Convenient Women Collection

by Delphine Woods

  ‘She was far too rough with me while arranging my hair this evening.’

  ‘I found her very gentle.’ Liz meets Mary’s flash of anger with a smile. Already, Mary’s spoilt petulance is grinding on her nerves. She is struggling to contain herself as more hours pass in the woman's dreadful company.

  ‘Really, the problem is with Bet,’ Tom says. ‘What has she done to this meal? It is as tough as leather.’

  ‘She is not a cook,’ Mary says. ‘Maud, who you are also so fond of, has taken the evening off. Bet did not know until four o’clock this afternoon that she would be away.’

  ‘I let her go,’ Liz says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I went to the kitchen after luncheon to have a look around. Maud was all in a bother.’ She recalls Maud sitting at the kitchen table, plucking out the pheasant feathers, yawning widely. The poor woman had been worked to the bone, barely able to keep her eyelids open. ‘Her husband has the influenza. I told her she could have the evening off.’

  Mary’s head twists from Liz to Tom, and she croaks out a laugh. ‘And you did not think to tell Bet?’

  ‘I could not find her,’ Liz lies.

  The door opens and Anne appears. ‘Beg your pardon. I’ve just come to see if I should clear the plates.’

  ‘Can you not see we have not finished? Stupid girl.’

  ‘Take the plates, Anne.’ Tom leans back in his chair, prods the crockery away from him in disgust. ‘This meat is inedible.’

  Mary is like a fish; her mouth hangs open, and she gasps for breath as Anne works her way around the table. With a quick curtsey, Anne leaves. Mary’s chair screeches along the floor as she stands, pulling at the tablecloth so that her glass of wine teeters precariously. Liz steadies it. Mary makes her way to the door.

  ‘Are you not staying for the spotted dick, my dear?’ Tom says, his eyes on Liz, his smile evident in his words. Liz stares at him, stunned by his boldness. It is a dangerous game he is playing, one he should take seriously, but despite her concerns, she is relieved to see his true self coming through.

  ‘I have no appetite.’ Mary stalks out of the room and slams the door behind her.

  Tom chuckles. Liz’s lips lift upwards.

  ‘Be careful, Tom.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Liz!’ His fingertips interlace through hers, setting them alight. He tickles her palm, teasing out the laugh that is bubbling in her throat. In a moment, she is lost in laughter, her eyes watering with it and how good it feels, but then Anne enters. Tom draws his fingers into his lap, and Liz feels the absence of them keenly.

  ‘Is Mrs Oliver all right, sir?’

  ‘Didn’t fancy the spotted dick.’ Tom gasps with laughter as confusion colours Anne’s face.

  Liz brushes the tears from her cheeks, the joke now getting old, and glares at Tom. ‘She’s fine, Anne.’ The girl’s innocence serves to remind Liz of the lack of her own; she pities them both. ‘You can get the pudding now.’

  Anne leaves the room.

  Taking his napkin, Tom wipes his eyes and grins at the look of admonition on Liz’s face.

  ‘Get too close to the fire, Tom, and you shall get burnt.’

  ‘Isn’t it nice to laugh, though?’

  There is an ache in her stomach, but yes, it was nice to feel the pressure lift for an instant, for there to be light in the perpetual gloom of life at Floreat.

  ‘I haven’t seen you smile for so long.’

  They used to laugh all the time when they were little, before … But this is not the time for sentimentality, and there will be no chance of joy if they do not sort their problems now. ‘What about Anne?’ she says. ‘Mary has not taken to her.’

  ‘I like her. She will do us good.’

  She studies him. ‘What have you got planned for her?’ No one in Tom’s life is ever useless.

  Before he can answer, Anne returns with a steaming pudding on a silver tray. A knife sits beside the suet.

  ‘Do you like it here, Anne?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is a beautiful house.’ She cuts the pudding, scooping it on to the plate before serving it to her master.

  ‘And do you like us?’

