by Emily Organ
I hadn’t remembered seeing it under the bed before, and it was free of dust. It occurred to me that it must have been dropped there recently. Who in the household had the initials CDC? The first and last name began with a ‘C’. The only person I could think of was Mrs Craughton. Was this Mrs Craughton’s handkerchief in my hand?
I couldn’t think how it had found its way under the bed. Perhaps it had ended up there while she was preparing the room for my arrival. That was the most likely explanation I could think of. However, I didn’t recall seeing it when I first placed the trunk under my bed. Had Mrs Craughton entered my room and looked through the papers on the dressing table? Had she tried to open the trunk?
If Mrs Craughton wanted to look through my belongings, she could have simply asked my permission. Why had she been secretive about it? And could I be sure that she was the mystery intruder?
Chapter 13
Maisie’s knock at my door the following morning came as an unwelcome interruption. Having lain awake worrying about who had been in my room, I had fallen into a deep slumber only shortly before dawn.
Maisie chuckled when she saw me. “Yer want to be back in bed, don’t yer, Flo? I know that feelin’.”
Once again, we crept around the quiet house and prepared the fires.
“Does Mrs Craughton check your room?” I whispered as we prepared to go into the nursery.
“No,” replied Maisie with a look of surprise. “She ain’t been in yer room, ’as she?”
“I think so. I can’t be sure.”
“I can’t be sure, neither. P’raps she does check it and I don’t know nuffink about it.”
Mrs Craughton handed me a letter at breakfast time. I wondered if I would ever be brave enough to ask her about the handkerchief she had dropped in my room.
Would it cause embarrassment? Would she even admit it? I decided to wait a while before broaching the subject.
The letter had been forwarded to Florence Parker from my Milton Street address, which had been heavily inked out. I was grateful to Mrs Garnett for helping me hide my identity.
“A letter already,” said Mrs Craughton. “You must be popular.”
“It’s probably from my sister,” I replied. “I sent her my new address, but she still posted it to the old one!”
Thankfully, this explanation seemed to satisfy Mrs Craughton as I opened the envelope and held the letter up close to my spectacles so that no one else could read it.
My Dear Madam,
Thank you for your delightful letter, and may I say how flattered I am that the daughter of the eminent plant-hunter, Mr. F. B. Green, should wish to make contact with me.
Writing a book about your father’s life is an admirable undertaking, and I wish you the best of luck with the endeavour. As an author of many books myself, I can attest that it is no small task! You will no doubt find my own texts on the subject of plant-hunting to be of great assistance in your toils, and I am confident that you shall achieve the end result with aplomb.
I would be more than delighted to meet with you, and to discuss your father’s life and work. You are welcome to visit me at my home at the above address at a time and date convenient to yourself.
Do please note that my next round of travels will take me to the Himalayas, and I shall be departing London in July. You will no doubt wish to make an appointment with me before then.
Do please contact my secretary, Mrs Bowes, to arrange a suitable time.
I eagerly anticipate our forthcoming rendezvous.
Yours very truly,
Mr. Isaac Fox-Stirling
I looked forward to hearing what Mr Fox-Stirling would be able to tell me about his expedition to find my father. I hoped he would have some new information about his disappearance.
Perhaps there was a clue about what had happened to him, which nobody had followed up on or considered significant.
My immediate problem was finding a time when I could visit Mr Fox-Stirling. Maisie mentioned that we would usually be permitted leave on alternate Wednesday afternoons, but I hadn’t yet confirmed this with Mrs Craughton.
“You’re to help Maisie in the conservatory this morning,” said the housekeeper.
I folded the letter away and finished my last few mouthfuls of bread and butter.
“I haven’t shown you the conservatory yet,” she continued. “It’s Mrs Glenville’s pride and joy. You must be extremely careful with the hothouse plants. Many of them are extremely delicate tropical specimens.”
“I know quite a bit about tropical plants, Mrs Craughton.”
“Do you? Did Mrs Fothergill have a conservatory?”
“No.” I wished I hadn’t volunteered the information. “But my father did,” I added, giving her a smile which I hoped was convincing.
The sight of the broad-leaved palms, bromeliads and orchids immediately brought a lump to my throat. Plants such as these had been lovingly described in my father’s letters and diaries, and he had also made many sketches of them. Perhaps some of the species I was looking at had been brought to England by him.
As the sun streamed through the glass and filtered between the layers of thick foliage, I felt as though I were in another land. I breathed in the warm scent of the lush vegetation and wished my father could be there to see this place with me.
“Yer a’right Flo?” asked Maisie.
“I’m fine, thank you, Maisie. Tell me what needs doing.”
“Well, all I knows is that they ’ad a load o’ lice in ’ere. Plant lice. I thought it were just people ’n’ dogs what got lice, but turns out plants get ’em an’ all. Anyways, they got ’em killed off. There’s a posh word what describes it. Fume summink.”
“Fumigate?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Kills the lice but don’t kill the plants. Pretty, ain’t they?”
