Eve

by Beverley Hughesdon

  – I’d thrown him off the scent. Driving home my advantage I added, ‘From what you gennlemen was a-saying of, afore, you did oughter be pleased. Seeing as I do be a right plucky en.’

  He replied softly, ‘So it would appear. But let me test the truth of your – other – assertion.’ His hand began to travel up my leg. Thank goodness I was wearing my breeks – clever, clever Eve. His finger ran round the hem of my trouser leg – he’d never be able to tell. I felt myself relax into his hand – which in response became gentler, and was almost stroking my leg, now. Be a cat Eve, a cat being stroked.

  He’d nearly reached my behind by now – but luckily I didn’t have a big backside, like Glad’s, so he’d never be able to tell, not even if he squeezed gently – the way he was doing. It didn’t hurt – he was just nicely warming my behind; and it must be costing him more effort, because his breathing had quickened by now – I could hear it clearly, but fortunately the dining room was getting pretty noisy – all that port, I suppose.

  He’d finally decided that my behind was what he’d expected, and his hand was now moving up my back. He chose to go under my jersey – but that didn’t matter since he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a blouse and a shirt – except that he was changing direction. Presumably he couldn’t reach my shoulders, so was heading for my armpit instead – oh no! Any minute now he was going to find my breasts! I moved quickly to peer over the side, reached out my bare foot and aiming straight for that great crest of a nose and kicked, hard.

  I caught him off balance. He sprang off the window seat and landed on the floor with a heavy thud – just as the chorus of laughter from the other side of the curtains came to an end. A moment’s silence, then the murmur of voices resumed – and the curtain rings rattled again. I whipped my foot up and tucked it underneath me. ‘Are you alright, Monty old fellow?’ The slightly squeaky voice of Mr Parton.

  Horseface replied, ‘Just looking at the moon, old chap. You know, I do find that full, shapely curve of hers most appealing.’ I was bewildered, since the moon was still waxing. Then, ‘Let me shut out the light.’ The curtain rings rattled yet again. Horseface’s voice dropped. ‘Actually, Fred, I came in here because I thought I caught sight of a rat behind the arras. But, as I did rather suspect, it’s not a rodent but a ginger cat – up there on top of the cupboard.’

  Mr Parton squeaked in surprise, ‘A tomcat – in the dining room?’

  Lord Rothbury said, ‘Not all ginger cats are toms, Fred. It’s a common misconception – and one I shared until a ginger cat in the stables at Overby gave birth to six kittens. No-one had realised it was a female – except, of course, the other tomcats. But then, the male of the species is seldom misled over such matters.’ He laughed.

  I went cold. Surely this story of his was just coincidence? He went on, ‘That little ginger she-cat was quite a fire-brand, too. One minute you could handle her as easy as pie – the next, she’d scratch you soon as look at you.’ I began to relax again. Just typical male, after-dinner reminiscing. ‘She caught me on the bridge of the nose, once – with a back paw.’ Oh no! He hadn’t finished.

  ‘But you know, Fred, the worst incident was that time when you were with me – and that young ginger she-cat, who’d been purring so nicely when I’d stroked her earlier, suddenly took it into her head to lob a fish straight at my waistcoat – a herring, to be precise.’

  ‘What!’ Mr Parton was agitated – but no more than I was. Horseface’s deep voice whispered, ‘Then she turned into a fiery orange vixen, and ran away. But I caught her.’ I could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice – which continued as he announced, ‘I think, Fred, I’ve captured the very same vixen today – up there, on top of the leaf cupboard.’

  Mr Parton’s squeak was distressed. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh yes – horse or female, I never forget a rump I’ve handled – especially not one as neat and shapely as hers.’ He paused a moment before asking, ‘What do you think? Shall we tell Travers we’ve treed his pet Scots housemaid?’

  Oh no – I was in an agony of apprehension now. They couldn’t tell Dr Travers – whatever would he think.? I swivelled my head and shoulders over the edge of my perch – concealment was useless now – and heard good old Mr Parton say, ‘No, no – I really don’t think we should.’

  I leant further out, and they both looked up at me. Grimacing I mouthed, ‘No – please!’

  Ignoring my plea rotten old Horseface said, ‘I think we really should let him in on this joke.’

  Mr Parton murmured, ‘It’s probably not his sort of joke, old man.’

  A burst of laughter from the other side of the curtains gave me my chance. Hanging right over the edge I whispered in my best Scots accent, ‘Nae, he’d no find it funny.’ There was no answer. Desperate now I pleaded, ‘Ye wudna tell him – wud ye?’

