The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

  The servants’ corridor seemed to cool around us. A faint breeze caressed the nape of my neck, and I wondered whether someone had opened a door in a different part of the house.

  Roisin continued. “Pawel said no one could find Alex. He wasn’t answering his phone, but his car was in the garage, so they knew he hadn’t left. While everyone was waiting for the ambulance to arrive, the staff, and in particular Mrs Huxley, searched everywhere for him but couldn’t find him. It was Lottie who found him in the end.”

  “Where was he?”

  “He was in the little cupboard above the stairs. The one with the peephole.” She shook her head. “Don’t you think that’s strange? I could imagine a child hiding away after seeing such a terrible thing. But an adult?”

  “Did he see his mother fall down the stairs?”

  “I don’t know,” Roisin said. “Pawel didn’t tell me that.”

  I thought of Alex and me squashed up tight in the cupboard, our bodies almost pressed together. I thought about what he’d said. The voyeurism. The power of watching. I folded my arms around my body, trying to warm myself from the cold chill. It was then that I wondered whether I’d started to play a game I could never win, but was too addicted to stop.

  The Music Room

  For some reason, when I waited for him, I tucked my arms behind my back and drew my shoulders up, straightened my spine, lifting my chin. Perhaps I wanted him to see that I had discipline, that my excellent posture was an indication of excellent character. He always walked tall, his strides long but not loping and ungainly, rather contained and controlled. He would sit at the piano with perfect posture. I saw the years of disciplined practice paying off when he touched the black and white keys.

  My heart fluttered with excitement when he placed the key into the lock and opened the door. This was my favourite part of the week, and sometimes I spent hours daydreaming about it while dusting the library or folding linens. Beethoven, Debussy and Chopin were reflective earworms that resonated through my mind. His playing made me feel smart. The way he talked to me made me feel like someone who mattered, someone who had a brain.

  “We’re going to do things a little differently tonight,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  I’d felt some anticipation about meeting him here again. The rest of the week had gone by in a blur. I’d ended up working on Sunday rather than taking the day off and found myself in a fog, amazed that it was Friday already.

  He told me to sit down on the stool, and he took the seat next to me. “This is middle C,” he said, playing a note almost perfectly in the centre of the piano. Then he pointed to a black squiggle on the music paper. “That is the mark for middle C.”

  At first, I wondered why he was teaching me this. Why would I need to know? But he continued on, showing me several of the notes and their symbols on the paper. He lifted my hands, placed my fingers against the notes and told me to press the keys.

  “Not like that,” he chastised. “Gently.”

  He wasn’t a patient teacher, but he didn’t sigh in frustration or shake his head. He placed my hands where they needed to go. He barked out directions for a while, and then he began to test me. He’d play one note and ask me what it was. He’d point to the squiggles on the paper and make me tell him what they were.

  “If you keep getting these wrong, I’ll have to punish you.”

  His eyelids drooped down, obscuring the irises. His lips pulled tightly at the edges. Even under the bright lights, I saw darkness in the contours of his face. I wanted to please him. I longed to be a fast learner who made him proud, but I was clumsy, and my hands never went to the right places. I shivered down to the piano stool, every touch sending electricity up and down my spine.

  “That’s enough for one day,” he said suddenly. And with that, he launched into the sonata.

  For some reason I wanted to cry. I didn’t cry often, but the most robust sensation of inadequacy ran through me that the little girl inside pounded at my rib cage, begging for me to allow her heart to ache. Instead, I cleared my throat and waited for him to indicate when to turn the page. Then I did it right on cue. Again. And again. And again. I turned the page. This I could do, I thought. I’d never become a pianist because I was too clumsy with my fingers sore and red from cleaning all day. But this I could manage.

  At least, so I thought. My concentration lapsed when he began the sonata for the second time. We’d been in the music room for at least two hours by that point, much longer than the hour he’d promised our sessions would take. When I missed his direction, he stopped playing and the silence fell so quickly it was like a heavy curtain dropping around us.