“They’re beautiful. I didn’t realise this conservatory was here. Goodness, look at that!” I stepped over to an orchid with a profuse spray of white and orange flowers. “I do believe that’s a type of Oncidium.”
“A what now?”
“It’s an orchid.”
“Yeah, but you said summink else. Not orchid. You said sidum or summink.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry, Maisie. I read something about it in a book once. Hand me that broom and I’ll start sweeping the floor.”
“I wish I could read books. Yer s’posed to be teachin’ me.”
“Shall we look at some letters this evening?”
“Yeah, I’d like that, I would.”
Maisie and I chatted as we worked, happily immersed in our own little tropical paradise.
Chapter 14
“How are you finding the work here, Flo?” asked Mrs Glenville as she worked on her embroidery in the morning room.
“I’m enjoying it very much, my lady.”
“Good. Well, we’re very pleased to have you here.” She looked up and gave me a brief smile, then returned to her work.
I forced a smile in return. “Thank you, my lady.”
It was my third day in the Glenville household, and I was thoroughly tired of waiting on people and tending to their every need. I suddenly felt a great deal of sympathy for people who worked in service. They were expected to keep themselves hidden unless they were needed, and few people were interested in anything they thought or said. I wasn’t sure I could continue with this work for much longer. I missed writing, and my work colleagues, and my cat Tiger. I even missed Mrs Garnett.
I rested a hand against my chest to feel the ring beneath my uniform. It felt as though I would never see James again. It was as if I had been condemned to this place for eternity.
“Would you like sugar in your tea, my lady?”
“No, thank you. Fetch me Mrs Craughton, would you?”
I left the room feeling resentful towards Mrs Glenville for the dismissive way she had spoken to me. I didn’t dislike her. She seemed a pleasant enough lady, but I wasn’t used to being spoken to like a servant.
Why had they thought this a good idea? I had come across nothing which would help with James’ investigation. The only possibility I could foresee was getting into the locked drawers in Mr Glenville’s study. I would need to find the key to open them first.
I knocked at Mrs Craughton’s door and passed on Mrs Glenville’s message. As the housekeeper acknowledged me, I looked past her shoulder at the keys hanging from the neat rows of hooks on the wall. Could the key to Mr Glenville’s desk be one of them? Each key was clearly labelled, but there was no time to look.
Mrs Craughton stepped straight out of her office and shut the door behind her.
“You and Maisie are to tidy and dust the library this afternoon,” she said. “You both did well with the conservatory yesterday. Mrs Glenville commented on its cleanliness.”
“Thank you, Mrs Craughton.”
I met Maisie on the servants’ staircase as we descended to the kitchen for our lunch.
“‘A’ is for apple,” chanted Maisie. “I still remembers ’ow to write it.”
“Good! Another lesson this evening?” I asked.
“Can’t do this evenin’.”
I wondered what else she had planned.
“Perhaps tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah, I can do tomorra.”
Mr Perrin was already in the kitchen.
“Perrin. That’s a ‘P’, ain’t it?”
The butler gave us a rare smile and quickly returned to his newspaper. I wondered if I could locate his old copies of the Morning Express so that I might sneak a look at them. I was unaccustomed to having so little idea of what was taking place in the outside world.
“’Ow d’yer write ‘P’?” asked Maisie.
“We can practise in the next lesson.”
“But that’s tomorra!”
“You told me you were too busy for a lesson this evening, Maisie.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
“Who are these two?”
I had seen the portrait of the twin girls during my previous visits to the library, but this was the first chance I’d had to ask someone about them. The girls were aged about three or four, and stood hand-in-hand in a gloomy, woodland setting. They both had long red curls and wore pale-coloured dresses. Their large, wide eyes stared out of their flawless white faces.
“Dunno. They’re from Mrs Glenville’s fambly,” replied Maisie. “All the pictures are of ’er fambly.”
“They’re identical, aren’t they?” I commented. “And almost phantom-like. They’re ghost children.”
“Don’t say that!” Maisie jumped with horror. “That’ll scare me, it will! I don’t like ghost children!”
“I was only joking, Maisie. They’re not ghosts, are they? They’re Mrs Glenville’s ancestors. Maybe one of them is her mother.”
I peered at the bottom of the picture, looking for an inscription which could tell me more about the painting, but all I could see was a year: 1826.
“They looks like ghosts ter me,” said Maisie. “I never thought of it till yer said it, but they looks like ’em, don’t they? I don’t never want ter be in this room on me own now. What if they climbs out the picture at night and goes walkin’ round the ’ouse?”
I shivered and wished I had never mentioned the picture.
“Look at all these books, Maisie,” I said brightly. I waved my feather duster in the direction of the four walls, which were lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. “Soon you’ll be able to read them all!”
“Yeah, and it’ll take me an ’ole lifetime, an’ all.”
“Choose the best ones first,” I said, running my duster over the countless volumes. “When you know your letters better, you’ll be able to read the titles on the bindings and decide which books seem the most interesting.”
