by Leah Scheier
Our driver halted a few feet from Porter’s door. My soused companion roused himself, swore briefly, and stumbled from the hansom. I moved to follow him, but he waved me back into the cab and instructed me to wait until Mr. Cartwright signaled to me. Then he vanished down the street, and I settled back to watch patiently for my summons.
The signal came after Mr. Porter’s exit from the flat. Barely a quarter of an hour after my arrival, Porter hurried out his door and hailed a passing hansom. As he stepped into the carriage, the window shutters opened, and Cartwright peered down at me through the gap. I waved at him and jumped out of the cab.
He was hovering by the doorway when I came in, and, as I extended one hand to him in greeting, he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled my glove off with his fingers.
“White leather!” he thundered before I could say a word. “And this season’s lavender chiffon? Are you posing as the richest scullery maid in England?”
“But these are the oldest clothes I’ve got.”
He sighed and tugged briskly at the bellpull. “Janet,” he told the little maid when she appeared, “please bring Miss Joyce something unattractive to wear at once.”
The girl ran off without a word and returned immediately, bearing a faded Worthing dress, which she laid reverently at my feet. She gave me an apologetic curtsy and then vanished as I tried to thank her.
“You may dress quickly in the spare room there, Miss Joyce,” Cartwright muttered and turned away from me.
There was a weird tension in the air around him, an unnatural electricity that I could not understand. He had not smiled once since I had come; he had barely met my eye. I was glad for the excuse to get away, and I slipped gratefully into the empty chamber to change my costume.
As I struggled with the row of buttons and the ragged bows around my wrists, I examined my new form before the mirror, frowning at the shapeless sleeves, the high, pinched collar, and the lumpy skirt. The bodice was cut for a bulkier girl, and I used the opportunity to loosen the stays and lacing of my corset. I took a shallow breath, relaxed my ribs, stretched out my back, and exhaled happily, enjoying my unexpected freedom. I looked terrible in the cast-off dress, like a sagging gift box wrapped in tattered ribbons, but I did not care. It felt so wonderful to breathe again.
When I re-entered the sitting room, Peter Cartwright was pacing by the window, chewing alternately on a cinnamon pastry and his thumbnail. The tension in his face had not eased at all; he appeared more distant and uncomfortable than before. I curtsied casually, but he stared helplessly at me without responding to my smile; even when I lisped out, “Well, Your Lordship?” he did not move.
This was not the careless boy I knew; he seemed so awkward now, so raw and restless. I wanted to call out to him, to bring him back, to shake him, to be bold and silly so that he might mock me one more time. This creeping quiet troubled me, not just because it was unnatural for him but also because I was beginning to suspect that I was actually the cause of it. Was he doubting my abilities? I wondered suddenly. Was he was going to change his mind and send me home?
I had to act immediately. I had to say something, anything; I had to show him what I could do, now, before he spoke and it was over.
If the driver had not entered at that moment, I might have lost my chance. But as Cartwright reached past me to grab my suitcase, I darted forward and pulled it from him, stumbling toward the startled cabbie in my eagerness. This young coachman would be the first witness to my disguise, I decided quickly, and my final chance to prove myself.
I smiled shyly at the cabbie as he reached out for my valise and allowed our fingertips to touch briefly before drawing my hand away with a little blush. The young man seemed startled by my gesture and slightly pleased, and I held his look, my confidence growing as his color deepened.
“You will help me at the station, sir?” I murmured sweetly to him. “I’ve never been out of the city before, and I’m terrible scared of gettin’ lost.”
From beneath lowered eyelids, I watched him stammer and wag his head, his lips hanging open, his fingers playing nervously with his lapel. “O’ course, miss, o’ course,” he said.
“I’ll see ye onto your train myself, ye needn’t worry…”
“That will be all, sir!” Peter Cartwright cut in, sharply. “You may wait for her downstairs.”
