The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Sweeping back her windswept hair, Mary stepped confidently into the kitchen, pushing past the fat Frenchman. ‘My name is Mary Mercer, and I am the new third housemaid at Blackfriars. Where will I find Mrs Cuff?’

  Monsieur Bastion grunted an incomprehensible reply and raised his hands in disgust.

  ‘I’ll take you to her,’ said a diminutive girl wearing the full black and white uniform of a domestic servant. She approached Mary and smiled. ‘My name’s Clara. I’m second housemaid here. Mrs Cuff said I was to show you the ropes.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Mary Mercer.’

  Clara smiled. ‘Follow me and I’ll take you to our bedroom.’

  Mary received a reproving scowl from Monsieur Bastion as she followed Clara out of the kitchen. She led Mary along the narrow dimly-lit corridor until they reached a flight of wooden stairs.

  ‘They go on for an eternity,’ Clara said with a small giggle. ‘Prepare yourself—there are ninety-six of them—I counted once.’

  Each time the steps levelled out, Mary tried to get her bearings, but failed before they were off again. Finally, when the stairs terminated at a roof pitch so steep that she had to duck down to enter the corridor, Mary realised that they were in the attic and had entirely bypassed the main sections of the house.

  ‘This is where the female staff sleep,’ Clara explained. ‘This one’s ours,’ she said, pointing to the second door of eight along the corridor. Clara led them into a room which reminded Mary of her own bedroom. Two single beds, set and perfectly made, dominated the small room. Between the two beds were a pair of wooden bedside tables. A thin wardrobe next to the door completed the room. Clara must have noticed the look on Mary’s face. ‘It’s a bit bare but it’s comfortable enough.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ Mary said, setting down her case. ‘Which bed’s mine?’

  Clara pointed to the bed which Mary had hoped would not be hers; it was the furthest from the fire and underneath the window. Mary lay her suitcase on the bed and popped open the brass clasps. ‘Want to help me unpack?’

  Clara winced apologetically. ‘No time, I’m afraid. We need to be downstairs to start work at six-thirty sharp.’

  Mary nodded and reluctantly closed her case. ‘Maybe this afternoon?’

  ‘We don’t finish until nine o’clock. I’ll help you with it then.’ Clara smiled again. ‘We should probably head downstairs now.’

  Mary stood aside to allow Clara past and took a quick look back at her new room. To all intents and purposes, this was her new home. Not exactly what she had dreamt of, but at least she was now living at Blackfriars—under the same roof as Cecil Mansfield, Earl of Rothborne.

  ‘Come on, or you’ll get us both into trouble with Mrs Cuff,’ Clara called from the corridor.

  ‘Coming,’ Mary answered. Mary followed Clara back down the ninety-six wooden steps into the innards of the house. In her naïve stupidity, Mary had assumed that the servants had full use of the main house, that she would be using the grand central staircase to get to her bedroom, which would be on the same floor as the ladies of the house. How wrong she had been.

  Clara stopped at a closed door along the corridor which led to the kitchen and softly tapped a finger on the brass plate which said ‘Housekeeper.’ Moments later, Mrs Cuff pulled open the door. ‘Hello, Mary. Welcome to Blackfriars. Come in.’

  Mary watched Clara intently, mimicking her pose by standing, hands held together behind her back, with a slight deferential bow of the head. The two girls stood silently as Mrs Cuff opened a tall mahogany cupboard and retrieved a full set of uniform, which she handed over to Mary with a smile. ‘Here you go, now you’re a fully paid up third housemaid!’ Mrs Cuff closed the cupboard and, turning to face Clara, said, ‘Take Mary to change then you need to get a move on with your duties, ladies.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Cuff,’ Clara said, bowing her head and leading Mary back out into the corridor.

  Clara moved closer to Mary and whispered. ‘She’s nice, just don’t get on the wrong side of her.’ Clara pushed open a door opposite. ‘Go and change in there—it’s an inside female toilet—bet you’ve never seen one of those before! I’ll wait here. But be quick—we start duties in four minutes.’