  This time he did reply. ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you, young woman?’ Then, ‘I’m going to open the curtains – after you, Fred.’

  Panic! I threw myself back into the shadows – and heard him close the curtains again behind him. As I slumped in relief I heard his voice saying, ‘Gentlemen, don’t you think it’s time we joined the ladies – or the billiard table?’

  There was a chorus of haw-haws in reply – and chairs began to scrape. Under cover of that noise I slid out of the top window and up the wall outside. I didn’t stop until I was on the roof – then I lay there shivering at the narrowness of my escape. But had I escaped – or would he still tell Dr Travers? I climbed back over the leads to bed.

  Even as I woke up next morning I seemed to hear Lord Rothbury’s voice in my head saying, ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’ And I’d been so looking forward to Dr Travers’ stay – and the concert, and the dance. And now there was this threat hanging over my head. Rotten, rotten old Horseface.

  I was downstairs in my print dress and frilled mob cap even before H.H. the next morning. She merely looked pleased at my promptness. So nothing had been said – yet. I went off to fetch my brushes and dusters.

  At 8.55 we filed in to Family prayers. As Lord Stokesley read the Bible passage my eyes slid to the guests. Lord Rothbury’s face was impassive; Mr Parton’s, worried; and Dr Travers’ – very serious. Oh no!

  As soon as we’d filed out again I turned to look at H.H., but her demeanour was unchanged – except for the frown of importance occasioned by having the imminent responsibility for supervising the cleaning of the bedrooms of: dukes, 1; earls, 2; barons, 2; and all their respective consorts – plus Duke’s younger son, 1; earls’ daughters, 2; Hons., (on envelopes) 2; captains, l; mere misses and misters, 2 and 3 respectively. And then the only one who’d earnt his title (I didn’t count fighting as earning) – Dr Travers. Oh yes, and there was also that spare single marquis – who was the reason for my not being able to enjoy the otherwise thrilling prospect of sweeping and dusting HIS room. And to make matters worse, I’d got to sweep and dust the spare Marquis’ room, too.

  I did that, and at least I didn’t have to empty his chamber pot, since he hadn’t used it. Which was more than could be said for Lord Ernest or Mr Hon. (on envelopes) Brandon. Too lazy to walk down the corridor – I’d have something to say about that when I wrote up my: ‘Exploration of the Tribal Rituals of the British Upper Classes’.

  At hall dinner H.H. was still calm, and in the sitting room afterwards I discovered that the gentlemen and two of the ladies had gone out for the day to shoot defenceless pheasants. Even so, I didn’t feel like straying far myself – not with the sword of Damocles poised over my head. Instead I slipped into the library and purloined a couple of Jerome K. Jerome novels – I needed cheering up. Lying on my bed upstairs I nodded off over my novel, and only woke up in time for tea. On my way to the sitting room I passed the gun room, with its scent of fresh cordite and oil, and stopped to breathe in the memories of India – and Apa. A tall, gaunt, middle-aged man, who was busy cleaning a double-barelled shotgun, glanced up and
winked. Behind me Norah whispered, ‘That’s Mr Wilkins, Lord Rothbury’s valet.’ I put my nose in the air and marched on. Typical of Horseface – expecting to be waited on hand and foot. Mr Parton didn’t have a valet, and nor, of course, did Dr Travers – who at this very moment was probably being told the story of my sins over his scones. Oh well, if it was going to happen, better let it happen on a full stomach… I began to butter my own scone.

  I did go out for a brisk walk after tea – I can never bear to stay inside all day. Then back for the job of issuing hot water jugs – one of them to Mr Wilkins. I hope it scalded him (Horseface, I mean – Mr Wilkins was only guilty by association). The dressing bell rang, we went down to tidy the main rooms, hid while the guests processed into dinner, then up again to tidy the bedrooms. Down again to our supper – after which I went straight to bed.

  By Sunday morning I was beginning to breathe more easily – perhaps he’d forgotten all about me. We processed to church in our black bonnets and capes, and then were hustled out after the service, ready to bob. I’d noticed earlier that although all the married couples and single ladies were on church parade, only three of the single gentlemen had turned out for it. As we bobbed, Horseface looked straight through me, Mr Parton gave a nervous smile – and Dr Travers stopped. ‘It’s the Scots girl, isn’t it?’ And then he smiled. ‘How are you getting on here?’ My legs nearly buckled under me – I gave a second bob of pure relief before telling him, ‘Verra well, sir – thank ye kindly for asking.’

