by Kate Morton
As Regent Street opens into Piccadilly, the noise and bustle escalates. The Saqui & Lawrence clocks are arranged at half-five—end of business—and the circus is clogged with traffic: pedestrian and automotive. Gentlemen and businessmen, ladies and errand boys jostle for safe passage. I squeeze between a motorbus and a stalled motorised taxi, am almost flattened by a horse-drawn cart laden with fat hessian sacks.
Down the Haymarket I hurry, jumping over an extended cane, invoking the ire of its monocled owner. I stay close to the buildings where the pavement is less travelled until, breathless, I reach Her Majesty’s Theatre. I lean against the stone wall directly beneath the playbill, scanning the laughing, frowning, speaking, nodding faces going by, waiting for my gaze to strike that familiar template. A thin gentleman and a thinner lady rush up the theatre stairs. He presents two tickets and they are swept inside. In the distance, a clock—Big Ben?—strikes the quarter-hour. Could Alfred still be coming? Has he changed his mind? Or am I too late and he’s already in his seat?
I wait to hear Big Ben sound the hour, then another quarter-hour for good measure. No one has entered or left the theatre since the pair of well-dressed greyhounds. By now I am sitting on the stairs. My breath is caught and I am resigned. I will not be seeing Alfred this evening.
When a street cleaner risks a lewd smile at me, it is finally time to leave. I gather my shawl about my shoulders, straighten my hat, and set back for number seventeen. I will write to Alfred. Explain what happened. About Hannah and Mrs Tibbit; I may even tell him the whole truth, about Emmeline and Philippe and the almost-scandal. For all his ideas about exploitation and feudal societies, Alfred is sure to understand. Isn’t he?
Hannah has told Teddy about Emmeline’s films and he is outraged. The timing couldn’t be worse, he says: he and his father are on the verge of amalgamating with Briggs Bank. They’ll be one of the biggest banking syndicates in London. The world. If word gets out about this filth it will ruin him, ruin all of them.
Hannah nods and apologises again, reminds Teddy that Emmeline is young and naïve and gullible. That she will grow out of it.
Teddy grunts. He is grunting a lot these days. He runs a hand through his dark hair, which is turning grey. Emmeline has had no guidance, he says; that’s the problem. Creatures that grow up in the wilderness turn out wild.
Hannah reminds him that Emmeline is growing up in the same place she did but Teddy only raises an eyebrow.
He huffs. He doesn’t have time to discuss it further; he has to get to the club. He has Hannah write down the film-maker’s address and he tells her not to keep things from him in future. There is no room for secrets between married people.
The next morning, when I am clearing away Hannah’s dressing table, I find a note with my name at its top. She has left it for me; must have put it there after I dressed her. I unfold it, my fingers trembling. Why? Not with fear or dread or any of the usual emotions that make people tremble. It is with expectation, unexpectedness, excitement.
When I open it, however, it is not written in English. It is a series of curves and lines and dots, marked carefully across the page. It is shorthand, I realise as I stare at it. I recognise it from the books I found, years ago, back at Riverton, when I was tidying Hannah’s room. She has left me a note in our secret language, a language I cannot read.
I keep the note with me all through the day while I clean, and stitch, and mend. But even though I make it through my chores, I am unable to concentrate. Half my mind is always occupied, wondering what it says, how I can find out. I look for books so that I might decode it—did Hannah bring them here from Riverton?—but I cannot find any.
A few days later, while I’m clearing tea, Hannah leans close to me and says, ‘Did you get my note?’
I tell her I did and my stomach tightens when she says,
‘Our secret,’ and smiles. The first smile I have seen in some time.
I know then it is important, a secret, and I the only person she has trusted. I must either confess or find a way to read it. I choose the latter, of course I do; it is the first time in my life anyone has written me a letter in a secret code.
