The Penny Green series Box Set

by Emily Organ

  Although my clothes were rarely fancy, I had decided to wear the drab overcoat I usually reserved to keep me warm within my lodgings. Beneath it I wore a simple linen dress, which I imagined a maid of little means might wear on her day off. Pulled around my ears was an old-fashioned bonnet with faded cotton flowers sewn onto it, and I slumped my shoulders in imitation of a put-upon maid I recalled from my childhood home.

  My heart thumped heavily as the door was answered by a short, plain woman in a grey ticking-dress that was buttoned up to her neck. Her greying hair was neatly pinned at the back of her head, and a bunch of keys hung down from her waist. I assumed that she was the housekeeper. Her mouth was turned down in a stern pout, and she looked me up and down with her suspicious grey eyes.

  “The governess position is filled. I’m assuming that’s what you’ve come about.”

  “I haven’t. I came to enquire about something else.” I felt disappointed that I didn’t give the instant appearance of a maid. “My name is Florence Parker, and when I saw the advertisement for the governess position I wondered if you might also be looking for a maid. I have a good reference.”

  The housekeeper surveyed me a while longer, as if making up her mind about me.

  “You’d better come in,” she eventually replied.

  She stepped aside and I joined her in the tiled hallway, where the tick of a grandfather clock echoed and light flickered from a large and ornate gasolier above our heads. The wide staircase had a carved mahogany banister and was carpeted with a dark flock motif, which matched the gloomy pattern of the wallpaper.

  Paintings of people I assumed to be family members hung from the walls in heavy gilt frames. I felt their eyes on me as I followed the housekeeper along a corridor that ran parallel to the staircase. The house had a sombre, oppressive feel to it. The furnishings were tasteful and orderly, but everything seemed rather dark and quiet. It was a house which seemed well-suited to its dour housekeeper.

  “I have a small room along here,” she said.

  The austere woman turned the handle of a wooden door beneath the staircase and showed me into a dim little office with a sloped ceiling. Rows of keys hung from little hooks on the wall. Above them, several shelves stored oil lamps, candles, cloths and little glass bottles. Pieces of paper arranged neatly on the desk bore shopping lists and menus.

  “I’m Mrs Craughton,” she said.

  She didn’t bid me to sit, so I remained standing.

  “May I read your character reference?”

  “Yes.” I took a folded piece of paper from the inside of my overcoat and gave it to her.

  “Mrs Fothergill in Berkeley Square.” The scowl from the housekeeper’s face lifted slightly as she read. “She thinks highly of you.”

  “I have worked for her the last seven years.”

  “So I see.”

  “She’s a widow. Although I was her maid, I was also a companion to her.”

  “Were there other staff there?”

  “There was a cook and a general housemaid.”

  “Hmm.” She folded up the reference and returned it to me. I could feel her scrutinising my looks, and my face began to redden.

  “You don’t seem to be the usual sort of maid. Who are your family?”

  “My mother lives in Derbyshire and my sister is in Kent.” I didn’t wish to admit that my sister was married to a wealthy banker and lived in Bayswater.

  “Kent. I know it well. Whereabouts?”

  I felt a prickle of cold perspiration beneath my arms as I tried to think up something in reply. Although I had prepared a story about myself, I hadn’t anticipated enquiries about my sister’s whereabouts.

  “Chatham.”

  “Your sister is also in service?”

  “Yes, she’s a governess. We both received an education; our parents were insistent on that. But we’ve always been a poor family.”

  “It’s interesting that you’re not also a governess.”

  “I tried it once, but I wasn’t very good at it. I prefer working as a maid.”

  I could hear my heart thudding in my ears, and I felt sure the housekeeper would see through my deception at any moment.

  “You prefer maid’s work? Well that is unusual, but I can’t fault your excellent reference from Mrs Fothergill, and I think the Glenvilles will like you. You have impeccable manners. When can you start?”

  “Next week.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or concerned that she appeared to be offering me the position.