  With another smile, this one encompassing the entire attendant bevy of maids, he put his hat back on the shining waves of his beautiful dark hair and departed in the wake of Horseface – who obviously had not split on me.

  By Sunday afternoon I’d got my nerve back, and was rather ashamed of having lost it in the first place. I wasn’t going to let Horseface turn me into a coward – my researches would resume without delay. Still, I was cautious enough to opt for the library as my site – since, as I said before, the long, double curtains in there were always partially drawn. And besides, I knew that if I slipped in there at around 4 o’clock, by 4.30 any tribal inhabitants who might have appeared would have left again, in order to partake of the ritual of tea – poured by Lady Stokesley’s own, august hand in the drawing room. I’d been told by William that, other than on shooting days, she expected all her guests to be present.

  So, after the usual preliminary reconnaissance, I slipped from pillar to pillar along the left-hand side of the hall and through the door of the library. Within seconds I was safely ensconced in there, behind the curtains of the bigger window at the far end.

  I was in luck – after only a few minutes I heard the door opening. I admit I was a little nervous, but eavesdropping was like climbing – you had to get back to it after a stumble, or you’d lose your nerve. My reward was immediate. Mr Parton’s voice said, ‘I’m sure we’ll find a copy of Aristotle in here, Will.’ Will. Bliss.

  Then I heard a third, heavier, pair of footsteps, and a sort of rattling sound, accompanying Dr. Travers’ exclamation of, ‘What has got into you these days, Monty old man? Every time we go into a room you rush over to the windows, pull the curtains back as far as they’ll go, and…’

  I only had a second to grab a book from a tiny shelf set into the window alcove, fling it open and bend my head – before the brass rings went rattling back.

  ‘Well, well! And what have we here?’

  I lifted my head, gave a pretend start of surprise, jumped to my feet, and bobbed, ‘Good afternoon, my lord, Dr Travers, sir. I’ll be away, then.’

  Except there was no way – Lord Rothbury, looking larger than ever, was barring my escape. I moved left, he moved left. To the right stood Dr Travers, looking puzzled. ‘It’s the Scots girl again, isn’t it? Eve Gunn. But whatever were you doing behind the curtain?’

  I answered quickly, ‘Reading, sir, I like to—’

  The book was plucked from my hand. Lord Rothbury held it up and looked at the spine. ‘“Alice in Wonderland” – a somewhat unusual choice for a housemaid.’ His eyes went to the small shelf of tiny volumes – looking rather dishevelled now, as if one of their number had been hastily removed – as indeed, it had.

  I remembered blessed Tenniel and said quickly, ‘I was looking at the pictures, I like pictures. What’s the use of a book, without pictures or—’ Oh no, now I was quoting Alice herself!

  Thank goodness, Dr Travers failed to notice. ‘That may be so, but I’m sure her ladyship provides magazines with pictures – to be read in the housemaids’ sitting room.’ His tone was pretty severe. ‘And I’m even more sure that she would be most displeased if she knew you were in one of the family rooms at this time of day.’ I felt my face go scarlet. He sounded as if he really minded – rum and he had got me the job, too.

  Lord Rothbury broke in, ‘Why, you might even be accused of eavesdropping! For which you have the most appropriate name: Eve, the eavesdropper. Haw, haw!’

  That braying laugh of his was just too much for me. Glaring at him I exclaimed recklessly, ‘And what’s it matter if I do listen? A cat can look at a king – can a servant no listen to her mistress?’ And realised I’d been caught in my own snare. My cheeks flamed at the sight of Lord Rothbury’s smirk.

  Dr Travers said, ‘So you were eavesdropping?’ He sounded very pained.

  I thought furiously, ‘Deed, an’ it’s the ladies I like tae listen tae – for I do sa want tae learn tae speak like a fine lady, maself.’ Out of the corner of my eye I saw that I’d disconcerted Lord Rothbury. I added, ‘Then maybe I can better maself – and be a lady’s maid, one day.’

  Dr Travers looked slightly less stern; Lord Rothbury seemed very surprised. ‘She can certainly ape a passable Shropshire accent, I’ve heard her do it myself. But,’ he turned to address me directly, ‘I think you’ll find that to speak like a lady is very different.’ He sounded so patronising.