Days later, it comes to me. I pull from beneath my bed The Return of Sherlock Holmes and let it fall open to a well-marked spot. There, between two favourite stories, is my special secret place. From amongst Alfred’s letters, I pluck a small scrap of notepaper, kept for over a year. I am lucky I still have it; kept not because it contains her address, but because it is written in his hand. I used to take it out regularly: look at it, smell it, replay the day he gave it to me, but have not done so in months, not since he started to write his regular, more affectionate letters. I remove it from its safe-keeping: Lucy Starling’s address.
I have never visited her before, have never needed to. My position keeps me busy and what little spare time I have is spent reading, or writing to Alfred. Besides, something else has stopped me contacting her. A small flame of envy, ridiculous but potent, sparked when Alfred spoke her first name so casually that evening in the fog.
As I reach the flat I’m racked with doubt. Am I doing the right thing? Does she still live here? Should I have worn my second, better dress? I ring the doorbell and an old lady answers. I am relieved and disappointed.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I was looking for someone else.’
‘Yes?’ says the old lady.
‘An old friend.’
‘Name?’
‘Miss Starling,’ I say, not that it’s any of her business. ‘Lucy Starling.’
I have nodded farewell and am turning to leave when she says, somewhat slyly, ‘First floor. Second door on the left.’
The landlady, as she turns out to be, watches me as I disappear up the red-carpeted stairs. I can no longer see her yet I feel her eyes on me. Perhaps I don’t; perhaps I have read too many mystery novels.
I go carefully along the hall. It is dark. The only window, above the stairwell, is grimy with dust from the road. Second on the left. I knock on the door. There is rustling behind it and I know she is home. I take a breath.
The door opens. It is her. Just as I remember.
She looks at me a moment. ‘Yes?’ Blinks. ‘Do I know you?’
The landlady is still watching. She has climbed up the first few stairs to keep me in her sights. I glance quickly at her then back at Miss Starling.
‘My name is Grace. Grace Reeves. I knew you at Riverton Manor?’
Realisation lights her face. ‘Grace. Of course. How lovely to see you.’ The in-between voice that used to set her apart amongst the staff at Riverton. She smiles, stands aside and gestures for me to come in.
I have not thought this far ahead. The idea of visiting at all came to me rather suddenly.
Miss Starling is standing in a little sitting room, waiting for me to sit so that she may do so.
She offers a cup of tea and it seems impolite to refuse. When she disappears into what I presume is a kitchenette, I allow my gaze to tiptoe over the room. It is lighter than the hall, and her windows, I notice, like the flat itself, are scrupulously clean. She has made the best of a modest situation.
She returns with a tray. Teapot, sugar bowl, two cups.
‘What a lovely surprise,’ she says. In her gaze is the question she is too polite to ask.
‘I’ve come to ask a favour,’ I say.
She nods. ‘What is it?’
‘You know shorthand?’
‘Of course,’ she says, frowning a little. ‘Pitman’s and Gregg’s.’
It is the last opportunity I have to back out, to leave. I could tell her I made a mistake, put back my teacup and head for the door. Hurry down the stairs, into the street and never return. But then I would never know. And I must. ‘Would you read something for me?’ I hear myself say. ‘Tell me what it says?’
‘Of course.’
I hand her the note. Hold my breath, hoping I have made the right decision.
Her pale eyes scan, line by line, excruciatin
gly slowly it seems. Finally she clears her throat. ‘It says, Thank you for your help in the unfortunate film affair. How would I have got on without you? T was none too pleased . . . I’m sure you can imagine. I haven’t told him everything, certainly not about our visit to that dreadful place. He doesn’t take kindly to secrets. I know I can count on you, my trusted Grace, more like a sister than a maid.’ She looks up at me. ‘Does that make sense to you?’
I nod, I am unable to speak. More like a sister. A sister. I am suddenly in two places at once: here in Lucy Starling’s modest sitting room, and far and long ago in the Riverton nursery, gazing longingly from the bookcase at two girls with matching hair and matching bows. Matching secrets.
Miss Starling returns the note but makes no further comment on its contents. I realise, suddenly, that it may have raised suspicions, with its talk of unfortunate affairs and keeping secrets.
