Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘Ma’am, you must eat.’

  ‘Do not tell me what to do!’ Mary throws the cloth at her maid, hating the interruption of her thoughts. She tries to return to them, but the heat of passion has turned into the heat of rage, and she cannot claw her way back.

  She pinches the bridge of her nose as Bet trembles and picks up the cloth from the floor. Such a meek, snivelling woman. The sight of her is already grating. Tom was right – Bet does not belong here.

  ‘It is time you returned to Aunt Emily, Bet. I believe it is for the best. The country does not suit you.’

  The clock had chimed twelve by the time Liz and Tom had returned home. Liz had been sweating ever so slightly, and her hands had been stiff from holding the reins. It had been the first time she had ever ridden a horse. Once out of sight of the house, Tom had helped her to sit straddling the creature, which had been much more comfortable, and they had even managed a gentle trot at one point. Now, her thighs ache, her neck is stiff, and she is ravenous. After a brief clean-up, Tom and Liz find Mary in the library.

  ‘Good morning, my darling wife.’ Tom strides into the room, bounding over to Mary, who lounges in a chair near the window with a book in her hands. She does not look up as Tom kisses her forehead.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  Tom laughs. ‘My, my, you’re quite right. I didn’t know we had been gone so long.’

  He pours himself a small glass of sherry and falls into one of the sofas.

  Liz, with more decorum, and because of the increasing pain of her leg muscles, perches on the edge of the opposite sofa.

  ‘Is everything well, sister?’

  ‘Why did you tell Bet to let me sleep?’

  Liz takes a moment. It seems such a long time ago since she instructed Bet to leave Mary alone.

  ‘Liz just thought you may be tired, Mary. That is all. She did not mean to upset you.’

  ‘But I wanted to show you around.’

  ‘My dear, you need your rest. It is a tiring business, being a wife.’ Tom winks at her, mischief animating his features. Mary’s cheeks flare pink as she smiles back at him.

  ‘I hope I have not offended you, sister?’ Liz says, distracting Mary from her husband; she cannot stand the sight of them like that. She would rather them bicker, but Tom will not let that happen, not yet.

  ‘Oh no, not at all. You must be hungry after your ride. Lunch is in the dining room, and I have informed Bet that she will be returning to Aunt Emily’s before the week is out.’

  Tom nods, suddenly serious. He pats his thighs, brings himself to his feet, drains the last of his sherry. ‘I think it is for the best. I fear she is past the demands of such a large house and a growing family. And our new staff begin tomorrow anyway.’

  Mary’s smile falls. ‘What new staff?’

  ‘Liz and I have been to the village this morning, and while there we thought we might as well have a look about for people. We have acquired a new manservant, a hall and stable boy, two maids,’ he lists them on his fingers, ‘a cook-come-housekeeper, and a lady’s maid. Six new staff. Not bad for a morning’s work.’

  ‘But what about references?’ Mary leans forward in her chair, frowning. ‘Are they reliable? Trustworthy? Are they any good?’

  ‘Well, they are local folk,’ Tom says. ‘The manservant and stable boy are father and son. The father helped us out when we had a little trouble this morning. I found him a very respectable sort of chap. Mr Chipman!’ Tom clicks his fingers in the air. ‘That’s his name. Will is his son. I asked if they had regular work, Chipman said only sometimes, so I offered them permanent positions. They start the day after tomorrow, as do the maids, who are neighbours of Mr Chipman and only thirteen years old. They are a great strain on their mother. It was service or the workhouse. I thought you would be only too glad to help such unfortunates?’

  ‘Well …’ She averts her gaze to the floor. ‘Yes, of course. But, do they,’ she clears her throat, ‘do they know what they are doing?’

  ‘I believe, with a little training, they shall be excellent. And it’s not like you will have to see them, my dear. They shall be below stairs.’

  Not waiting for further comment, Tom continues:

  ‘Mrs Beacham shall be the cook and housekeeper. I have not met her, but word has it that she is employed in Cornwall and is deeply unhappy. Her family lives here. Mr Chipman introduced me to her brother, who is a fisherman and he was telling me all about her and the scoundrels for whom she works. Dastardly lot. She hasn’t been paid for weeks. So, I said, with a reference and an interview with my wife, we would definitely consider her if she could start as soon as possible. I am to send post to them this afternoon. Is that all right, darling?’