“Do they ’ave pictures in ’em?”
“I’m sure some of them will have.”
I noticed a newspaper rack in the corner of the room, and to my delight I discovered that it contained an edition of the Morning Express for each day of the past week.
“I’m so ’appy you’ve came ’ere, Flo.”
I stepped away from the newspapers and saw Maisie standing with her hand resting on the back of a chair, regarding me with her large blue eyes. I felt a pang of guilt.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I misses Betsy, but I’m glad you’ve came.”
“Thank you, Maisie.”
I smiled, but I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. I was deceiving the girl about who I really was. I turned from her honest, trusting gaze and occupied myself with work.
Before retiring that evening, I thought about the newspaper rack in the library.
The butler was permitted to read the newspapers, so surely an interested maid was also permitted to do so?
While the rest of the household slept, I took my candle into the library, avoided the gaze of the ghost twins and took the most recent copy of the Morning Express from the newspaper rack. I sat at a round, mahogany table and opened out the paper, keen to read all that had been happening beyond the walls of the Glenville house.
The candlelight flickered onto the news stories about the advancing British troops in Egypt, obstruction tactics in the House of Commons and the peace treaty negotiations between Chile and Peru. I also read that the experiment of closing public houses in Wales on Sundays had failed to reduce levels of drunkenness. Instead, men were buying more liquor on Saturdays and drinking it at home on Sundays with their wives and children.
“Are you unable to sleep, Flo?”
My heart jumped into my mouth, and I spluttered as I tried to reply.
“Mr Glenville!”
He stood in the doorway, and I could just about see his smile in the candlelight. Although I felt uneasy, I also felt pleased to see him for some strange reason.
“I’m so sorry to have startled you again,” he said softly. His eyes seemed even darker in the dim light.
“You move about very quietly, sir,” I replied. “I thought everyone was in bed.”
“So did I!” He laughed and walked over to the table.
“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” I said. “I’m sorry.” I folded up the newspaper.
“No, stay! Of course I don’t mind you being here. I must say that I don’t know many women who take an interest in the newspaper.”
“I like to find out what’s happening in the world.”
“Admirable. Very admirable. And why shouldn’t you? Sophia would say something similar. She also has an inquiring mind; always questioning everything. Do you question everything, Flo?”
“I suppose I do. In fact, I know I do.”
He laughed and, to my great dismay, took a seat at the table with me. My entire body felt tense. The exotic eau de cologne hung in the air once again.
“You’ve heard Sophia talk about women’s suffrage, haven’t you? Camilla can’t bear to hear about it as she comes from a family with traditional views. I keep quiet when they discuss the matter, but privately I would say that I agree with the cause. I see intelligent women like you and Sophia, and I realise how foolish our society is not to give you a say in how our country is run. Currently, some men who are permitted to vote have a far inferior intellect to women like you. Actually, most of the House of Commons, I should say!” He laughed again. “Do you ever feel trapped in your woman’s body, Flo?”
He noticed my perplexed expression and chuckled. “Goodness, I phrased that in an odd way, didn’t I? I’m so sorry. What I mean to say is that it must be difficult to be a woman with the intelligence of a man. We treat you so differently from ourselves, don’t we? And much of the time we assume you don’t have the mental strength we have. But you’re the same sort of person inside, aren’t you? We’ve got it wrong, all wrong. I’ve known a lot of remarkable women in my life, but the one I alwa
ys held in the highest regard was my mother. She was the most selfless person I have ever met. And to think of what I put her through! On the day of my accident...” He pointed at his missing arm. “On that day, she was...”
As his voice trailed off, I could see that his eyes were moist. “It almost destroyed her. She thought my life was over.”
Silence descended.
“But it wasn’t,” I said quietly.
“No, it wasn’t! It was just the beginning. Because from that moment onwards, I was determined to show her what a twelve-year-old boy, even one who lived in poverty, could do. And I did it as well. I did it.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.
“Goodness, why did I begin talking about that?” He grinned. “I went quite off the topic there. My mind wanders when I’m tired. I should get to bed. The problem with you, Flo, is that you’re a good listener. You encourage a man to talk.”
“But I’ve barely said a thing!”
“Exactly! You listened instead.”
“Oh yes, I see what you mean.”
I laughed, and he got up from his chair.
“Well, goodnight. Don’t stay up reading too late. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but your time is wasted as a maid. You should be doing something else with that brain of yours.”
“Oh I do, sir.”
“Do you indeed?”
I nodded, unsure how to elaborate.
“Perhaps you can tell me about it when we speak next. It’s good to have discovered another night owl! Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
I watched him leave the room before opening up the newspaper again. The ghost twins stared down at me and, despite the late hour, my mind felt wide awake. I tried to read an article about mining companies infringing the Explosives Act whilst forming an opinion about Mr Glenville.
Why did he seem so different from the way people had described him?
Chapter 15