‘It’s part of a game,’ I say quickly, then slower, luxuriating in the falsehood. ‘A game we sometimes play.’
‘How nice,’ says Miss Starling, smiling unconcernedly. She is a secretary and is used to learning and forgetting the confidences of others.
We finish our tea chatting about London and the old days at Riverton. I am surprised to hear that Miss Starling was always nervous when she had to come downstairs. That she found Mr Hamilton more imposing than Mr Frederick. We both laugh when I tell her we were as nervous as she.
‘Of me?’ she says, patting the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Of all the funny things.’
When I stand to leave, she asks me to come again and I tell her I will. I mean it too. I wonder why I have not done so sooner: she is a kind person and neither of us has other contacts in London. She walks me to the door and we say goodbye.
As I turn to leave, I see something on her reading table. Lean closer to make sure.
A theatre program.
I’d have thought nothing of it, only the name is familiar.
‘Princess Ida?’ I say.
‘Yes.’ Her own gaze drops to the table. ‘I went last week.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was enormous fun,’ she says. ‘You really must go if you have the chance.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I had planned to.’
‘Now that I think of it,’ she says, ‘it’s really quite a coincidence you should come today.’
‘A coincidence?’ Coldness spreading beneath my skin.
‘You’ll never guess who I went to the theatre with.’
Oh, but I fear I will.
‘Alfred Steeple. You remember Alfred? From Riverton?’
‘Yes,’ I seem to say.
‘It was really quite unexpected. He had a spare ticket. Someone cancelled on him at the last minute. He said he was all set to go alone and then he remembered I was in London. We ran into each other over a year ago and he still remembered my address. So we went together; it was a shame to waste a ticket, you know what they cost these days.’
Do I imagine the pink that spreads under her pale, freckled cheeks, makes her seem gauche and girlish, despite being at least ten years older than I?
Somehow I manage to nod goodbye as she closes the door behind me. In the distance a car horn sounds.
Alfred, my Alfred, took another woman to the theatre. Laughed with her, bought her supper, walked her home.
I start down the stairs.
While I was looking for him, searching the streets, he was here, asking Miss Starling to accompany him instead. Giving her the ticket intended for me.
I stop, lean against the wall. Close my eyes and clench my fists. I cannot rid my mind of this image: the two of them, arm in arm, smiling as they relive the evening’s events. Just as I had dreamt Alfred and I would. It is unbearable.
A noise close by. I open my eyes. The landlady is standing at the bottom of the stairs, gnarled hand resting on the banister, spectacled eyes trained on me. And on her unkind face an expression of inexplicable satisfaction. Of course he went with her, her expression says, what would he want with the likes of you when he could have someone like Lucy Starling? You’ve got too big for your boots, aimed too high. You should’ve listened to your mother and minded your place.
I want to slap her cruel face.
I hurry down the remaining stairs, brush past the old woman and into the street.
And I vow never to see Miss Lucy Starling again.
Hannah and Teddy are arguing about the war. It seems everyone across London is arguing about the war these days. Enough time has passed and, though the grief has not gone, will never go, distance is allowing people a more critical eye.
Hannah is making poppies out of red tissue paper and black wire, and I am helping. But my mind is not on my work. I am still afflicted with thoughts of Alfred and Lucy Starling. I am bewildered and I am cross, but most of all I am hurt that he could transfer his affections so easily. I have written him another letter, but I am yet to hear back. In the meantime, I feel strangely empty; at night, in my darkened room, I have been subject to the odd rush of tears. It is easier by day, I am better able to put such emotions aside, affix my servant’s mask and try to be the best lady’s maid I can. And I must. For without Alfred, Hannah is all I have.
The poppies are Hannah’s new cause. It’s to do with the poppies on Flanders fields, she says. The poppies in a poem by a Canadian medical officer who did not survive the war. It’s how we’re going to remember the war dead this year.
Teddy thinks it unnecessary. He believes those who died at war made a worthy sacrifice but that it is time to move on.
