by Nunn, Kayte
‘Good. Then please start by opening the curtains and shutters downstairs. Be up with you, the day’s waiting for no one.’
Rowan pulled back the covers, shivering at the cold air that rushed in. It dispelled any lingering sleepiness and she dressed quickly in her spare set of clothes, gathered her hair under her cap and fastened on an apron that Prudence had placed at the end of her bed. ‘Mind you keep that hair covered,’ Prudence had warned her the night before. ‘’Twill not please the mistress to have a whitey in the household.’ Rowan did not need to be told twice.
As Rowan passed the main stairs, she paused for a moment to trace a finger over the large acorn on each newel post, marvelling at the detail, for she had never seen such a thing so artfully carved. Hearing a distant noise, and anxious that she not be caught dawdling, she hastened to the dining room.
The air in there was stale with the smell of tobacco, and as she threw open the shutters a pair of handsome wine glasses, pooled with deep red, and an empty bottle caught the morning light. Another, also empty, lay on a side table, accompanied by a discarded clay pipe, ashes spilling from the bowl. A hand of cards lay abandoned on the chaise, their faces upturned and scattered as if someone had tossed them down in disgust.
She swept out the fireplace and cleaned it with black leading, then buffed it dry. As she re-laid the hearth, she was careful to choose only the driest logs, and placed them on a pair of iron fire dogs so that air would draw underneath the wood. She held a taper to the kindling until it caught and then pumped the bellows that lay beside the fireplace, coughing at the smoke that drifted towards her but pleased when a blaze began to warm the room.
When she was satisfied that the flames had taken hold, she went to the small parlour where she had met her mistress the afternoon prior to repeat the process, though in that room the fireplace was of stone and so did not require the time-consuming blacking. Then to the dining room where, after she had pulled up the festoon curtains (she had to call Prudence to show her how, for she had never encountered such a thing – so much fabric and flounce she could scarce believe it), she knelt down to roll back the hearth rug. As she did so, she spied a small object in a shadowy corner of the room and rose to retrieve it. The metal was black with tarnish, but as she picked it up and held it close to her ear she heard the faint sound of dried beans knocking against each other. A baby’s rattle. An odd thing to find in a house with no children. She placed it on the sideboard, thinking to polish it later.
Once Rowan had attended to her chores, she returned to the kitchen, where Prudence stood at the range stirring a large pot, the smell of kippered fish coming from the pan that sizzled next to it. ‘Come and sit down, girl, have some breakfast,’ said Prudence. ‘Rowan, this is Alice; Alice Picken.’
The girl sitting at the table was perhaps a year or two older than Rowan and was eating a bowl of porridge, spooning the food into her mouth with an automatic action.
If she had a more pleasant expression on her face she would have been considered pretty, for her eyes were fringed by thick, black eyelashes, two pansies in a perfectly oval, olive-skinned face, and her lips were wide and full. Dark curls escaped the linen cap she wore and her hands were delicate and fine. Rowan felt suddenly coarse and ill attired by comparison, a Welsh mountain pony in the company of a lady’s mare.
Alice did not seem at all pleased to see her, wearing a sour expression at odds with her fresh features. Rowan nodded cautiously at her before taking a seat a little way along the table. In return, Alice tilted her head in acknowledgment, her eyes lingering for a second on Rowan’s scarred face, before she returned her attention to her porridge.
Prudence placed a steaming bowl on the table. ‘For me?’ Rowan asked.
‘Well, Alice already has hers.’
The cook’s tone was indulgent and Rowan couldn’t help a small grin. She had never seen so much food for one person, and though she had eaten well the night before, she wasn’t surprised to find that her appetite had returned. Hunger had been an almost constant state of existence since she could remember; a full stomach was a novel experience.
As Prudence bustled out of the kitchen towards the scullery, Rowan seized the chance to make an overture of friendship to Alice. ‘Have you been here long?’ she asked.
‘Long enough,’ Alice said through a mouthful of food. She scowled at Rowan, leaving Rowan wondering what she could have done to vex her so.