  He turned to face me. “Give me your hand, Emily.”

  I shuddered when he said my name with that soft but firm voice, peppermint on his breath. I could hear my ragged breaths in the quiet, echoing room. Reluctantly, but with a modicum of curiosity, I reached out and placed my palm in his.

  “This is for your own benefit, because I want you to learn. What’s the point of life if you’re not learning to be better?” His long fingers encased my small hand. He held me firmly, but not hard enough to hurt me. And then he pinched me on the forearm. It made me gasp because I wasn’t expecting it. And then he did it again, just below the elbow. It smarted, but I wouldn’t call it painful. That didn’t make it less wrong, but I suppose it made it easier to dismiss. Of course, I knew that an employer shouldn’t be doing this to his maid, but it happened so fast that I didn’t know how to react. I simply sat there and took it.

  Afterwards, when he’d let go of my hand—which I placed back in my lap—he continued with the piano piece as though nothing had happened. I turned the pages diligently, not wanting to experience any more of his punishments.

  “Very good,” he said at last, without turning his head in my direction and without any joy or lightness in his voice. My head was bowed, and I couldn’t look at him. Half my body was hot with shame, the other cold from the evening chill in a badly heated house.

  After everything that had happened, he played me the Debussy three times in a row, presumably to apologise for the punishment he’d just doled out. But for some reason that brought the warmth of my temper back, until the final note, when he looked at me and smiled. He lifted one hand from the piano and brushed a lock of hair away from my face. It cooled my hot temper almost immediately. At the time, I thought of that act as affectionate, showing me that despite the funny little games he liked to play, he did have feelings for me. But in hindsight, I think he was probably neatening my unruly hair.

  Chapter 20

  After the music room, I needed fresh air. It was after ten p.m., and I was exhausted by hours of concentration. When Alex had asked me to turn the pages for him, I hadn’t expected how much work it entailed. But I loved the new existence of music in my mind. I loved the way certain musical patterns stayed with me long after he played them and made my step a little lighter. In the music room, I stopped thinking about the dioramas and the past, nothing existed except me, Alex, and the piano in front of us.

  Outside the music room, everything came flooding back.

  Wood-panelled hallways sprawled through the mansion like veins. Constricted and dark in the evening. They closed in on me, drawing closer and closer until the pressure built around my ribs, a relentless vice with me in its grip. I hadn’t bothered to use the servants’ corridor because it was late and I knew the door from the entrance hall was quicker to reach. I hurried my way through the house, concerned that I might bump into Lord Bertie and be forced to explain myself.

  A high wind raged outside. It caught the baby hairs around my face. The long-sleeved tunic was breathable and ideal for cleaning draughty rooms, but it offered little protection against the cool evening air. I wrapped my arms around my body and crunched down the gravel path until I reached the gardens. Hoping I stayed in the shadows—I didn’t want to deal with Mrs Huxley’s curiosity—I made my way to the roses at the bottom of the lawn. Bone-whi
te petals shone brightly in the moonlight, like a beacon in the dark. With each step my chest released. The vice slowly opened as though someone else rotated the winch.

  At the bottom of the garden, I turned to face the house, its edges jagged and rough in the dark. The climbing plants were in silhouette, little more than blobs of black against the inky sky. My gaze pulled towards the light inside, and I felt like a voyeur, looking in. Just like Alex in the secret cupboard.

  A yellow glow emanated from Lottie’s bedroom, and every now and then, I saw her move towards the window in a slinky black dress. She was getting ready to go out with her friends. It was late, but also a Friday night, and soon a fancy sports car would arrive to take her out to York, Leeds or even London. I’d heard tales of her weekend partying that stretched across two or three days at least.

