“Never be disrespectful of the Princess,” she hissed.
Liza bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out. She closed her eyes until the pain subsided, reminding herself of all she had at stake.
The Baroness rang for a maid and told Liza she would be interviewed by Mrs. Strode next. Liza followed the housemaid through a labyrinth of stairways and halls. Rubbing her sore arm, Liza’s eyes fixed on the maid’s white apron and starched cap.
“Will I have to wear a cap and apron too?” Liza asked.
The maid stopped in surprise. “Of course not. A lady’s maid wears proper street clothes. Ain’t you never been in service before?”
Liza hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “This is my first position.”
The maid glanced sideways at Liza, paying particular attention to her dress and accessories. “You weren’t born to it,” she said flatly.
Liza shook her head ruefully. “My name is Liza.”
“I’m Nell. Don’t worry. If you worship the Princess, you’ll be in good odor with both ‘er and the Baroness.” She wrinkled her nose and laughed at her little joke.
“The Baroness seems very devoted,” Liza offered, cautious of saying the wrong thing.
“Like a dog guarding a whelp. She acts more like Victoria’s mother than the Duchess does.”
They came to a white door with a crystal doorknob. Every great house had a door just like it—separating the gentry from the servants. Nell pulled it open to reveal a narrow, gloomy hallway. The other side of the door was lined with green baize and the doorknob was made of plain gunmetal.
“Why is the door covered with fabric?” Liza asked.
“Muffles the sound from our side, I suppose. And keeps smells in. The family don’t want to smell dinner until it’s on the table.”
Liza stepped through. Without a stairwell in sight, she had gone from above to below stairs. They were back in the round, stone room where Liza had first entered the Palace. Nell opened one of the doors to reveal a stifling, hot kitchen with two large, coal-burning stoves and deep, stone sinks lining the walls. A cook and two scullery maids bustled around cleaning up one meal and preparing the next.
Nell led Liza past a narrow room with a battered, oak table and long, wooden benches. There were no windows.
“The servant’s ‘all, where we eat.” The smell of stale beer and onions reminded Liza she hadn’t eaten anything from the breakfast tray at the hotel. Her stomach twisted with hunger. Claridge’s Hotel had already assumed a dreamlike haziness, as though it were someone else’s life. Nell went on, “Most of the time, you’ll eat upstairs, off a tray.”
“By myself?”
Nell snorted. “You’ll be grateful after you’ve met the others.”
She pointed to another door. “The still room where Mrs. Strode makes ‘er cordials.” She indicated a door at the end of a long corridor. “The butler’s pantry. But you won’t ‘ave much to do with Mr. Jenkins. Fortunately, since ‘e’s usually three sheets to the wind.” She winked. “He keeps the keys to the wine cellar and it’s ‘is job to be sure the wine ‘asn’t gone off—takes a lot of tastin’ that does.”
“Where will I spend my time?” Liza asked.
“Not down ‘ere with us. You’ll be above stairs. You ‘ave to maintain your position.”
“What position?” Liza asked bitterly. “I’m a maid.”
“A lady’s maid,” Nell corrected. “You rank at the very top.”
“There’s rank below stairs?” Liza had never considered the lives of servants once they left her hotel suite.
“Of course there is. I remember the airs Annie Mason put on when Lehzen was ‘Baronessed.’ Everyone had to greet her first in the morning because her position had improved, except for one French maid I won’t name.” Nell’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I do miss Annie.”
Liza touched Nell’s arm to stop her. “The Princess mentioned Annie Mason left suddenly. What happened?”
Nell’s open countenance clouded, “Miss, I don’t ‘old with gossip.”
“Please. If I’m to take her place…”
“Miss, you’re a proper lady,” Nell interrupted. “You won’t make ‘er mistakes.”
They arrived at a plain door and Nell’s relief played across her face. She knocked immediately. “Wait, I’ll tell Mrs. Strode yer ‘ere,” she said as she slipped behind the door, leaving Liza alone in the hall. Liza remembered how she had tried to put Mrs. Strode in her place and her cheeks grew warm. Nell reappeared. “Go in,” she whispered. “‘er bark is worse than ‘er bite.” She gave Liza a little push.