  For an instant, the girl meets his gaze, and her breath catches in her throat. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mary is …’ Tom begins, his eyes roaming over Anne’s face, ‘she is troubled at times. You will tell me what she does. It is for her own sake, do you understand? You must tell me everything, Anne.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Anne dips low, backs slowly out of the room. Tom watches her go before he turns to Liz.

  ‘I see,’ she says.

  Chapter 3

  Mary sits at her bedroom window, surveying her land. It is a breezy morning. She can see the trees swaying, can make out the white breakers on the surface of the sea in the distance. Three pheasants, two females and one male, strut along the gardens below her window, pecking at nothing. The male’s feathers glisten in the sunlight, his blue-black neck shines like oil. It reminds her of Tom.

  She has passed another fruitless night, alone and angry. She did not bother to go to the drawing room yesterday evening, having no desire to see Elizabeth again, and even less desire to try to make conversation with her after their ruckus at dinner.

  Mary had heard her; she had heard them both, laughing at her while she stood with her back against the dining room door, wondering if Tom might follow her out, offer her an apology and a night of love-making. He never did.

  In her chamber, she had also waited. She had brushed her hair a hundred times until it looked like treacle. She had known, when the clock had finally struck midnight, that Tom would not be joining her.

  And for the first time since girlhood, she had let a man bring tears to her eyes. She had never given her father the satisfaction of seeing her emotions; even when he had died she had refused to cry over him, sure that he would be watching from somewhere up above. Then, over nothing more than a silly argument about a stupid maid, she had found herself crying because her husband had not agreed with her! She was ashamed of herself. It would not happen again.

  After all, she was right – Anne was a lady’s maid, and as such, Mary would decide whether she was appropriate or not. She had settled to carry out a series of tests for the girl to determine if she was suitable, starting with breakfast.

  At seven o’clock, Mary had rung the bell. Anne had arrived within a few minutes, fresh-faced and neat – she had obviously been awake for a while. Mary had ordered a breakfast of one boiled egg and one slice of toast, with a pot of tea, to be brought as quickly as possible. Sure enough, Anne had returned within half an hour with the tray of breakfast, and the toast was still hot.

  ‘Did Bet cook this?’ Mary had asked, as she cracked the egg to find the yolk golden and soft, just how she likes it.

  ‘No, ma’am, I did it. I know how to boil an egg.’

  She had not cared for the girl’s tone. She had turned her nose up at the food. ‘The yolk is too runny.’

  ‘Sorry ma’am,’ Anne had said, though she hadn’t sounded like she was sorry at all. ‘I shall cook it longer next time.’

  ‘Is Elizabeth dressed yet?’ Mary says as Anne finishes lacing her corset.

  ‘No, ma’am. I said I would help her once I have seen to you.’

  ‘Are you able to manage here, do you think? It is a lot to do for such a young girl, looking after two ladies. I could easily find another maid for myself or for Elizabeth.’

  ‘No, ma’am, don’t you worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ Mary says.

  Anne clears her throat and swallows before she continues. ‘Mr Oliver says I am to be a lady’s maid to you both because he is trying to be eco ... ecnom ...’

  ‘Economical,’ Mary says, appalled. ‘Never speak of that again.’

  Why would Tom say such a thing? Mary seethes as she glances about the room, noticing, for the first time, the shabbiness of things. When was the last time she had ordered new bed sheets? The chair by the wind
ow has been there since she can remember. The jewels in her drawers are her mother’s, grandmother’s, great-grandmother’s – she can remember the women wearing them at Christmas celebrations. It is what she loves about Floreat – the way it holds her childhood in its soft, weathered hands. Everything preserved safely, her lineage clear to all.

  ‘Mr Oliver has no need to be economical, Anne, I can assure you. He probably just said that to you to make you feel better, though Lord knows why.’

  She averts her gaze from the sorry state of her tattered crinoline, too round and unfashionable now, as Anne finishes dressing her. She sits before the mirror and feels the lumps in the stool cushion under her backside with a flurry of humiliation, as Anne begins styling her hair. In the glass, she examines the girl.

  Anne’s brow crinkles in concentration as she tries to command the unwieldy pins. She is a similar shape to Mary; short, and with a fleshiness about her that makes her look like a little pig sometimes, but when her face is not screwed up, her youth makes her pretty.

