continued, ‘If you have not a preference for a dinner dress, my lady, I should recommend the crimson with flounces. As for your hair, may I—’
‘I am going to bathe first,’ she cut in. ‘The streets were hatefully dusty today. You will find the hip bath just next door. But yes, the crimson will look very well. My emeralds will set it off.’
‘Will your hair have time to dry before dinner if we wash it?’ I asked anxiously.
‘No, you are right. Brush it out and pin it up, I will try not to get it wet.’
By the time I had gone to the kitchen, filled pails with steaming water and carried them upstairs to the dressing room, my fingers were slick. They refused to cooperate with the buttons on Lady Rose’s diaphanous muslin dress. The material adhered to her skin where she had perspired, but there was no odour to it – or if there were, it was lost in the fug of steam and the orange blossom mixed in the bath.
‘Oh, this gown is always a torment,’ she sighed, placing her hands on her hips. ‘It is the style, you know. I have heard of ladies being sewn into and cut out of them!’ She laughed and the movement produced an arch in her back. The buttons finally slipped free.
‘Well,’ I said in relief, ‘we shall not need to take the scissors to this fine muslin.’
White and sprigged, it retained the warmth of her. I laid it carefully on the chaise longue. It looked like a girl fallen into a swoon.
Somehow the stays were easier; the laces yielded to my touch without protest. Lady Rose stood before me in only her shift, and she would wear that to bathe.
‘Come and help me in,’ she ordered.
Leaning on my arm, she descended into the water. Her shift bloomed then clung to her legs like a winding sheet as she sat down. When I turned to hand her the wash-ball, two hints of palest pink had appeared where the material stretched over her breasts.
They appeared full and round. About her stomach also, an intimation of ripeness. Might these be the early signs of breeding?
I had served a lady, Mrs Farley, through pregnancy before. There would be gowns to let out and a variety of orders to place. My mind reeled as it considered the responsibilities that would fall upon me.
‘Will you refill my snuffbox while I dine, Stevens? It is in my reticule, upon the bed.’ She paddled her hands in the water, unconscious of my scrutiny.
‘Yes, my lady.’
There was no labour in beautifying Lady Rose; nature lent me a helping hand. But she announced herself delighted when she stood before the cheval mirror and admired the hair I had styled à la Sappho, with a green ribbon threaded through to complement her necklace.
I hoped aloud that Burns would see it.
‘I hope she will choke upon it,’ agreed Lady Rose.
The rooms seemed quiet and forlorn after she had left. They were mine now, to tidy and take pride in, but I felt ghostly in them; something passing through like the stain of breath upon a mirror.
Nothing stirred the bathwater, yet I saw ripples of light, playing upon the ceiling. My pail lay upon the floor. Gently, I picked it up and scooped it through the water. The warmth had faded. Nothing of Lady Rose’s body heat remained, only her scent. I held out my hand, inspected my wet fingertips.
I do not know how long I squatted there. I am not sure at what point I released the pail and let it sink. I only remember the relentless drip, drip as I cupped the water into my hands and let it trickle away.
Then I
stood and removed my clothes.
Nobody could enter through the locked outer door. No footfalls or speech sounded in the corridors. Yet as I slipped one foot into the water, I had the strangest sensation of being watched.
Easing myself down, I closed my eyes and inhaled. Thought how it must feel to be Lady Rose: to have a person to dress you, to pour your baths. She was pleased with me. Called me ‘her’ Stevens. I thought of her eating, showing off her hair to Sir Arthur, asking how he liked it.
But when I opened my eyes, the enchantment melted away. My body, so inferior to that of Lady Rose, hunched beneath greying liquid. I could not understand how I had come to commit so profligate an action.
Rising quickly, I climbed out of the hip bath. My feet squeaked wet upon the floor. Drips trickled down my arms to form pools.
Bundling up the used towels, I scrubbed at my skin with a kind of desperation.