The warmth of the room struck Liza like the heat of an oven. Sitting ensconced in a large wing chair near a coal fire, Mrs. Strode sipped from a cup of tea and looked like the mistress of the house.
“Apparently, Miss Hastings, the Baroness has decided you will suit.” The perfect enunciation of her vowels questioned the soundness of the Baroness’s judgment.
“Yes, Mrs. Strode.”
Eyebrows lifted, Mrs. Strode stared at Liza, tapping her fingers against her teacup. Liza realized she expected a curtsy. Staring straight ahead, eyes wide to keep from focusing on Mrs. Strode’s forbidding face, she bobbed.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Strode said.
Liza sank gratefully into a chair. She slipped her shawl off her shoulders to prevent perspiring in the overheated room.
“Your duties will start tomorrow,” Mrs. Strode said. “You may move your things here tonight. Your room is on the second floor, near the old state apartments. You will be the only person in the wing.” She paused.
“I’ll be alone?”
“If you wish, you could share a room with another servant,” Mrs. Strode said.
“I’d prefer my own room,” Liza replied quickly. So long as she had privacy, that wing of Kensington Palace could be haunted for all she cared.
“Very well. There’s no water closet on that floor, but Nell will supply you with a chamber pot. You’ll bathe in the kitchen with the rest of the female servants every Friday. We have standards at Kensington.”
Liza thought wistfully of the gleaming water closet at Claridge’s.
Mrs. Strode kept talking. “Unless the Princess or the Baroness says otherwise, you are always on duty.”
“Always?” Liza asked. Mrs. Strode’s scowl told her to mind her tongue. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Strode, but, you see, I’ve no experience. I know what my maid at Claridge’s did for me, but I’d be very grateful if you would explain my responsibilities.”
Mrs. Strode stiffened in her chair. “Your maid…at Claridge’s?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A lady, untrained, serving the Princess.” Mrs. Strode fanned herself. “What is the Baroness thinking? Especially after the last one…” She trailed off, dismayed.
Liza’s stomach began to churn; she couldn’t lose the post now. “Mrs. Strode, I’ll work hard and I learn quickly.”
“Until you fail, I don’t suppose I have a choice.” Mrs. Strode sighed. “Do you have something to write with?”
Nodding vigorously, Liza pulled out her notebook from her reticule and began taking notes. Spying Liza’s favorite gold pencil, Mrs. Strode’s face tightened. “The Baroness takes morning tea at eight o’clock. On Mondays, you must be ready to help her with her bath.”
Liza remembered the enormous claw-footed hip baths at Claridge’s. Even there, the poor maids carried heavy pails of steaming water to fill the tubs every morning.
“Do I fill the tub myself?”
“Certainly not. That is the housemaid’s job. I’d never be able to hold my head up amongst the other royal housekeepers if a lady’s maid did such a thing.”
Liza breathed a small sigh of relief and scribbled, “No Pails.”
“You’ll lay out the Baroness’s clothes and assist with her hair.”
Liza and her mother had often whiled away a rainy afternoon dressing each other’s hair. The task would not be onerous— although t
he Baroness’s wiry gray loops were a far cry from her mother’s golden curls.
“The Baroness will instruct you regarding your duties with the Princess.” She tapped the claw arm of her chair. “You will have one afternoon off each month.”
“Per month!” Liza cried, certain she had misheard.
“Per month, and I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me again,” Mrs. Strode said, frowning.
Slavery was abolished in ‘33!
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” Liza mumbled. “I am only surprised to learn servants have so little freedom.”
Mrs. Strode harrumphed. “In my experience, the more liberties you give a servant, the more they take. You will have free time when you are not needed by the Baroness or the Princess. I expect you to occupy yourself decently by reading the Bible or suitable poetry—Coleridge or Wordsworth.”
Liza’s mischievous sense of humor surfaced despite her best intentions, “What about Byron?”
“That reprobate! Certainly not. If you must read something modern, you may read Miss Austen’s novels.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” Liza forced herself to say. “I’ll do exactly as you say.”
“Finally, you’ll be paid twenty-three pounds per annum, paid quarterly,” the housekeeper concluded.