  Mary brings her focus upon her own reflection. With sourness, she notices the dark rings beneath her eyes, the blueness on either side of the bridge of her nose, the shrivelled appearance of her grey-pink lips. Worn and aged, like Floreat.

  She must stop crying, stop shouting, stop pursing her lips, or else she will look twenty years older than her husband rather than ten, and it will be even harder to get into bed with him.

  ‘They didn’t like me leaving,’ Mrs Beacham says, smirking. ‘Not without any warning, like that.’

  The day before yesterday, Tom sent her a letter saying she had a position here as head cook and housekeeper, a significant rise in her station, if she could arrive as soon as possible. She was on the train the very next day.

  ‘Not right, though, is it?’ she says. ‘I’ve even been sharing a bed, what with them having to sell mine for the money. There was no way I was going to get paid this year. I’m afraid I haven’t got a reference.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Tom steeples his fingers, rests his elbows on the desk, smiles. ‘You come on the recommendation of the local people, and I think we should look after our own around here.’

  ‘Very kind of you, sir.’ She touches a hand to her eye.

  ‘I shall call for Mrs Oliver now. She would like to meet you, interview you, so to speak. There is no need to worry her with references. I will tell her I received a telegram with a positive account of you.’

  ‘Very kind, sir.’

  ‘My wife,’ he lowers his voice, ‘is more traditional than myself. I believe in progress. Money is needed in this day and age.’

  Mrs Beacham’s lips press together, her chin wobbles for an instant. This wrinkled woman, with mousy hair streaked grey, with fingers freckled with old burns, is indebted to him.

  The door blasts open. Mary. Her quick strides have left her with pink cheeks and messy hair.

  ‘Darling,’ Tom says to fill the silence. ‘You must be able to hear through walls – I was just going to call for you. This is Mrs Beacham, the cook from Cornwall that I was telling you about.’

  Mrs Beacham rises from her seat and curtseys low. ‘A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.’

  Mary ignores her and directs her glare at Tom. He stands, smiles, nods at Mrs Beacham, and brushes past his wife. Mary closes the door so they are alone in the corridor, and speaks in a rushed whisper.

  ‘Why did you tell Anne that we needed to be economical?’

  He turns to her, wondering if he will find rage upon her features. Instead, there is worry. He takes her hands, cradles them in his, and barely meets her eyes. ‘I was hoping I might keep it from you. It seems that your father ... he might not have been quite so clever with money after all.’

  Mary gasps. Her grip tightens.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear. It is nothing that being a little frugal over the next few months won’t cure.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Tom says, hoping she hears his tremor. ‘As I say, we shall just have to be careful for the time being. I shall sort it all out. Do not trouble yourself.’

  Her grip loosens. He strokes her hot cheek with the back of his finger and brings his lips against hers. When he pulls away, he can hear the quickening of her breath.

  ‘Now, go and see Mrs Beacham. I will be waiting to know what you think of her.’

  Anne leaves Miss Oliver in her room and skips down the back stairs, her black boots clipping on the bare stone. Muffled sounds permeate the corridor; scratches and thumps of objects being moved and put down; voices of men and women; the scuffling of shoes. In the kitchen, she finds a woman older than her mother and at least two heads taller than herself, dressed in a black uniform. The woman is ordering little Clair about, telling her where to put the meat that’s just been delivered, to fill the kettle, to peel the potatoes.

  ‘Mrs Beacham,’ the large woman says once she notices Anne standing by the door. ‘Housekeeper and Cook.’

  ‘Miss Witmore.’ Anne pretends an air of confidence. ‘Lady’s maid.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Witmore. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Where is Cate?’

  It takes Mrs Beacham a moment to comprehend who Anne speaks of. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve sent her to the wash house. There is a pile of laundry that Bet has not seen to.’

  ‘The fires were not lit this morning either. I thought you should know.’

  ‘I shall have this house running ship shape in no time, Miss Witmore. You have no need to trouble yourself over fires and dusting, I can assure you. Clair and Cate shall be under my strict supervision.’