  His speech has left Mary baffled, which, Liz knows, was his intention all along. She watches Mary struggle to put her argument across.

  ‘I should like to see her before we take her on.’

  ‘Oh, of course. And then we have Anne, the new lady’s maid.’ Tom claps his hands. ‘Lunch! I am starving.’

  Liz rises from her seat and follows Tom, who makes his way to the door, until Mary speaks.

  ‘Who is Anne?’

  Tom takes a long breath and faces his wife. ‘A very nice young girl. She has little experience, but her mother was a lady’s maid and has taught her well, so I believe. She even understands some French!’

  ‘No references?’

  Tom sighs. ‘I thought she would be a good investment. We can train her up to suit us.’

  Mary’s leg twitches under her skirts. The material quivers.

  ‘What is she like?’

  Tom saunters to his wife’s side and helps her out of her chair. ‘You’ll like her,’ he whispers in her ear and guides her towards the door, then winks at Liz. ‘She’s biddable.’

  At six o’clock the three of them sit down for dinner of mulligatawny soup followed by roast beef and vegetables picked from the garden, finished with damson pudding. All very heavy, again, but at least there was no fruit cake. Yesterday, Tom had to follow each mouthful with a swig of wine, just so the damned stuff would go down.

  Now, the ladies have withdrawn, and Tom has come to the library, where he nurses a large brandy.

  He assesses the day, and yesterday, and indeed the last few months which have led up to this moment. He feels unaccountably tired. Perhaps it is the relief that all has worked out how he has planned. But he cannot relax, not just yet, there is still plenty to do.

  Anne was a brilliant idea. A small girl of maybe sixteen years, full figured, with curly red hair and invisible eyelashes. When they knocked on Anne’s door, she had swooned over him within seconds.

  Her sickly mother had been chained to the stove for warmth. Her father, thank God, had been out; fathers can be tricky when it comes to daughters. So, Tom had offered Anne the position of lady’s maid there and then, and with tears in her eyes, Anne’s mother had accepted, glad to see her daughter going into a respectful position.

  Tom chuckles into his glass.

  It is nearing midnight now. He will soon have to retire to bed, although he would rather stay on the sofa and sleep here, with the fire crackling, without the nuisance of explaining to Mary that he will sleep alone tonight. Yet, he knows he must broach the subject.

  He slips into the drawing room.

  The pulse in Liz’s neck is illuminated by the fire as she reads her book. Her breathing is steady as her eyes flick over the lines on the page, but the raising of her eyebrow tells him she knows he watches her.

  Mary nibbles her lower lip, and her brow furrows as she reads the novel held too close to her face.

  ‘What are you reading, my love?’ Tom says.

  Mary jumps, then laughs at herself. ‘Ruth. By Elizabeth Gaskell.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘It is one of my favourites.’

  ‘Well then, I would not want to disturb you. I am for bed.’

  Mary closes the book and is standing in a moment. ‘I have read it
a hundred times. It can wait.’ She joins his side.

  They ascend the stairs. Mary’s excitement pulsates through the air, and the distance to her chamber shortens at an alarming rate; he must think of something quickly. He clings to the bannister, gasps, winces.

  ‘Tom?’ Mary’s hand presses hotly into his shoulder. ‘Are you well?’

  He brings his fingers to his brows, and his breath gushes out of him. ‘A migraine coming, I think. Too much brandy.’

  He squints up at her, paints a pained smile onto his face, and continues up the stairs unsteadily. Mary takes hold of his arm to aid him, and together they stop outside Mary’s door, where the silence grows.

  He slumps against the wall. ‘I would like to come in–’

  ‘I would like that too.’ She edges closer, wets her lips.

  Tom leans in and accepts her kiss, but breaks away with a cry, and cradles his head.

  ‘You should rest, Tom.’