She tried again. ‘Is it a pleasant household?’ she asked.
‘Depends what you mean by that,’ came the reply.
‘Are they kind? The master and mistress?’
Alice appeared to give the matter some thought. ‘You expect kindness?’ she said with a snort of derision. ‘You really are a bumpkin.’
Rowan gave up trying to make conversation and turned back to her bowl, then to her surrounds. The sun was now shining through a window that overlooked a long, walled garden. There appeared to be a host of growing things, though at such a distance Rowan could not properly identify them. Were she to have a spare few minutes to venture there later in the day, she could investigate properly.
Prudence continued to bustle around them, and when they had eaten every last speck of porridge, she bade Rowan carry the breakfast serving dishes into the dining room.
She bore them carefully along the dim hallway, anxious not to trip, and then entered the room, placing them on a sideboard, managing only the slightest rattle of pewter on wood, but then narrowly missed colliding with her new employer as he bowled into the room in a fluster of movement and energy. ‘Thought I could smell kippers,’ he said as he lifted the lid from the dish furthest from her and peered in. Rowan murmured a brief, faintly embarrassed, ‘Mornin’, sir,’ but Patrick Hollander’s attention was focused on the food before him and he barely seemed to notice her.
She hurried back to the kitchen, seeing Alice disappear in the direction of the scullery. Prudence was wafting clouds of flour as she kneaded and stretched a mass of dough in front of her.
‘Prudence?’ Rowan asked warily, for she was uncertain whether raising the matter would cause more trouble than it was worth.
‘Yes?’
‘Is there some reason that Alice dislikes me?’
‘Don’t mind her,’ Prudence replied. ‘She thinks that there’s more status in looking after the master; that she’s better than a country maid. She was none too happy when she found out you had been hired and that she will no longer see to Mr Hollander.’
‘I see,’ said Rowan. ‘Well, I can only hope that she might come to see that I pose no threat.’ But how best to overcome Alice’s ill will towards her? For she did not wish for there to be trouble between them.
‘Give her time, lass. Now, the mistress’ll be down soon enough. Go to the master’s bedchamber and straighten that. Draw the curtains, air the bed, empty the pot and refill the washstand. It’s upstairs, third door on the right.’
‘Yes, Prudence.’
‘When you’ve done that, sweep the staircase and polish the mirrors. You’ll find everything you need in the scullery.’
‘Yes, Prudence.’
‘You’ll learn soon enough what needs to be done, without me having to tell you.’
‘Yes, Prudence.’
Rowan looked longingly out at the garden again. Her exploration would have to wait.
Later that day, when the mistress had summoned her to stoke the fire in the drawing room, there was a commotion in the street. Going to the window to see the source of the hubbub, Rowan spied a cart directly below. A large object, protected by a thick cloth, was lashed to the boards. As several passers-by stopped to watch the spectacle, her master emerged onto the street and began gesturing towards the house.
‘Whatever is it?’ asked Caroline languidly, not moving from her seat.
‘I’m not sure, mistress. But it’s awful big.’
‘We are not expecting a delivery. It cannot be silk, for that comes on the London coach, which is not due until
next week. Are you certain it is for us?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am, but the master seems to be in charge of it.’ Rowan continued her observation, noticing that whatever it was had now caused half the population of Oxleigh to cease their business and watch.
‘I suppose I had better see what is going on,’ Caroline said. ‘If my husband has anything to do with it, I cannot begin to guess what is to be visited upon us.’ She raised herself from her chaise, smoothing her skirts, the pale colour of which reminded Rowan of a newly unfurled leaf, and joining Rowan at the window. Mr Hollander, the driver of the cart and several other men seemed to be discussing how to move the object, pointing at the upper floors, particularly it seemed at the window from which Rowan and her mistress were observing the scene. ‘That’s not coming in the house, surely?’ Caroline asked. Then, under her breath, ‘What the devil has he gone and done this time?’