  Beneath her window, I saw the light on inside the morning room, but it was empty. I wondered whether Lord Bertie was in his office at the back of the house. Then I noticed movement and saw Margot walking the length of the downstairs hallway, her grey hair piled up into a bun on top of her head. She was little more than a silhouette, but I’d recognise her thin frame and the slight hunch to her shoulders anywhere. She walked like a French actress from the sixties. Brigitte Bardot at her sexiest, all hips and cool slouch.

  I stood there for a while, thinking about Lottie’s diorama. I hadn’t spoken to her since helping her with her closet a few days ago. Time ticked on, and I was aware that I needed to do something. The conversation I’d overheard between Lord Bertie and Mrs Huxley had made one thing clear—I was no priority to him. He hadn’t asked me any questions or talked to me about the diorama. Perhaps I needed to approach him, although doing so could be tricky. Any wrong move or false step could end in me being fired and on my way back to someone’s sofa or even the streets. Then I wouldn’t uncover any secrets at all.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  I yelped like a wounded puppy and spun towards the roses to find Ade raising his hand to his mouth, suppressing a laugh.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, that was a fantastic sound you made though. Are you all right? I was just kidding around. I thought I’d make you think you were in trouble, but I guess I didn’t think about it being late and dark. I’m such an idiot.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m just a bit jumpy.” A juddering, nervous laugh filled the air between us. He kept three paces away from me as though I were a startled animal he had to approach with caution. “What are you doing here this late anyway? Bit dark for gardening isn’t it?”

  Before he answered, I noticed the first few drops of drizzle land on my forehead. We both lifted our faces to the sky at the same time.

  “Maybe we should go inside,” he said. “Were you heading back to the house, or were you running away somewhere?”

  “Actually, I was about to dance naked in the woods,” I said. “Cavorting with the devil is more my thing.”

  He glanced at me sideways and let out a small laugh. Perhaps it was the mention of nudity that made him clear his throat as though he was embarrassed.

  “I could see Huxley doing that,” he said. “I mean, not see her, because, you know, it’s Mrs Huxley, but I could definitely imagine some witchy behaviour there. She has the look.”

  “She definitely has the look. So, what were you doing out here at night?”

  “I stayed late,” he said. “I wanted to finish bedding some delphiniums next to the path. I’d spent all day with the privets. Pawel made me a risotto in the kitchen, seeing as I stayed late, and we opened a bottle of his vodka. I was on the way out when I saw you down here.” He pointed to the fountain at the top of the drive. “I guess you didn’t see me coming from the hedgerows.”

  “I guess not.” We reached the gravel path, and Ade hesitated next to me. For some reason, it almost felt like we were two people at the end of a date. What a strange date this would have been.

  “Pawel fed me too much vodka, so I need to walk home now,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t tell Huxley that I’ve left my truck in the back driveway. She’ll have my head on a platter.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  “Has anyone around here told you about Saturday nights?” he asked.

  “No, what about them?”

  “Sometimes we go down to the Crossed Scythes in Paxby for a few pints. Me, the kitchen guys and Roisin. You should come tomorrow night. If you’re not out being witchy in the woods.”

  I raised a finger as though considering it. “No, it’s Mrs Huxley’s turn tomorrow. She’s going to sacrifice some kittens to Lucifer.”

  He laughed and pulled up his hood before making his way down the drive. He was easy to make laugh and easy to talk to, and those big brown eyes were a lot warmer than Alex’s cold sea tones. I went in through the servants’ door, barely noticing how damp my hair was from the drizzle outside. I wiped a spattering of mud from my shoes and walked back to the bedroom. I felt lighter. There was no game to play with Ade, just pleasant conversation. I didn’t worry about potential stalkers or sacked maids with grudges or whether I’d need to squeeze myself into an enclosed space in order to entertain him.

  Ade was easy. Alex was not.

  Roisin grabbed me by the arm and gasped when I mentioned the pub that next morning. “Finally! I’ve put up with way too many conversations about football with the lads here. But now I can talk to you.” She let out a little squeal of joy. “We’ll get dressed up. We’re booking a taxi so we can wear heels and everything.”