  ‘But I–’

  She strokes his cheek. ‘We have plenty of time. Tonight you need sleep. Would you like me to bring you anything?’

  Tom shakes his head, moans for effect.

  ‘Very well,’ she says, and he hears the disappointment in her voice. She is still so close that he only needs to move forward a little to brush his lips against her cheek.

  ‘Goodnight, my dear.’

  ‘Goodnight, Tom.’ With one last embrace, she whispers feverishly, ‘I will dream of tomorrow night.’ She slips into her room and gently closes the door.

  Yes, Tom thinks, as he trudges to his own chamber and pours himself a large glass of whiskey: there is always tomorrow.

  Anne wears her best dress and has brushed her hair three times, applying oil and wax to it in an effort to calm the frizziness. She has washed her face meticulously, scrubbed her hands clear of any grime, and now she smells of nothing but carbolic. She grins at the sight of her bright white skin in the stained and cracked hand mirror.

  She does not think too much about her mother or her three siblings who she must leave behind. After all, her ma was all too happy for her to be going. She has been teaching her little sister, Grace, how to do all the housework anyway. Her brother, Eddie, already works the farm with her father, and now Paul is six he can start earning as a crow scarer.

  Yes, her family will be just fine without her.

  And, in all honesty, she does not believe she would have turned down the position even if they weren’t, when it was offered by the most handsome man she has ever seen.

  ‘You best be getting off,’ her mother, Gwen, says, bringing her out of her trance.

  ‘Yes, Ma. You sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Just do as I’ve told you and make me proud. Following in your ma’s footsteps,’ Gwen says, and her smile makes her eyes twinkle. ‘I don’t suppose Miss Buchanan would remember me.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Oliver now.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is. No need to mention me anyway.’

  The worst thing about this position is working for Mrs Oliver. Anne remembers seeing the dumpy, spoilt woman riding through the village occasionally with her father. She never even looked at Gwen, who had been a loyal maid to Mrs Buchanan until the time of the woman’s death, after which, Mr Buchanan simply got rid of Gwen. It seemed that Mary did not want her mother’s cast-offs.

  ‘Just do as you’re told and be polite, remember they are your betters.’

  Anne tuts to herself.

  ‘Come here.’ Gwen opens her arms for an embrace. ‘You’re a good girl. We’ll miss you.’

  ‘I’ll be coming back to see you.’ Anne can feel tears brimming, but then her mother starts coughing, and Anne must fetch some water.

  Once Gwen has recovered, Anne straightens her clothes and puts on her bonnet.

  ‘Right. I’ll go.’

  There are no more tears. Anne does not look over her shoulder as she leaves their squat little cottage with smoke already billowing from its chimney. She glances around the village, waves to Mr Marsh, the butcher, who has three pheasants hanging from his hand, smells the scent of baking bread from Mr Cole’s shop. She watches the fishing boats leaving the harbour.

  But she has no time for sentiment; her feet can’t carry her fast enough to Mr Oliver’s study.

  A knock on the door forces Tom to close the diary and hide it away.

  ‘Come in.’

  Bet strides in, her mouth set in a twisted line, her face as wrinkled as an old pear. ‘Anne Witmore, sir.’

  Tom smiles at Anne, baring his teeth, and flicks his wrist at Bet so that she leaves.

  ‘Good morning, Anne. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ She blushes. Her eyes flit to the floor.

  ‘Good.’ He looks her over, taking his time. Her skin shines, the apples of her cheeks glow, her lips are bitten red. Her fingers flutter as she clasps her hands before her waist. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Anne tiptoes to the chair opposite his own. The tang of soap floats in the air as she sits, and still, her eyes will not meet his.

  ‘This used to be George Buchanan’s study. I might redecorate. What do you think?’

  ‘I … I don’t know, sir. I think it is quite nice.’

  ‘Mmh. I think I will take down that painting.’ He points behind her. ‘Rather a macabre feel about it, wouldn’t you say?’

  Anne swivels in her chair to look. Stubborn curls, as bright as saffron, fall out of her bun and tickle her freckled neck.

  ‘It is a bit unnerving, sir.’ Finally, her gaze meets his.