  “Very good. Please arrive here on Sunday evening with enough time for me to show you to your room. You will start at six o’clock on Monday morning.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Craughton.”

  “Have you any questions?”

  “Who are the other staff here?”

  “There’s myself and Mr Perrin, the butler. There’s also Cook and a general maid called Maisie Brown. The new governess started this week, and there’s an errand boy who also does scullery work. Everyone will be extremely pleased to have you with us.”

  “Thank you. I’m looking forward to starting work here.” I forced a smile.

  “Don’t you wish to know what your wages will be? It’s usually the first question I’m asked.”

  “Oh yes. What are the wages?”

  “Fifteen pounds a year. It’s not much, I know. A woman of your age would find a better-paid position in another household. But you seem to be keen to work here. You’d be Betsy’s replacement, and that’s how much she was paid. I’ll show you to the door.”

  Back in the hallway, I was startled by peals of laughter and a flash of colour, which revealed itself to be a young woman sliding down the banister towards us. Her red hair was coming loose from its pins. Two younger girls followed her, and I couldn’t help but smile as they made a well-practised leap off the end of the handrail and tumbled onto the tiled floor, laughing.

  “Miss Sophia!” scolded the housekeeper. “You know better than to encourage your sisters in such bad habits! This is no way for a lady to behave!”

  The two girls, aged about eight and six, ran back up the stairs. Sophia smoothed out her skirts and fixed the housekeeper with a defiant eye.

  “You leave me with no choice but to speak to your father again!”

  “You do that, Mrs Craughton,” replied Sophia dryly. She gave me a lofty glance, then walked past us and into a room on our right.

  “You’ll need to watch that one,” said the housekeeper quietly. “Fortunately, she’ll be off our hands soon, as she’s about to be married. I pity her poor husband!”

  Chapter 8

  “Do you know how many years it is since I was last your chaperone?” asked Eliza as we made our way through the rain in Hyde Park.

  Having hoped that Eliza would be unable to accompany me on my walk with Mr Edwards, I had been disappointed to discover that she was overjoyed to have received my invitation.

  “I can’t remember.” I recalled the prior occasion, but had no wish to discuss it.

  “Eight years ago. Can you believe it was that long? It was that Mills fellow. What was his name? It began with an R, I’m sure of it. Roger? Robert? Richard?”

  “Benjamin.”

  “That was it! Benjamin Mills! So you do remember? Do you know what he does these days?”

  “No.”

  Eliza was riding her bicycle. It had a large wheel on one side and two smaller wheels on the other. At the centre was a small seat and two pedals. The bicycle was steered by two handles either side of the seat. Eliza held on to one of these, brandishing her umbrella in the other hand. My sister was two years my junior and we were similar in appearance: both of us blonde-haired and brown-eyed. She had always been the larger, louder one.

  “Oh, Penelope, you look terribly miserable on what is supposed to be a happy occasion. You’re finally meeting with a gentleman! I have waited so long for this to happen. I’ve written to Mother about it.”

  “You told Mother?” I
stopped and glared at her.

  Eliza bicycled on ahead, pulling an apologetic expression. “I felt it was my duty. She worries about you, you know that. The knowledge that her spinster daughter is meeting with a suitor is of great comfort to her in her dotage!” she called back over her shoulder. “Just think how happy she will be at the present time in her cottage in Derbyshire! She will be thinking of you every minute of this afternoon, I feel sure of it!”

  I sighed and jogged to catch up with her. “I don’t want her to be happy and expectant about this, Ellie. I only agreed to this meeting to please Mr Edwards.”

  “But you wouldn’t have agreed to it if you despised the man, would you? There only needs to be a glimmer of interest in the beginning. That’s how it began with me and George. In fact, I quite disliked George when I first met him, but true love takes time. You need to nurture it, and allow it to grow. It doesn’t happen in the way it’s described in poems. That’s probably why you’ve reached the age of thirty-five without being married. You’ve been waiting for love to come from nowhere and seize you where you stand. It doesn’t happen that way.”