  When I told her that I couldn’t go, she pouted at me for a full hour.

  I’d agonised over the decision for much of the night, but the truth was, I couldn’t afford it. I hadn’t been paid yet, and I had enough money for maybe a few Cokes. I definitely couldn’t afford to share a taxi with Roisin and buy drinks. Then, what if they wanted to do rounds? How would I tell them that I couldn’t afford to buy a pint?

  But Roisin was so disappointed that she just couldn’t let it go. To her credit, she got the truth out of me before the end of the day. I’d fobbed her off with lame excuses about needing an early night and not wanting to annoy Mrs Huxley during my first month. But she didn’t believe a word. She cornered me in the library, blocking my path by holding a long feather duster like a staff.

  “What’s going on? Is this about Alex?”

  Even the sound of his name made me bristle. I found myself growing more and more defensive without fully understanding why. Though if I admitted it to myself, I’d know it was because I didn’t want to keep being warned away from him when I knew full well it was wrong. I knew and yet, I didn’t care.

  “It’s not about Alex.”

  “Ade? I think he likes you.”

  “Not him either.”

  “Then what is it? Oh, is it because you’re in the programme?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tell me. I’m not letting you clean until you tell me.”

  Through gritted teeth, I explained about how I was waiting to be paid before I had any disposable income. And that wasn’t fair to her, but it was how I felt, about being poor, about failing one of the basic necessities for a human being—to be able to pay for shit I needed. But after a few moments, I slowly began to relax, realising that she wasn’t going to judge me. Roisin listened attentively, nodding her head, lifting her strawberry blonde eyebrows and expressing sympathy.

  “I’ll pay for your drinks,” she said.

  “No, I don’t like doing that—”

  “Don’t you know what friendship is?”

  Her question caught me off guard. I had no answer. Maybe I didn’t.

  “We’re friends now. Let me pay this time, and once your first wage comes through, you can buy me a Coke. Deal?”

  I smiled. “Deal.” And then she grabbed my hand and held it aloft, like two old buddies on an American cop show.

  Later that day, once dinner had been served and the Howards filtered back to their
rooms, Roisin caught my wrist and dragged me to the bedroom. She forced me into one of her strappy dresses and a pair of wedge heels, and I added a cardigan because it was cold outside at night.

  “The clothes shopping around here is dire. There are a few independent stores if you get a bus into town, but the village has nothing. We’ll go shopping once you’ve been paid and get you some nicer things.”

  She straightened my hair and gave me a lipstick. None of it was quite me. I’d always been a tomboy at school. Flat-chested and dressed in baggy clothes from charity shops, no one flirted with me. Boys talked to me because I liked the same music they liked and I wanted to go to the same clubs they did. But rather than kiss me under the strobe lights, they passed me their spliffs or handed me a tab. They introduced me to their girlfriends and said, “She’s cool.”

  Roisin was my first best friend. My first sister. She was an anchor to me at Highwood Hall, someone with a grounding effect on the kind of person who tends to fly too close to the sun. She was too good for that place. I wanted better things for her. I still do.

  Chapter 21

  I’d never seen Paxby at night before. There were fewer streetlights compared to the suburb of York where I grew up. Cars crawled infrequently along the narrow roads. The word sleepy came to mind, and with the woods encroaching on the residential space—those thin branches scraping the windows of our taxi—it didn’t feel like it truly belonged to the people living there.

  Paxby lost its quaint prettiness at night, and instead you saw the flaws that the ivy-covered cottages hid. Young people were scarce because none of them could afford to buy a house in the village. We were the youngest pub patrons by a long margin and certainly the most dressed up. None of that seemed to faze Roisin, however, who beamed at the locals as she ordered me a Diet Coke and herself an Aperol spritz. Hers was bright orange like Irn-Bru in a gin glass. The men at the bar sat straighter on their stools when she approached, and their eyes followed her path as she walked away.