‘It wasn’t a sacrifice,’ Hannah says, finishing another poppy, ‘it was a waste. Their lives were wasted. Those who died and those who came back: the living dead, who sit on the street corners with bottles of liquor and beggars’ hats.’
‘Sacrifice, waste, same thing,’ says Teddy. ‘You are being pedantic.’
Hannah says he is being obtuse. She doesn’t look up as she adds that he would do well to wear a poppy himself. It might help stop the trouble downstairs.
There have been difficulties lately. They started after Lloyd George ennobled Simion for services during the war. Some of the servants were in the war themselves, or lost fathers and brothers, and don’t think too much of Simion’s war record. There is not a lot of love lost for folks like Simion and Teddy who are seen to have made money off the deaths of others.
Teddy doesn’t answer Hannah, or not fully. He mutters something about folks being ungrateful and how they should be pleased to have a job in these times, but he does pick up a poppy, twirling it by its black wire stem. He is quiet for a while, pretending absorption in the newspaper. Hannah and I continue to twist red tissue paper to bind the petals onto stems.
Teddy folds his newspaper and tosses it onto the table beside. He stands and straightens his jacket. He is off to the club, he says. He comes to Hannah’s side and threads the poppy lightly into her hair. She can wear it for him, he says, it suits her better than it does him. Teddy bends and kisses her cheek, and then he strides across the room. As he reaches the door he hesitates as if he’s remembered something, and he turns.
‘There’s one sure way to lay the war to rest,’ he says, ‘and that’s to replace the lives that were lost with new ones.’
It is Hannah’s turn not to answer. She stiffens, but not so that anyone would notice who wasn’t looking for the reaction. She does not look at me. Her fingers reach up and slip Teddy’s poppy from her hair.
Hannah has still not fallen. It is a continuing bone of contention between them, made worse by Estella’s increasingly stern encouragement. She and I do not discuss it and I do not know her feelings on the matter. In the beginning I wondered whether she was somehow preventing herself falling with some remedy or another. But I have seen nothing to support that. Perhaps she is just one of those women not disposed to falling. The lucky ones, my mother used to say.
In the autumn of 1921, an attempt is made on me. A friend of Estella’s, Lady Pemberto
n-Brown, corners me at a country weekend and offers me a position. She begins by admiring my needlepoint then tells me that a good lady’s maid is hard to find these days and she would very much like me to come and work for her.
I am flattered: it is the first time my services have been sought. The Pemberton-Browns live at Glenfield Hall and are one of the oldest and grandest families in all of England. Mr Hamilton used to tell us stories about Glenfield, the household against which every other English butler compared his own.
I thank her for her kind words but tell her I couldn’t possibly leave my current position. She tells me to think about it. Says she will come and see me again the next day in case I change my mind.
And she does. All smiles and flattery.
I say no, again. More firmly this time. I tell her that I know my place, I know where I belong. With whom, to whom.
Weeks later, when we are back at number seventeen, Hannah finds out about Lady Pemberton-Brown. She calls me to the drawing room one morning and I know as soon as I enter that she is not pleased, although I don’t yet know why. She is pacing.
‘Can you imagine, Grace, what it’s like to find out in the middle of a luncheon, with seven other women intent on making me look a fool, that an attempt has been made on my lady’s maid?’
I inhale; am caught unawares.
‘To be sitting amid a group of women and to have them start on about it, laughing if you please, acting all surprise that I didn’t know. That such a thing could happen right under my nose. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am—’
‘I should think so. I need to be able to trust you, Grace. I thought I could, after all this time, after all we’ve been through together . . .’
I have still not heard from Alfred. Weariness and worry lend my voice a jagged edge. ‘I told Lady Pemberton-Brown no, ma’am. I didn’t think to mention it because I didn’t think to accept.’
Hannah stops, looks at me, exhales. She sits on the edge of the sofa and shakes her head. She smiles feebly. ‘Oh, Grace. I’m sorry. How perfectly beastly of me. I don’t know what’s come over me, behaving like this.’ She seems paler than usual.