The coachman shrank back into his overcoat, muttering his apologies. He gave me a final timid glance, grabbed my suitcase, and scurried out the door. After the man had gone, I turned confidently to my companion and waited for his reaction. He had asked me earlier if I could act the part, and I had just proven that I could. And yet there was no satisfaction or approval in his eyes. In truth, he seemed rather shocked and not particularly impressed. There was a rising color in his cheeks, and his lips played nervously with each other. He raised his head slowly and looked at me, his features drawn and wary, his hands clenched together behind his back.
“What was that, please?” he muttered between his teeth.
“I—was trying out my character,” I faltered. “Was it not convincing?”
“Convincing? The fluttering eyelids, the perfect helplessness—the pouting lips?” He paused suddenly and cleared his throat. “Yes, it was quite a show.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you liked it. May I go then?” One of my hands was already on the doorknob.
He moved to stand in front of me and placed his palm upon the handle, his fingers came to rest beside my own.
“Wait a moment, please, Miss Joyce. There is something I must say to you.”
His voice was low and troubled, his head was bowed, his hand shifted slightly back to cover mine. He was standing very close to me; I could feel his shallow breath warm against my skin.
“I can see you’re worried about sending me to Hartfield,” I began. “But I promise that you won’t regret it. I know that I can help you solve this case…” I paused, uncertain, swallowing the ending in my confusion.
“What are you talking about?” he shot out irritably. “I wasn’t thinking about the case! I am only thinking about—” He stopped suddenly, undecided, and exhaled slowly.
“You have to promise me—” He continued in a softer voice. “You have to promise to be more cautious. I’ve seen how innocent and thoughtless you can be.” I started to turn away, but he grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “Wait, Dora, I’m begging you, just this once listen to me—please.” He was looking directly at me now, his skin deepening to a dark, unhappy scarlet. “You’ve been so sheltered from the world; perhaps you’ll think that I am simply trying to frighten you. I may not be much older than you, Dora, but I have seen some things, some men—brutal, vicious men, who will think nothing of—” He paused again and shook his head. There was an uncertain, wandering expression in his eyes, like a child waking from a bad dream.
“Please,” I whispered to him and moved to draw my hand away, for his grip had tightened suddenly, and my fingers had gone cold. “Please, Peter, let me go.”
His hand slipped suddenly from mine. I pulled my throbbing wrist away and leaned my back against the door. Three livid fingerprints stood out in red upon my skin, and we both stared at the marks in silence for a moment.
“Dora, wait, I’m sorry—”
But I had already turned away, throwing off the arm which he’d extended, as I hurried past him to the street.
I FOUND A DRIVER waiting for me at the train station. He threw my little suitcase on the back of his dogcart, jerked his thumb at the space next to my bag, and climbed up into his seat without a word. I jumped on, and he flicked the reins and we were off.
On the way to Hartfield Hall we passed several small tenant farms that belonged to the estate. Sheffield Green, Whitelands, and Donnanfield were just a few of the villages that paid the earl to live on and work his lands. Besides his investments, the farmers were Lord Hartfield’s chief income source, so he acted as both their landlord and their manager. They looked like charming little homesteads, nes
tled between acres of rolling pasture, with the spire of a chapel poking out behind the hills.
By the time my hired dogcart had reached the edge of the estate, the mist had lifted, and I was able to view the great house in all of its grandeur. We approached the south side of the sixteenth-century mansion via a paved drive bordered by tall elms. Around us stretched acres of perfectly manicured lawn and a garden ornamented with ivory statues of Roman gods in heroic poses. Two steeple towers connected by a pillared, ivy-covered stone mansion comprised the main part of the Hall. We passed through an arched gateway and pulled up to the tradesmen’s entrance.
A young urchin ran to take the horse’s harness and was promptly warned off by the stable boy. The little fellow took a cuffing from his superior and moved to the back of the cart, where only I could see him. He touched his hand to the brim of his dusty cap, winked broadly at me, and disappeared. This, I gathered, was little Perkins, the boy who would be my messenger.