How much time had passed? Suppose I had missed my appointment with the housekeeper? Or if Lady Rose should return to her rooms and find me? I should be in disgrace on my very first day.
Puddles covered the floor, the towels lay in a tangle. My heart beat fast, panicked.
When I drew my clothes back on and tidied my hair, I did not appear to be cleansed by my ablutions.
I had never felt more mired in dirt.
Chapter 6
Looking back, those first weeks seem idyllic, but I know that they were not. Each day began with a tight chest. I passed the hours in a state of happy anxiety, feeling that I held something wonderful, precious and terribly frail in my hands.
For all my delight in my mistress and my new position, there were certainly provocations. Chief amongst them was Mrs Windrop.
Sir Arthur’s mother was only a woman, it is true, but so tall, wide and imposing that she gave the impression of being legion. People called her looks aristocratic. In truth she had an aquiline, predatory nose and a flabby chin.
Sir Arthur was Mrs Windrop’s only child, all she had left in the world, and perhaps that went some way to explain his endless patience with her. But it seemed to me she rode roughshod over both him and his wife.
Despite Sir Arthur’s marriage, his mother retained possession of the housekeeping keys; she kept the accounts, saw to the staff, unlocked the tea caddy and all of the presses, as if Lady Rose simply did not exist. When questioned, she claimed she was merely helping to ease her daughter-in-law into her new role – of course she would pass the responsibilities over when Lady Rose gained more experience.
I expect Sir Arthur believed it, but any woman could see the insult this treatment implied.
One day, early on in my time at Hanover Square, I was disturbed from making Lady Rose’s bed by a repeated banging on the back door. I seldom heard deliveries come and go, particularly as my mistress dedicated her mornings to piano practice, but this barrage lasted so long it forced its way into my notice.
Balling a pillowslip into my hands, I walked out onto the landing and peered over the balustrade. Lady Rose’s piano music floated around the parquet floor and marble columns of the entrance hall like so many butterflies seeking a place to settle. But I could not enjoy it. That knock was an unwelcome percussion, jarring the tune.
‘Where can the footmen have got to?’ I complained, starting down the stairs.
I had not taken four steps before Mrs Windrop threw open the double doors and powered into the hall. I must confess, my courage failed me when I saw the displeasure that galvanised her large frame. Before she could spot me, I ducked down and squatted on the step, hidden behind the balustrade.
‘What is that?’ she demanded. ‘Where are my staff?’
The banging stopped.
Shortly after, two footmen entered the hall from the other direction, carrying boxes. They did not have my luck; there was nowhere to hide and Mrs Windrop seized her prey immediately.
‘What do you mean by letting that fellow beat a tattoo on my door? Is this a household or a drum shop?’
The younger footman tried to retract his head into his collar like a snail. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Windrop, madam, I was moving furniture for one of the housemaids when—’
She cut him off with a motion of the hand. ‘Save your excuses for the butler, boy. I will not have this household appear tardy or backwards to any caller, be they gentleman or tradesperson. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Now, who was it? What have you there?’
‘It is not addressed to —’ the younger footman began, but his companion hurriedly spoke over the top of him.
‘A delivery, madam, from the warehouse of—’
‘The china!’ she exclaimed without waiting for him to finish. ‘It is the new service for our little assembly, of course. They would insist on visiting the warehouse without me. Well, let us see what kind of job they have made of it.’
With the bustle of setting down the boxes and winching them open, I saw my opportunity to escape back upstairs and took it.
I thought little of the incident as I went about my duties. Mrs Windrop had no right to open the boxes, but it was of a piece with the rest of her behaviour. However, just as I sat down with my needle to repair a tear in one of Lady Rose’s petticoats, I was startled by the most terrific scream.
All of the work fell from my lap. I started towards the door, hearing raised voices, but as I began to recover my senses, I realised that the cry had not been one of pain or fear. It was the way Meg would scream, if she caught me wearing one of her gowns without permission.