  He spreads his lips into a smile. ‘Exactly what I thought.’

  Anne lifts her fingers to her cheek before quickly returning them to her lap. He likes to see her nervous, but it would be better to ease her, so he ceases his teasing.

  ‘Now, let’s talk about you, Anne. Tell me a little about yourself.’

  ‘Well … my father is a farmer.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Witmore farms part of my estate, I believe. Crops mainly, and cares for the cattle.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He does love his job, sir.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She just does the odd bits, as much as she can. She’s a wonderful seamstress, sir,’ Anne says, and she beams as she talks of her mother. ‘If ever you need anything mending, my ma is the woman.’

  ‘I will keep that in mind, Anne. Mr Chipman said she had previous lady’s maid experience?’

  Anne’s smile falters. ‘Yes, she did, sir, before the accident.’

  ‘Her leg?’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. Mrs Buchanan’s accident, when she drowned.’

  Her words stun him. They tumble over in his mind, again and again. After a moment, he laughs, uncertainly. ‘Sorry – your mother was lady’s maid to Victoria Buchanan?’

  Anne nods.

  ‘I did not even know Mrs Buchanan had drowned.’

  ‘Oh, gosh!’ Red blots Anne’s skin from her ears to her nose. ‘I’m so sorry, sir. I should never have said it. Ma told me not to mention it.’

  ‘Hush.’ Tom reaches forward as if he would calm her with his touch. Anne freezes. His hand hovers halfway across the desk. ‘Do not worry yourself, Anne. You were quite right to tell me. Perhaps you could tell me how Mrs Buchanan came to such an end?’

  ‘I believe, from what Ma has told me, that Miss Buchanan – that is, Mrs Oliver now – got into some trouble in the lake. Mrs Buchanan thought she were drowning, so she ran into the water. Next thing is, Miss Buchanan’s running inside, screaming, saying her ma’s in the water. By the time everyone got out there, Mrs Buchanan were dead.’

  How had he not discovered this? How had he not been informed? The idea unsettles him; he must know everything about his wife if his plan is to succeed.

  ‘What a dreadful thing for Mary,’ he chokes, and the shock must be evident in his face.

  ‘Oh, gosh! I did not mean to upset you, Mr Oliver. I shouldn’t have said anything. Me and my silly mouth!’

  ‘You said she
drowned in the lake?’ Tom interrupts her hysterics. ‘Where is it? I have not seen it.’

  ‘Mr Buchanan got it filled in afterwards. It was on the other side of the woods.’

  They sit quietly for a moment. Tom picks at the corner of leather on the desk, recovers himself. ‘Sorry – we were talking about your mother. When did she lose her leg, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘When our Paul were two years old. Accident with a cart. The horse bolted, ran her over. Miracle she survived.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stretches out of the chair and saunters to the window. It is grey today, and the sea is not visible through the low-hanging cloud. An altogether depressing vista. ‘It is a cruel world.’

  ‘But she is proud of me now, sir.’

  ‘Then you will not want to let her down, will you?’

  ‘I will do my very best, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ He smacks his palms together and grins at her. ‘Bet will show you how things work around here. She will be leaving on the morning train on Saturday.’

  ‘And then I shall be in charge?’

  ‘Mrs Beacham – when she arrives – shall be the housekeeper, but you will not have to answer to her. I shall have my manservant, but again, you won’t have too much to do with him. Your responsibility is to my wife and sister. And I shall require you occasionally, if that’s all right with you? Just some basic errand running, things like that. You shall report to me regularly. Do you think you will be able to manage?’

  ‘Yes, sir, most definitely.’

  ‘Then you shall make me a happy man.’ He extends his arm for a handshake and Anne rises to meet him. Her skin is hot and damp. ‘Welcome to your new home, Anne.’

  ‘I do not like her,’ Mary says, over a forkful of pheasant.

  ‘Who, dear?’ Tom saws at his own breast of meat.

  ‘Anne.’

  Liz has given up with the bird, it is too tough and over-cooked. Instead, she nibbles on a roast potato. ‘I think she is nice.’