Papa gave me more than that for my dress allowance!
Though Liza was learning not to complain openly, her face was not so disciplined.
“You could do far worse, Miss Hastings.” From her expression, Mrs. Strode clearly thought Kensington Palace was getting the sharp end of the bargain.
Liza calculated quickly. At that rate it would take more than two years to pay her account at Claridge’s. Her things would be sold long before then. She began negotiating in earnest.
“It might be the usual wage for a maid, Mrs. Strode. But I think my situation warrants more.”
With a bark of laughter, Mrs. Strode said, “Pray tell?”
“Victoria…”
“The Princess or Her Highness, and don’t you forget it.”
Darting her tongue over her dry lips, Liza began again. “The Princess insisted I be hired. She is sympathetic to my personal tragedy. And my education and experience offer the Princess more than a typical maid ever could.”
Mrs. Strode’s face was impassive. She stood up abruptly. “Wait here,” she said and left the room. Liza didn’t know if that were a good sign or not. For all she knew, the housekeeper might return with that stout footman to throw Liza out for impertinence. She felt suddenly overheated and edged her chair away from the fire.
Mrs. Strode returned as brusquely as she had left. “I’ve spoken with the Baroness. Against my advice, she has authorized thirty pounds.”
Liza opened her mouth, to be interrupted by Mrs. Strode.
“Miss Hastings, I don’t know why the Baroness is offering you this outrageous wage.” She paused. “But I will not tolerate any more negotiation.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Liza said with a small smile. It was a start.
“Miss Hastings, you will be entrusted with a national treasure. Princess Victoria will someday be our Queen. Take excellent care of her.”
“Of course, Mrs. Strode,” Liza assured her. There was a gentle knock at the door. It was Nell calling Mrs. Strode to dinner. “Miss Hastings, you’ll join us. On Sundays, all the servants eat together. Since you will rarely see the other domestics, it will be useful to introduce you to everyone at the same time.”
“It’s only three o’clock,” Liza said, glancing at the crystal clock on the side table. Nevertheless, her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
“Naturally. Servants in a great house have to eat several hours before our employers. Otherwise, who will prepare the meal and wait at table?”
Liza had never once considered it. During those thousands of intimate hours with maids over the years, as they had dressed her, bathed her, and ministered to her every need, Liza had never once asked about their lives below stairs. Flushed with shame, Liza followed Mrs. Strode to the dining room.
The sounds of a dozen noisy people in an enclosed room struck Liza’s ears like a hammer. The men sat at one end, the women at the other. A tall man in black with a red, bulbous nose punctuating his long face, stood at the table’s head.
This must be Mr. Jenkins, the drunken butler.
All the chatter stopped as Mrs. Strode sailed into the room, her chatelaine jangling at her waist. The servants craned their necks to get a better look at the newcomer.
Mrs. Strode went to the far end of the table. She gestured to Liza, who smiled brightly. “This is Miss Elizabeth Hastings. She will be serving the Baroness and Princess Victoria.”
Liza’s smile faded before the curious stares. The men were looking at her face while the women were openly envious of her dress. She recognized the footman in green livery who admitted her into the Palace. He stared at her and boldly smiled at her discomfiture. Nell waved. One of the parlor maids giggled, only to be hushed by her neighbors.
“Mademoiselle Blanche, please move down a seat for Miss Hastings,” said Mrs. Strode. She addressed a superior-looking woman arguing in a lisping whisper with her neighbor. Like Liza, she wore street clothing, not a uniform. Another lady’s maid then, Liza decided. Perhaps she served the Duchess.
“She sits below me,” Mademoiselle Blanche answered in a French accent, with a shake of her jet black curls. “I outrank her.”
Mr. Jenkins cleared his nose with a honk. “Mrs. Strode, I don’t want to presume, but Mademoiselle Blanche’s mistress is a Duchess while Miss Hastings will only serve a Baroness.”
“Exactement,” said Mademoiselle Blanche with a nod. “I serve the Duchess not une baronne fausse.” Everyone looked blank. “A fake Baroness.”
Liza frowned, trying to place Mademoiselle’s accent.