  Mary hurried inside and changed into her uniform. A tiny hand-mirror rested on the side of the sink. Mary held it up and was shocked to see what she looked like in uniform. Her mother’s words came flooding into her mind. Once you put that uniform on, you belong to them. They’ll take everything from you until you’ve nothing left to give, then they’ll send you to the Rye workhouse where you’ll wait for humiliation and shame to take you to a pauper’s grave. Her heart began to pound in her chest as she saw her mother’s and grandmother’s hoary, exhausted reflections staring back at her. ‘I can’t do this,’ Mary uttered to her reflection. ‘I can’t do this. I won’t end my days in an unmarked pauper’s grave, nobody knowing or caring about me. I won’t do it.’

  Mary took a deep breath, set down the hand-mirror and began to pull off her uniform. Now I don’t belong to anyone! she thought, as the black dress tumbled to her ankles. I belong to me and to nobody else. She was just in the process of removing the ties from her hair when the door crept open.

  ‘You nearly done, Miss Mercer?’ Clara said playfully, before she spotted that Mary was half-naked, her uniform cast aside on the stone floor. Clara hurried inside the toilet and closed the door. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Going home. There’s been a terrible mistake. This job was my sister, Edie’s. She’s spent her life training to be a housemaid. She could do it standing on her head. It’s like my father said, I can’t even make my own bed,’ Mary said breathlessly. ‘I’ll run home. Edie can be here in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Stop!’ Clara shouted, grabbing Mary by the arm. ‘It’s too late to change your mind: you’re one of us now.’ Clara’s demeanour changed and Mary could see anger in her pale blue eyes. ‘Get dressed now, or I’m going to get into serious trouble if I’m not sweeping the drawing room floor in two minutes’ time. You’re not leaving here unless you’re in full uniform, ready to work.’ Clara turned sharply and left the room.

  Through gritted teeth and watery eyes, Mary bent down and pulled on her uniform.

  Five minutes later, the girls were in the drawing room, diligently sweeping up every morsel of dust. Mary silently observed and copied Clara’s actions, trying to ignore the heavy doubts that weighed on her mind about taking Edie’s prized job. Once swept, Clara showed Mary how to dust furniture and ornaments and how to wash the oak panelling. When the room was complete, Mary rested her elbow on her broom and sighed. ‘Can I get a quick glass of water, please?’

  Clara emitted a half-mocking laugh. ‘No. Now we do the same to the dining room, the front hall, followed by the sitting room, the saloon and finally the smoking room.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Today and every day. It’s also the duty of the third housemaid to clean the fire grates in each of those rooms and to light and maintain a fire. I’ll help you this week, but next week you’re by yourself. Let’s get a move on—we need to have all of that complete by half-past eight breakfast.’

  Mary stared at Clara incredulously. It would take her a month of Sundays to sweep and dust all of those rooms. To have them completed by breakfast was plainly absurd.

  ‘Come on,’ Clara called. ‘Put your back into it.’

  When the breakfast bell finally sounded and the girls headed to the servants’ hall, Mary sank back into her chair, closed her eyes and groaned. She was seated at the end of a long wooden table. Her seat at the far end, reflecting her position in the household staff, did not go unnoticed by Mary, or indeed some of the other servants seated at a higher position. At the head of the table were Mrs Cuff and Mr Risler, the butler. As she moved her eyes down the line of servants, Mary spotted her cousin, Edward, smiling in her direction. To his right, two men were staring at her and laughing. Edward elbowed his immediate neighbour and s
aid something to them which made them pull mock-dejected faces. Mary briefly returned Edward’s smile, then turned to Clara, seated beside her.

  ‘Can I get myself a drink now?’ Mary asked.

  Clara cast a quick uncertain look along the length of the table then shook her head. ‘You have to wait to be served. Eliza, the upper housemaid, will serve us tea or coffee, while the butler, Mr Risler, carves the cold meat. Sit patiently. And don’t talk so loudly; it’s not the Blackfriars way.’

  Mary matched the deportment and posture of the other maids, her back up straight and head held high, and waited to be served.

  Once the tea, coffee and cold ham had been served to the table of almost twenty-five servants, quiet, discreet conversations occurred between seated neighbours. Mary realised that however much she might like to converse with her cousin, it would be considered entirely inappropriate. Not the Blackfriars way, she thought.

  ‘Why must we speak so quietly?’ Mary asked a young girl opposite her, wearing a white uniform with a mobcap on her head.