There were sobs, slammed doors. I took a breath to prepare myself for whatever horror awaited, when the door was flung open and Lady Rose charged into the room.
Tears had stripped the cosmetics from her skin, and the hair I had so carefully arranged was tumbled down her back. Her hands clutched, of all things, a china dinner plate, as though it could preserve her life.
‘Oh, Stevens!’ she cried.
All the conduct books stressed that I should maintain a respectful distance from my employers, avoiding familiarity. But I could never dress and undress a person, brush their hair and wash their face, without contracting some feeling for them. And the eloquence of Lady Rose’s looks would undo even the greatest stickler for propriety. I did not think – I embraced her.
She placed her head upon my shoulder and sobbed.
Gradually, I coaxed her to sit upon the chaise longue and administered her smelling salts. They stemmed the flow of tears, but her bosom still heaved and she breathed with her mouth open, as if she could not get enough air. With a gentle touch, I began to ease the plate from between her rigid fingers.
It was a pretty piece: a white background busily decorated with Prussian blue. The scene appeared Chinese in design. A pagoda surrounded by trees occupied the right-hand side of the plate. To the left was an expanse of water, spanned by a bridge. Three figures stood upon it, seemingly crossing, while a single boat floated beneath. At the top of the circle, before the thick blue border began, two birds flew. Something about it was familiar; I thought perhaps I had seen the design before.
Lady Rose followed my gaze and let her fingers fall slack.
‘Do you . . . like it, Stevens?’ she asked in a small voice.
I took the plate fully into my hands and apprised it anew. It was perhaps a little over-decorated, unlike the simple floral pattern we currently used. The reliance on the colour blue was also striking. It took the eye a second to adjust. ‘I think it very pretty. Has it a name?’
‘The Willow pattern.’ She shuffled along the chaise longue. ‘Here. Sit beside me. I will tell you the story of it.’
I hesitated, but the way Lady Rose spoke to me levelled the distinction of rank. She might be conversing with a sister. I wondered if she had siblings at home. None of them had called upon her in the time I’d worked there. She seemed terribly isolated.<
br />
I brushed my skirts and sat down.
‘Now,’ she began, wiping at her cheeks. Her voice remained hoarse, but she was trying to sound composed. ‘There was once an old rich mandarin whose daughter was exceedingly beautiful. He was a proud man and arranged for her to marry a duke. But his daughter did not love the duke. She loved the humble gardener.’ She pointed at the plate. ‘There are the trees where the lovers met. Here is the wall the mandarin built, to try and keep the gardener out. The wedding was due to take place on the day when the blossom fell from the willow tree. The duke arrived to claim his bride, bearing a large box of jewels.’ She offered me a watery smile. ‘But the daughter would not obey her father. She took the jewels, found her lover and fled. See? On the bridge. She is carrying the jewel box. The gardener has a staff. And there is that horrid mandarin, chasing them with a whip.’
‘They will escape in the boat,’ I guessed, running my fingertip over the design.
Lady Rose sighed. ‘That was the plan, Stevens. But the mandarin’s soldiers caught the lovers, and they killed them.’
I stared at her in horror. She very nearly laughed at the expression on my face.
‘It is not the end of the story, you goose! Look.’ She indicated the birds, flying together at the top. ‘The gods took pity, and transformed the lovers into a pair of beautiful doves. Now they fly together, forever, entirely free.’
There was an air of wistfulness as she said this. I considered the plate and went over the story in my mind. It did not take a great deal of penetration to understand why Lady Rose would be drawn to such a tale. She played the part of the lowly gardener in her own marriage. Mrs Windrop wanted a richer bride for her son, but Sir Arthur, in perhaps the only act of filial disobedience in his life, had followed his heart. I recalled the way Mrs Windrop had stormed into the hall and ordered the footmen about. I did not have to stretch my imagination far to picture her as a mandarin brandishing a whip.
‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘that I may have seen this pattern before. But I did not know it had a name, or a story.’
The House of Whispers Page 5