  I smiled, before quoting, ‘But my dear, did you see her hat! I’ve no doubt that style was in the forefront of fashion when Noah’s wife wore it with her boating costume – but it was hardly the thing for Henley, today, – now was it, truly?’

  Dr Travers exclaimed, ‘Good gracious – Anna Dearman to a “T”!’

  Mr Parton was impressed. ‘How very, very skilfull.’

  Lord Rothbury said, ‘What a clever little parrot you are.’

  I smiled at Mr Parton while keeping one eye warily on Dr Travers and ignoring Lord Rothbury with the other. ‘So ye see, I am learning.’

  Dr Travers was still firm. ‘But this is not the way to do it. You must save up for a course of elocution lessons, and in the meantime, listen carefully to how the upper servants speak. But sitting behind the curtains in the family rooms simply isn’t cricket. Why, suppose you’d heard some of the gentlemen, instead of the ladies – their remarks might have been quite unsuitable for your ears.’

  Lord Rothbury said, ‘That’s rather unfair, Travers old fellow. I’m sure no remark of mine could be of the same calibre as some of the comments that Anna D—’ Dr Travers brought his heel down hard on Lord Rothbury’s toes. I smiled.

  Then quickly straightened my face again as Dr Travers fixed his beautiful brown eyes on mine and said, ‘Now, Eve Gunn, I’d like you to promise me that there will be no more listening behind curtains.’

  I only hesitated for a moment, but it was long enough for Lord Rothbury to add, ‘Or you might hear me telling Dr Travers about an incident on the fish quay at Scarborough.’

  I shot him a glare, then told Dr Travers, ‘Aye, I promise.’ Then, remembering guiltily how he’d helped me get the job in the first place, I added. ‘An’ I’m verra, verra sorry tae have vexed ye.’ And bobbed again, for good measure.

  As I headed for the door I heard Dr Travers asking, ‘What was this incident on the fish quay, Monty?’

  I turned my head round. Lord Rothbury looked straight at me as he said casually, ‘Oh, nothing of importance, Will – I foolishly got in the way of a
herring on its way to the basket.’ I smiled in relief – he shook his head, slightly in reproof – but I could see he was trying not to laugh. I grinned back at him, and then slipped out of the door.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  So Horseface hadn’t told Dr Travers, and I knew now he wasn’t going to. Alright, so he’d caught me out again – but I’d kept my end up quite well. Though why he’d looked so surprised at my saying I wanted to be a lady’s maid I couldn’t imagine. But still, Dr Travers had believed me, which was all that mattered. As long as my reputation remained unsullied with him. I had to admit now, that it was too late with Lord Rothbury. Once you’ve slung a herring at someone’s waistcoat, and then followed it up by kicking him on the nose from the top of a leaf cupboard you’re probably never going to be able to convince him that you’re a law-abiding, humble housemaid.

  And I was actually quite pleased at that thought, because it meant that there was someone I didn’t have to pretend to, any more. That I was Scots, and a housemaid – yes – but humble, no. After all, I was Scots – three-eighths – and I was a housemaid, for the time being, anyway, so that wasn’t really acting – but humility was different. I’ve never had much talent in that direction; in fact, rather the reverse, according to some people I know.

  Of course, I didn’t have to pretend humility with Mr Parton, either – I’d worked that out pretty early on. He was the sort of person other people told what to do; he expected to be told what to do – and, incredibly, was even grateful for it. I can get along very well with people like that.

  So the thought of him crossed my mind when next afternoon I finished up with an exceptionally fine set of glassies in my pocket and no-one to play with. Billy had been confined to barracks as the result of a rather clever joke he’d played involving some glue, a length of string and the key of the wine cellar. I’d thought it very funny, but Mr Taylor had not.

  Anyway, there I was with the glassies – really high grade green swirly marbles which I’d retrieved after a visiting child had thrown them away in a temper. The baron’s lady had brought her little boy with her to swell the nursery flock – because of some problem with her own head nurse, I think. So this afternoon she’d taken this six year old out for a walk – and she obviously hadn’t got a clue how to play with a child that age. From up a tree I’d watched the pantomime in fascination: he’d shouted and she’d bleated about his clothes if he knelt down to play marbles – and then, when she realised he was expecting Mama to kneel down in her smart, cream linen costume skirt – well! So the glassies were flung down in a tantrum and he was hauled off – back to the nursery, I presume. I picked them all up to return to him later, but in the meantime… I fingered them longingly – we’d played glassies a lot in Helspie.