  Anne nods and forces a smile. ‘I’m sure the place will be much more efficient under your control. Where is Bet?’

  ‘Haven’t seen her. I gather she’ll be gone soon enough.’

  ‘This Saturday. Mr Oliver told me.’

  Mrs Beacham chops the head off a partridge. ‘Yes, he told me as well.’

  Anne hates her.

  ‘Right.’ Anne smooths her dress, and without another word from Mrs Beacham, she leaves.

  Loud crashes are coming from the butler’s room, as if suitcases are bashing into the furniture. She creeps towards the door, knocks, although it is not her place to do so; she has always been too curious. She holds her breath as she waits.

  A boy, with dull brown eyes and dull brown hair, emerges. It takes her a moment to realise it is her old childhood friend grinning back at her.

  ‘Anne!’ Will’s lips part in a wide smile which shows multiple missing teeth. ‘Da told me you were here. Lady’s maid! You’m doing well. Good to see you.’

  Anne returns a smile the best she can. ‘And you, Will. What are you doing here though? Should you be in here?’ She cranes her neck, hoping to get a better view of the room and who else is inside it.

  ‘I’m the new hall and stable boy. Da’s the manservant. Seems we’ve all got to muck in together, not how I thought such a grand house would be, but–’

  ‘Mr Oliver is doing his best.’

  ‘Never said he weren’t,’ Will says, cut short, and he kicks at the skirting board.

  ‘You should be grateful you have a position at all, you and your father, since you have no experience or training.’

  ‘I know.’ Will twists from side to side like a child, and she remembers the times they would play on the beach pretending to be a courting couple, or pirates finding lost treasure. The games stopped after Gwen’s accident. There was no more time for pretending after that.

  ‘Yes. Well, you’ve always had a way with horses,’ she says, guilt stirring in her chest. Finally, she rewards him with a smile. ‘And your da’s a good man. He helped me get here, I know.’

  They stand awkwardly for a few moments until the back door swings open and a gust of icy air blows at them. Will’s father, Mr Chipman, staggers into the house, a few small leather bags under his arms, his bulbous nose red from the cold.

  ‘You two catching up?’ he says.

&n
bsp; ‘I didn’t know you would be here. Will was just telling me about it.’

  Mr Chipman strides past the youngsters and into the room and places his bags down with a sigh. ‘Mr Oliver has done us a great deal of good, hasn’t he, Will?’

  ‘But what about your wife?’ Anne says. ‘And your daughters?’

  ‘Staying at home. With our wages, and without our mouths to feed, well,’ he says and laughs as he takes off his cap, ‘they’ll be living like ladies themselves.’

  ‘And you’re in the butler’s room?’

  ‘I know.’ Mr Chipman shakes his head, unable to believe his luck. ‘Will and I shall be sharing it. Mr Oliver says we might as well have our beds down here, keep you ladies separate upstairs.’

  Small mercies, she thinks. ‘Well, I hope you’ll be happy here.’

  ‘I will, Anne, now I know you’re here,’ Will says.

  Anne dips ever so slightly, then trots for the back stairs. With each step, she knows that Will is watching her.

  Later, after another quiet hour in his own company in the comfort of the library, Tom makes for his chamber. He longs for the softness of his bed; indeed, it is one of his favourite things since moving here, into this new world of wealth. His pillow is of finest down, and his silk sheets are seductively smooth – they soothe him into a deep sleep. He does not wish to share it with Mary at all.

  Yet, as his feet find the first step on the grand, sweeping staircase, he hears the click of the door and the heavy fall of her footsteps. By the time he has reached the landing, she is close behind him.

  ‘Tom.’ She is panting from hastening up the stairs.

  ‘Darling, I did not hear you come.’

  ‘I thought you might join me.’

  His stomach sinks. How should he broach it tonight? How many more nights will he have to find excuses until she might finally grow tired and leave him alone?

  ‘Not tonight.’ He leans against the wall. ‘I have drunk too much.’

  Mary’s mouth forms into its recognisable pout. ‘We are newly married.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he promises and turns for his room.