  “I’m still thirty-four!”

  “Only for a month longer,” she replied. “Remember to look cheerful, Penelope! The last thing an admirer wants to see is the object of his desire looking miserable. This meeting is important. It may finally distract you from that inspector chap.”

  “I don’t need to be distracted from him,” I snapped.

  “No, I suppose that his own impending marriage should be enough to dissuade you from harbouring any intentions towards him.”

  “It certainly does.”

  I thought of James and his wife-to-be, and wondered if their relationship had begun as Eliza described love: a glimmer of interest which had steadily grown into affection.

  Or had their hearts been consumed by a sudden fiery passion for one another, which left them with a constant yearning to be together? Did James think about her so much that his mind span, and his stomach felt knotted? Was she the first person he thought of when he laid down to sleep at night and when he awoke in the morning? Perhaps passionate thoughts of her even kept him awake at night.

  I felt a bitter taste in my mouth as these unwelcome ideas ran through my mind.

  “Is that him?” asked Eliza.

  We had almost reached Marble Arch, and a man in a brown overcoat was standing under a large black umbrella by the white stone archway. I wiped away the specks of rain which had blown onto my spectacle lenses.

  “Yes, that’s Mr Edwards.”

  “He looks simply charming.”

  Mr Edwards’ eyebrows rose as he watched my sister bicycling towards him.

  “Good afternoon!” I called out. “This is my sister, Mrs Eliza Billington-Grieg.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” replied Mr Edwards with a smile. He removed his hat and gave Eliza a slight bow. “I thought you were in an invalid carriage as you approached, but it’s a bicycle! How marvellous!”

  He walked around the contraption, surveying it as Eliza delightedly described its features.

  “Would you like to have a ride on it, Mr Edwards?” she asked.

  “Oh no. No, no. I would make rather a fool of myself, I’m afraid. I’ll leave the bicycling to you. I’m very much looking forward to our walk, Miss Green. It’s a rather damp afternoon, courtesy of Jupiter Pluvius, but I’m sure we shall enjoy it all the same. Shall we wend our way to the tea rooms by the Serpentine?”

  “Yes please,” replied Eliza. “They serve delicious egg sandwiches there.”

  “You know the tea rooms well?”

  “Yes, I go there with my ladies.” Eliza gave a polite laugh. “I apologise, you must be wondering who my ladies are. I should elaborate. I’m chair of the West London Women’s Society.”

  “How fascinating.” Mr Edwards’ eyes were wide with interest. We commenced our walk toward the tea rooms with Eliza on her bicycle between us.

  “We campaign for women’s rights; more specifically to do with suffrage, employment rights and rational dress,” continued Eliza.

  “Rational dress?”

  “Yes, you have no doubt noticed the divided skirt in which I’m riding this bicycle. Can you imagine the immodesty a woman would suffer should she try to ride a bicycle in her usual skirts?”

  “I think so.” A flush of red appeared on Mr Edwards’ cheeks.

  “For that reason, I wear a divided skirt. It appears to be a skirt, but is actually an extremely loose-fitting pair of trousers. It’s high time that women were allowed to wear clothing, which suits the physical demands of their lifestyles. I’ve not worn a corset for a year now.”

  “Oh.” There was a strangulated tone to Mr Edwards’ voice.

  “I don’t believe that women should be forced to wear clothing that constricts their movement. And it’s about time, don’t you think, that women were able to choose clothing better suited to their lifestyles? I can’t imagine that you would like to be laced into a corset every day, would you, Mr Edwards?”

  “No, I certainly would not.”

  “Or to wear a multitude of petticoats and skirts so heavy that your natural locomotion is hindered?”

  “Indeed, no.”

  “Do you support women’s suffrage, Mr Edwards?”

  “Indeed, I do. With half of the population being female, it makes sense to me that educated women should have as much say in the running of this land as educated men.”

  “Thank you, Mr Edwards. I approve of him already, Penelope! Perhaps you would like to join our meeting with the London Society of Women’s Suffrage, Mr Edwards? There will be plenty of men there, of course. Our cause is now supported by most of the liberal members of parliament.”