“You forget, Mr. Jenkins, Miss Hastings will also serve the Princess, the future Queen.” Mrs. Strode’s nostrils flared and splotches of bright pink appeared on her round cheeks. “She sits higher than Mademoiselle Blanche.”
“Non! Je refuse.” Mademoiselle Blanche did not budge. She stared defiantly at the housekeeper, her nostrils flaring.
“I don’t care where I sit,” Liza said. She pulled out the chair below Mademoiselle Blanche’s and sat down decisively. “What does it matter?”
The hostile expressions on everyone’s face told Liza she had blundered.
“Miss Hastings, in the future, do not presume to substitute your judgment for mine,” said Mrs. Strode. “Since Miss Hastings is already seated, we will discuss it another time.”
Mademoiselle Blanche smiled triumphantly.
Eating alone might not be such a burden.
The door swung open and a scruffy kitchen boy strode in carrying a roast on an enormous platter. He placed it in front of Mrs. Strode, and handed her a carving knife and fork. Everyone watched reverently as she reduced the roast to thick slices, then the kitchen boy served everyone as though they were royalty.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Strode, is there any chicken?” Liza said. “Beef tends to give me indigestion.”
Everyone at the table burst out laughing and the now familiar, forbidding look on Mrs. Strode’s face gave Liza her answer. Mutely, she held out her plate and accepted a slice of roast beef.
Liza let the conversation flow over her head as she avoided bits of congealed fat floating in the meat’s juices and wolfed down the overcooked cauliflower and stewed spinach. She looked up, startled, when she heard her name.
“Miss Hastings’s belongings need to be collected, Mr. Jenkins,” said Mrs. Strode.
Mr. Jenkins nodded. “I’ll send Simon.”
Simon turned out to be the handsome footman in green livery. He nodded to her, his mouth stuffed full of beef.
“I’ve only one trunk,” Liza gritted her teeth to keep her jaw from trembling. “My other things are in storage.” She prayed Mr. Arbuthnot would honor their agreement. “Should I accompany him?”
More tittering
, instantly quelled by Mrs. Strode’s glare. “Of course not! That would be unsuitable, Miss Hastings. Simon is perfectly capable of picking up another servant’s trunk without your assistance.”
Liza stared down at her plate, fingering her locket. Mama and Papa would be mortified to see her so humbled.
“What is the direction, Miss?” Simon asked, flashing her a glimpse of bright white teeth in a reassuring smile.
“Claridge’s Hotel in Mayfair,” Liza said.
There was a murmur at the name of the prestigious hotel.
With an avidity that Liza found distasteful, Mr. Jenkins asked, “With whom were you in service?”
“Pardon me?” Liza asked.
Mrs. Strode answered for Liza, “Miss Hastings was a guest at the hotel.”
Each diner’s fork stopped in midair as everyone stared at Liza.
Mademoiselle Blanche said to the table at large, “That explains her wardrobe.” She leaned toward Liza and shamelessly inspected her jewelry. “Unless she learns to dress like what she is, she’ll be on the street more quickly than the last one.”
Liza’s hand went protectively to her necklace.
Mr. Jenkins started to laugh, which turned into a fit of coughing when Mrs. Strode raised her eyebrows. “The Duchess will not countenance a maid dressing more fashionably than she,” Mr. Jenkins said when he recovered.
“I’m in mourning,” Liza protested. “I don’t have many other clothes.”
Mrs. Strode shrugged. “Make do. In time the Baroness will give you her old dresses. Once you’ve removed any frills which mark the dress as a lady’s, you may wear them.” She stared disapprovingly at the lace of Liza’s dress.
“But I can’t wear her clothes, she’s much too tall,” Liza blurted out.
Mademoiselle Blanche sniffed. “You alter them for yourself or sell them. It is a perquisite of the position. You will also get the Princess’s clothes. Her clothes are beautifully made, even if they are not à la mode.” She sounded envious.
Her curiosity about the Princess’s oddly immature dress getting the better of her, Liza asked, “Why doesn’t the Princess dress more suitably for her age?” The servants exchanged knowing looks.
“The Duchess feels the Princess is too young to follow fashion,” Mrs. Strode said.
Prisoners in the Palace Page 3