I was escorted to the servants’ hall by the butler, a tall, taciturn man with a red snub nose, who eyed me with distaste. I caught only a glimpse of the winding oak staircase and the crimson and golden dining room beyond before I was hurried by the back passage to the basement and placed in the housekeeper’s charge.
Mrs. Bentney looked me over with a critical eye, and her greeting consisted of a sniff and a comment about my thinness. “I trust you’re not consumptive or sickly,” she demanded severely as she led me on a brief tour of the home. “We will need a good deal of help in the coming weeks with the reception for the wedding. The event was supposed to take place at the bride’s home, of course, but an outbreak of typhoid fever among their staff necessitated a change of plans. As if that’s not enough, tomorrow night Lady Jane and her family are dining with His Lordship, so you’d best look smart and learn your duties quickly. I understand you come with the best references, though I wager you’ve never served in a home this grand.”
I prayed that she would not inquire too deeply into my résumé but a simple “No, mum” and an awed stare seemed to satisfy her. She puffed her cheeks out with an air of self-importance and proceeded to describe my chores and the intricate rules that applied to my attendance of the noble family.
My duties were those of any under-maid and consisted of the “lower work,” cleaning grates and lighting fires, scrubbing floors, and all other occupations that were beneath those of the upper-house servant, who attended to the standing work (curtains and such). I was one of seven girls of a similar status in an estate that boasted forty house servants, as well as a dozen men to tend to the stables and the grounds.
A girl in my position could, after years of dedicated service, aspire to the post of a cook’s assistant, or if she was especially pretty and well-spoken, a parlor maid. I could never hope to achieve the status of a woman like Bertha, Lady Rose’s lady’s maid, whose main purpose in life had vanished with her mistress and whom we occasionally observed wandering about the house with a lost look in her vacant eyes. These servants were recruited from good families and were much more cultured and literate than the ignorant under-staff. The snobbery below stairs was one of the most frustrating obstacles to my real occupation in that home, as I could not easily converse with those girls who had the most contact with the lords and ladies.
Mornings for the lower staff began at five-thirty when I, along with four other girls, would polish and light the kitchen range. The reception hall and breakfast room were then dusted, and the grates black-leaded and fireplaces lit. The latter was the most difficult of all my chores; it was lucky that one of my fellow under-maids was patient with me and helped me with the task until I learned the trick. Finally, before mealtime, I would empty the dustbin into the rubbish container behind the stables and carry out any other refuse which remained from the evening before.
I was shaking the bin to make room for my odorous bag of kitchen scraps when a large metallic object sailed out from the overloaded tub and knocked me on the temple. I leaned over to pick it up, wondering lazily why someone would throw out the mechanism of a clock instead of attempting to repair it, and chucked it back into the pile. “Careless, wasteful noblemen” was my assessment; and, wiping my hands on my dress, I hurried to complete my errands before the upper-maids joined us for tea.
I had completed the sweeping and was heading toward the servants’ hall when I encountered Agatha, a young parlor-maid, who was carrying a tray of cutlery to the dining room. As I passed her, I noticed her pallor and dilated eyes; but in my rush I paid no heed until I heard a wretched gasping sound behind me, and the clatter of falling silver. I ran back in time to catch the poor girl from falling to the ground, and a moment later she was sick into a potted houseplant in the corner. When she had recovered from her spell, I helped her to her feet and indicated that I would fetch some assistance, but to my surprise, she clung frantically to my sleeves and begged me to stay with her a while and help her set the silver. I looked appropriately shocked at her suggestion, for dirty scullery maids were not permitted near clean linen.
She glanced about her and whispered hoarsely, “They can’t know that I was ill again. I’ll be let off for sure. It’s the fourth time in two weeks. I can’t lose my place yet, not ’til I’m sure of the other.”
I shook my head. “Have you seen a doctor?”