  “That is progress, indeed. I should be delighted to come. You are pursuing a range of worthy causes, Mrs Billington-Grieg. Will you be attending the meeting, Miss Green?”

  “I shall encourage her to,” said Eliza. “Although she is so busy with her work that it is often rather tricky for her to find the time for causes.”

  “I’m very supportive, Ellie, as you well know,” I said.

  “Yes, you are, Penelope, but these days you need to stand up to be counted. By turning up in person you are physically adding to the numbers. There is a march planned in support of women’s suffrage in this very park next week. I shall expect you both to attend.”

  “If my work permits, I shall attend and write about it for the Morning Express.”

  “Thank you, Penelope. Mr Edwards, has Penelope told you about the latest adventure she is to embark upon?”

  “No, I believe not.”

  He gave me an expectant glance, but my sister explained before I had a chance to do so.

  “She is to work undercover as a maid! Can you believe that, Mr Edwards? A consummately educated lady working as a maid!”

  “A maid, Miss Green?” he asked. “But you’re a news reporter!”

  “I’m to be a news reporter pretending to be a maid. It’s called working undercover.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you do such a thing?”

  “The plan is secret. You mustn’t tell anyone about it.”

  “Certainly not. You have my word.”

  We paused our walk and the rain pattered on our umbrellas while I explained further.

  “I intend to work in the household of Mr Alexander Glenville. He’s the owner of the Blundell & Co vinegar factory, where there has been criticism of the working conditions.”

  “Ah, that explains why you were reading about Dorothea Heale earlier this week,” said Mr Edwards.

  “Dorothea Heale?” said Eliza.

  “Yes,” I replied. “She has attempted to help the workers at Blundell’s campaign for better conditions.”

  “I know that,” said Eliza. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? She’s a very good friend of mine. You don’t need to spend time reading about her. I can arrange for you to meet her!”

  “Can you really, Ellie?”


  “Yes, we cross paths on a regular basis. She’ll be at the march. I shall arrange for you to meet her when I see her next.”

  “But I still don’t understand why you must work as a maid, Miss Green,” said Mr Edwards with a puzzled look.

  “My advice is to give up trying to understand it,” replied my sister. “Has she told you about the time she was shot yet?”

  “Shot?” A flash of horror passed across his face. “Are you all right, Miss Green?”

  “Yes, I am fully recovered now, thank you, Mr Edwards.”

  He stared at me as if disappointed to discover that I wasn’t the person he had thought me to be. His expression confirmed to me why I had remained a spinster.

  I knew that I would never find a husband who could accept my chosen profession.

  Chapter 9

  My attic room in the Glenville household was small and draughty. The only other room on this floor of the house belonged to the maid, Maisie, and we shared a narrow wooden corridor.

  The mattress on my iron bedstead was thin, and an inspection of the sheets and blankets revealed numerous patched holes. A threadbare rug lay on the floor, and the remaining furniture consisted of a washstand, a narrow wardrobe and a small dressing table, which had seen better days. The little window overlooked the street.

  I unpacked my trunk in this comfortless room and reassured myself that my stay here would not be for long. Mrs Craughton had instructed me to change into my uniform and meet her outside the drawing room, where I was to be introduced to Mr and Mrs Glenville. My mouth felt dry and the palms of my hands were clammy.

  Would the Glenvilles notice that I wasn’t the person I claimed to be?

  I imagined James at my side and thought of the reassurances he would give me. The ring which had belonged to his grandfather hung from an old locket chain around my neck. When I rested my hand against my chest I could feel the ring beneath my blouse.

  Keep it with you for luck.

  I intended to do as James had instructed.

  I changed into my uniform: a high-collared cotton black dress with a white apron. I pinned my long hair tightly to my head, so that it would fit beneath the white cotton cap. Whenever I dressed at home, Tiger would curl herself around my legs or watch me from my writing desk. I missed her already.