Rowan watched carefully as two ladders were produced and the carter held up what appeared to be a large pulley, together with a length of rope as thick as her forearm. He and another man leaned the ladders against the front of the house, one on either side of the bay window below, then went back for the ropes and the pulley, and entered the house. Rowan felt the drum of their footsteps on the staircase and then the two entered the drawing room, closely followed by Patrick Hollander.
‘What is all this to-do?’ Caroline asked her husband. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’
He greeted her with the expression of someone who was about to play a great trick, his eyes alight with mischief. ‘Wait and see, my dear, for when it is revealed you will be as excited as I am, without a doubt.’
Caroline pursed her pretty mouth, and Rowan could see that her mistress did not share her husband’s anticipation. ‘I shall reserve judgment until I am informed of whatever it is that you have purchased,’ she said. ‘Though I doubt that we can afford it,’ she added under her breath.
‘Hush now, I have had some luck with the cards,’ he said, bestowing on her a grin that gave him the appearance of a cheeky urchin. ‘So, do not worry yourself about such matters. You will not be disappointed, of that I can assure you.’ He brushed off her concerns and gestured to the two men who accompanied him, ‘Look lively, let us make a start.’
They moved forward and Rowan and Caroline stood back, watching their actions, Rowan with wide-eyed interest, Caroline with an expression of faint exasperation.
‘We must open the windows as wide as they can go, but I estimate there will be enough room,’ said the carter.
The men got to work securing the pulley and, once it was affixed to their liking, they slung the rope over it. One man disappeared down the stairs with Patrick while the other held the end of the rope, winding it around his waist and tying it off amid shouts in the street that brought another two men, seconded to help, into the room, where they were instructed to grab hold of the rope as well.
Rowan stood to one side of the window, still peering out to where her master and the carter were fixing the rope to those that bound the lumpy object sitting on the boards. Then they climbed the ladders and, together with the assistance of several more bystanders, began to haul the object up the side of the house. There was much shouting as they fought to prevent it smashing against the brickwork, and Rowan heard words that nearly set the air blue and her ears to burn.
Slowly the object was hauled upwards until it was level with the window. More men had been drummed in to help and now the drawing room was crowded with people. Caroline and Rowan looked on, staying out of the way but fascinated by the activity. The men, sweating and heaving, guided the shrouded bundle into the room, where it was lowered to the floor with a bump followed by a gentle twang.
‘Splendid,’ said Patrick Hollander as he raced back into the room followed by a small, dark man whom Rowan had not seen before. ‘Oh, splendid work!’
The stranger began to undo the ropes and covering, muttering to himself as he did so. The carter entered, carrying another, much smaller, wrapped bundle and placed it on the floor.
‘Everyone out now,’ Patrick commanded, handing each of the men a copper coin. ‘Even you my dear,’ he said to Caroline. ‘For I want you to see it only when it is perfect.’
‘Really, such a disturbance,’ she replied, rolling her eyes. However, there was an amused tone to her voice. ‘I shall be in my chamber.’
Rowan followed her mistress out of the room, and as Caroline climbed the stairs and she turned towards the servants’ passage, she came upon Prudence lurking in the shadows.
‘What do you think it is?’ Prudence asked, her eyes alight with intrigue.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Rowan as they went to the kitchen.
‘A painting perhaps,’ suggested Alice, who was shelling peas at the table. ‘Though I’ll wager it will not make her happy, whatever it may be,’ she muttered when Prudence turned her back.
Rowan was shocked at the maid’s scathing tone, but kept her counsel. She was very aware she was new to the household and had yet to learn its rhythms and peculiarities. Living with her aunt and uncle for two years after her parents died had taught her that every household had them, in one form or another. ‘’Twas not of the size and shape for a painting,’ she replied quietly.
‘We’ll see it soon enough,’ said Prudence. ‘Now, enough of your dawdling, girls, for there’s work to be done.’
Several hours later, Patrick summoned the entire household to the drawing room for what he grandly called ‘the great unveiling’.