  ‘So we don’t disturb the family,’ the girl said, as if she were answering the most obvious question in the world.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Joan,’ came the short reply.

  ‘And what’s the nature of your slavery?’

  Clara and Eliza’s soft conversation stopped and they looked curiously between Joan and Mary.

  ‘What?’ Joan said.

  Mary fully understood the look from Clara and Eliza. It was not the Blackfriars way to be talking in this manner. ‘What is your job here?’ Mary rephrased. Clara and Eliza turned back to each other and continued talking.

  ‘Scullery maid.’ She lowered her voice so that it was barely audible to Mary. ‘Lowest of the low, that’s why I’m down here with you. Welcome to the bottom of the pile.’

  Mary looked uncomfortably along the table at the line of domestic servants, convinced that she had made a catastrophic mistake in accepting the third housemaid’s job. If only I had just gone home this morning, Mary thought. If only I hadn’t been so bloody stupid and gone off exploring Blackfriars while Edie had had her interview.

  Mr Risler, a lank man with black greasy hair, walked behind the line of servants opposite Mary, forking out extra pieces of ham, making polite conversation as he went. ‘Some of my meat, ladies?’ he asked with a smirk when he reached Mary and Joan.

  Joan shook her head vehemently. ‘No thank you, Mr Risler.’

  Without looking up, Mary could feel the penetrating stare of the butler.

  ‘And you, Miss?’

  Mary met his eyes. ‘No thank you, Mr Risler.’

  Mr Risler licked his lips. ‘Pity,’ he said, walking behind Mary to begin the line of servants on her side of the table. ‘Nice to see a new addition to the virgins’ wing,’ he muttered, barely audibly, before moving on to Clara and Eliza.

  Mary shot a glance at Joan, who quickly lowered her eyes. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means he’s a bit of a letch and someone to keep at arm’s length,’ Joan mumbled.

  For the duration of breakfast, Mary tried in vain to talk with anyone other than Joan, the curt and rude scullery maid opposite her. However, distinct hierarchical lines sliced the table into conversation pockets, most of which excluded Mary. She was actually relieved when breakfast was formally declared over.

  ‘Now what?’ Mary asked Clara, as they proceeded from the servants’ hall in the order at which they had been seated.

  ‘Female servants’ quarters followed by the male servants’ quarters.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘We make the beds, replenish the candles, dust then sweep the floors.’

  Mary swallowed back her exasperation and silently followed Clara up the ninety-six stairs to the female servants’ rooms. The daily harsh reality of the role of the third housemaid at Blackfriars was slowly becoming clear to her. She recalled, with sufficient embarrassment to flush her cheeks, her behaviour in the library with Edward and the informality with which she had addressed Lady Rothborne. She was very fortunate that Lady Rothborne had humoured her and even offered her a job.

  At the top of the stairs, Clara opened the first door to reveal a small cupboard stocked with a host of cleaning items, bedding and candles. Reaching inside, she pulled out two soft-headed, hair brooms and passed one to Mary. ‘It’s your duty to dust and sweep and to clean and stock the fire grate. It’s my job to do the bed linen and candles. You start in our room, I’ll start in Eliza and Sarah’s.’

  Mary pushed the door shut and stared at her bed, sorely tempted to bury herself under the blankets and forget that she had ever agreed to this awful job. She wandered over to the window and looked outside, barely able to take in the brightness of the morning. It had felt like days since the sun had bothered to rise, having capitulated to the gloomy winds and heavy snow that had poured across the channel for days on end. The concrete-grey clouds had vanished, leaving a beautiful turquoise sky. Even the beading of snow which ran along the window pane was now beginning to thaw. From the corner of her eye, something moved. Mary shifted her focus and saw an elegant female form in a crimson dress walking through the rose gardens. It only took a split-second for Mary to identify her as Lady Philadelphia. From her meandering and unhurried gait, she guessed that she was taking some gentle exercise and fresh air. Mary stared at her, transfixed, feeling as incongruous as a caged animal at London Zoo. I don’t belong here, she lamented. At least not like this, sweeping and cleaning; I belong down there, in a beautiful silk dress, enjoying a walk in the winter sunshine.