She looked embarrassed. “There’s nothing they can do for me. They’d only—”
We were interrupted by a tall footman bearing a steaming food tray to the dining hall. As he passed us, Agatha and I scurried backward into the shadow behind the plant. A pungent aroma of boiled kidneys lingered behind him and caused my miserable companion to hold one hand to her mouth and grab helplessly at mine with the clammy fingers of the other. She doubled over the hibiscus tree, and as I wondered if she would anoint its leaves once more, the cause for her anxiety became suddenly clear to me. By the time she had regained her composure, I had understood what her condition was and was sorry for her. She would lose her place immediately when it became known, that much was certain—and, if she had no family to help her, would end up in the workhouse, or worse.
She gave me a wan, guilty smile and allowed me to lead her into the dining hall.
“Does the—father know?” I inquired hesitantly as we set the side table.
“I can’t speak to him,” she murmured sadly. “Not after he was so angry with me.”
“Why was he angry with you?”
“Well, he’d been so quiet, not like himself at all, and I got worried, you see. I thought perhaps there was someone else, and that was why he was avoiding me. So a few days ago I went into his room when he wasn’t there, to look around a bit. And he caught me. Ah, he acted something awful, like I had committed murder. Me, the woman he promised to marry, and soon to bear his…”
She glanced down at her waist and blushed.
“Did you find anything in his room?”
She shook her head and groaned. “I know I oughtn’t to have done it, I shoulda trusted him. He’s different from the rest of them, mind you. He thinks greater thoughts than all of us put together, and he’s read more than the master himself, I daresay. It’s what I noticed about him from the first. Every time I entered the study, there would my James be, with a different book in his hands, leafing through it like his soul depended on it.”
“James, the valet?”
She blushed again and frowned, realizing that she had given away his name without intending to. I imagine she would have come to it eventually, but girls like to reveal such things on their own terms, after a little breathless expectation from their audience.
“Yes, who else would I risk my good name for? I fell in love with him the moment I saw him, same as all the other girls did. He’s been here but a few months, and I don’t think there is a single maid below the age of fifty that wouldn’t give her eyes just to be noticed by him. That’s why they speak so meanly of me, you understand.”
“Is he so very handsome, then?”
“It�
��s more than that, you’ll see. But they’ll all be here in just a moment, and then afterward you can tell me what you think of him.”
I realized that in normal circumstances Agatha would never have addressed me as a friend; my status as a scullery maid put me below her notice, just as she was below the master’s. But I shared her secret now, and in her eyes, her shame made us equal.
I put my hand about her waist and smoothed her damp hair from her forehead. “I won’t tell anyone,” I promised. “And I’ll help you any way I can.”
There was a sound now from the hallway, and Agatha shrank back against the wall. “Stand there behind that post,” she instructed me, “and if anyone notices you, just slip out through the door. You look clean enough, and I’ll just tell Mrs. Bentney that I had called you in to light the fire. Just mind you don’t stare at them too hard, for you ought to be below stairs with the other scullions.”
I slipped quietly into the shadows as Lord and Lady Hartfield and their respective footmen entered the room quietly, without regarding one another; and their son, Lord Victor, soon followed. A sharp nudge from Agatha drew my attention to the servant behind him, though I scarcely needed her encouragement to watch him, for he was a key suspect in my investigation. Agatha had just told me that James had recently been hired, and now he seemed to be hiding something from his curious fiancée. He might very well be the mysterious “J.F,” I realized.
What would Adelaide think if she knew that I was staring at her blackmailer at that very moment? I wondered. I was supposed to be nestled safely in a spinster’s cottage miles away from here, reading novels, and waiting patiently to rejoin my cousin. Instead I was a detective’s spy, dressed as a maid, hovering dangerously near a mystery and a handsome criminal.
My suspect was a pleasure to study, I must admit. Tall, blond, with large, heavily lashed blue eyes and full lips, it was no wonder that every heart beat for him as he passed. He glanced briefly at Agatha, and I was suddenly and irrationally angry with him. I preferred my criminals to be ugly and unromantic; it was easier to pursue someone with hairy ears and brown teeth than one who looked like a Greek god.