The object was still covered with the cloth that it had been wrapped in, though it was now more loosely draped. Four legs peeped from underneath the cloth, two set wide at the front and two narrowly at the back. The thing had a broad, flat top, but that was all she could make out and it gave her no clue as to its purpose, if indeed it served one. Perhaps it was a new piece of furniture? It took up a great deal of space in the room and was certainly commanding.
Rowan stood next to Alice. She looked for the rattle she had placed on the sideboard earlier that morning, and was surprised that it was no longer there, but any further thoughts were soon chased out of her mind by the anticipation of discovering what exactly it was that Mr Hollander had brought to the house.
When he was certain he had their attention, Patrick tugged on the cloth with a flourish and let it slither to the floor. The assembled maids, cook and even the groom sucked in their breath almost as one. The wooden box-like object was shaped like a bird’s wing and its surface had been buffed to a brilliant sheen. Rowan imagined she would see her own reflection in it if she dared stand close enough.
‘A harpsichord?’ Caroline asked, a touch of disappointment colouring her voice.
‘I can see why you might think that, my dear, for the two are similar in form, though the sound is quite, quite different, as you will soon discover.’ Patrick went across to the object and lifted the top panel until it was at an angle, securing it open with a thin prop that mysteriously – to Rowan at least – emerged from the belly of the instrument.
‘Well,’ said Caroline, examining it carefully. ‘It has only one keyboard. And what are these pedals? It is far plainer than a harpsichord.’ She did not sound altogether impressed.
Rowan drew as near as she dared, spying thick strings and pads of felt filling the body. She had never seen such a thing, had no idea what it was for. There was a seat to sit at – that she did recognise – and the white rectangles interspersed with thinner black ones looked designed for fingers to touch.
‘It is a pianoforte,’ Patrick said triumphantly. ‘The latest instrument, all the way from Paris. I saw one in a salon when I was in London last and had to have one exactly like it. I know how much you love music, so I thought it a suitable gift to mark our fifth wedding anniversary, my dear.’
Caroline made no comment, but a faint smile curved her lips.
‘Why not play it? Then tell me how much you like it.’ He danced around his wife in excitement, gesturing to
the stool in front of the keyboard.
She hesitated, but then proceeded to sit down, lifting her skirts out of the way and settling herself on the stool. ‘I am sure I do not know how to get a tune from this contraption,’ she protested, but nevertheless she placed her fingers on the instrument. She began to press a few keys at random and Rowan felt as well as heard the sound vibrate across the room towards her. It was like the buzzing of a bee in the low notes and the whine of a mosquito in the higher ones. The only musical instruments she had hereto seen were fiddles, pennywhistles and drums, nowhere near as impressive as this.
Her master clapped his hands at his wife’s notes and looked around at the servants, encouraging them to join in.
‘’Tis a very pretty harmony indeed, sir,’ said Prudence at a pause in the music.
Caroline, who hadn’t looked up from the instrument in front of her, barely paid the rest of them any heed, slowly coaxing a melody from it, experimenting with the pressure on the ivory keys. ‘Why, it can be played louder and softer,’ she exclaimed. ‘That certainly makes it superior to any harpsichord.’
‘Only the best for my wife,’ Patrick declared proudly.
Rowan noticed the expression of pure joy on her mistress’s face that transformed her entirely, one that barely faltered as her master declared that he was to return to London on the morning stage. Alice’s countenance, on the other hand, was blank, as if she were deliberately trying to show no emotion. Would nothing please the sullen maid?
NINE
Now
Thea observed the thirteen girls gathered around the two tables. Not the expected fourteen, as one girl – Camilla – had been diagnosed with glandular fever two days before the start of term and would not join them for several weeks. With the exception of a couple of quieter ones, they seemed to be getting to know one another, indeed some of them were already well acquainted and chatted away, barely pausing to eat. Earlier, Thea had watched as the girls exchanged flurries of goodbye hugs and kisses with their parents, and for a brief moment she had envied the easy and obvious affection. Now, as the meal progressed, the noise level rose, and they were laughing and talking, animated by their new surroundings, none of them showing any signs of homesickness, outwardly at least.