  Behind her, the door creaked open. It was Clara. ‘Are you nearly done here?’

  The reality of her new life suddenly returned to Mary: she was nothing more than a housemaid. A third housemaid at that. The bottom of the pile. ‘Not quite. Sorry.’ Mary could tell that Clara was annoyed.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll give you a hand. I remember my first day here, I think I was next to useless,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll try and be as patient as Eliza was to me. Then in two years’ time, you can show the new third housemaid the ropes. Just remember how you’re feeling today.’

  Mary was sure that, for as long as she lived, she wouldn’t forget today. The very idea of doing this job, day in, day out for another two years horrified her. There had to be an alternative, she thought.

  Working together, it took the girls ten minutes to finish their room before moving on to the other six female bedrooms. Once completed, it was time to move onto the male servants’ quarters. Mary was intrigued to learn the location of their rooms and to catch a glimpse of her cousin’s bedroom. Unexpectedly, she was led back down the ninety-six steps, along the gloomy corridor to another door.

  ‘Don’t ask me how it is, but there are ninety-eight steps up to the boys’ rooms,’ Clara said with a little laugh. ‘And I’ve triple-checked.’

  At the top, an exhausted Mary realised that they were, in effect, on the same corridor as the female servants’ quarters; the hallway having been permanently bricked up to segregate the sexes, which seemed entirely over the top. ‘God, if they knocked that thing down,’ Mary said, indicating the brick divide, ‘we’d have less clambering up and down stairs to do.’

  Clara laughed. ‘We’d be horsewhipped if we were found within a mile of the boys’ rooms when they’re there.’

  Banging her fist on the wall, Mary said, ‘But we are within a mile—our room is just the other side of here! Let me guess, it’s not the Blackfriars’ way?’

  ‘Come on, stop chatting, let’s get on. It’s basically the same as our rooms’, dust, sweep—’

  Mary interjected, ‘Clean the grates, make up the fires, check the candles.’

  Clara grinned. ‘You’ve got it.’

  Just as Mary was about to enter the first room, a thought entered her head. ‘Which room is my cousin Edward’s?’

  ‘That one,’ Clara said, pointing to the third room along the corridor. ‘
Usually the most untidy one.’

  ‘Must run in the family.’ Mary smiled and began to rush through the cleaning of the first bedroom so that she could move on to his. She had been taken by surprise when he had touched her in the library yesterday; a twinge of feeling had stirred inside her that she had not been aware of before. But no! Edie was sweet on him and, for all she knew, he was sweet on her, too.

  Mary hastily threw the broom around the floor, dusted only the areas which were visible and restocked the fire without first emptying or cleaning the grate. Quietly, she pulled open the door and crept along the corridor to Edward’s bedroom. From the second bedroom she could hear Clara softly singing to herself. Mary cautiously tugged open the bedroom door, as if she were unsure of what might lie behind it. However, Edward’s room was nigh on identical to all the other servants’ bedrooms. Angular shafts of sunlight streamed in through the small window, situated between two single beds. Mary looked at them, wondering which one belonged to him. She spotted some postcards and pictures to the sides of both beds. Carefully casting her eyes over the images, Mary soon identified which bed belonged to Edward. Dominating the pictures of various female music hall stars, was a photograph taken at Caroline’s wedding of Mary, Edie and Caroline standing outside St Thomas’s, shortly after the ceremony had taken place; it was one of her favourite photographs of the three of them and was widely distributed among the family after the wedding. Mary looked long and hard at the picture, tracing her finger over the sepia outline of Edie’s face, wondering when her twin might forgive her. If she might forgive her.

  Mary sighed and slowly lowered her face to the indentation in the pillow left by Edward’s head. She inhaled, gradually drawing Edward’s scent through her nose and into her waiting lungs. The same stirring feeling that she had felt yesterday reappeared in her stomach.

  Though she knew that she shouldn’t, she carefully opened his bedside table. Without disturbing the contents, she could see a stack of letters. Mary recognised the handwriting: Edie’s. It appeared from the quantity of letters that she had taken quite a fancy to Edward a long time ago. Did Edie have a similar stack from him in her bedside table? Mary wondered. Edie had certainly been more guarded and private in recent months. Was Edward the source of her distraction?