‘Of course, why do you ask such a foolish question? The doll is yours.’
‘But Mrs Gresham said I couldn’t have any dolls because I would make them sick. She said that was why Fred and Bertie had been sent away. She said I would make them sick too.’ Her breathing was shallow and fast. ‘I hope I will not make you sick, Papa.’
‘Hush,’ he said, laying the doll on the bed beside her. ‘No one will get sick and soon you will be well again. Well enough to play in the garden. To watch the bees and butterflies down by the lake as you always used to do, and to have tea parties with the other children. Imagine what fun that will be.’
Winding her frail arm around the doll’s waist and drawing it close to her, Beatrice smiled weakly. On the pillow, her cold grey face rested against the doll’s blushed cheeks, their brown hair tangled together. Within seconds her eyes were closed.
‘Sleep,’ Lord Farnley said, as he held her hand in his. ‘Sleep, my angel.’
‘She warned me, if I didn’t keep my hair under my cap she’d cut it off!’ Lucy growled.
No one in the kitchen answered.
‘Honest she did!’ said Lucy. ‘I swear Mrs Gresham has something against me! She’s always finding fault. First it was the way I spoke, then it was the way I ironed my apron, then it was my shoes squeaking, now she’s complaining about my hair. That woman had better not come near me with a pair of scissors!’
‘Lucy Oldfield, enough of that!’ Cook was angry. The kitchen maids were familiar with the tone.
Lucy held her tongue – though she knew it was true. The housekeeper picked on her more than the others, even though she was always particular about her appearance, and neater than most of the other maids. Unlike some of the girls, she liked her uniform and remembered the times she used to stop at the top of the stairs to catch her reflection in the long window. That was until the day one of the under-butlers saw her.
‘Don’t you know vanity’s a sin?’ he had said, with a glint in his eye.
How embarrassed she’d felt and how she had blushed and run down the stairs so quickly praying he would not follow her into the kitchen. After that, it was a long time before she raised her eyes to her reflection again.
Jennie put down the peeling knife and dragged her stool closer, interrupting Lucy’s thoughts. ‘Tell me about the young fellow who sent you that letter. Who is he?’
‘Just a fellow I met.’
‘Well then, tell us where you met him? What does he do? Where does he come from?’
‘I don’t rightly know what he does. I only met him twice and that was by chance. The first time was at Skipton market about two years ago. The second time was in July when I went home for my week’s holiday.’
‘And you gave him your address here.’
‘Not really.’ Lucy’s brow furrowed. ‘I just told him where I was working.’
‘And now he’s writing to you. Tell me,’ said Jennie, drawing her stool closer, ‘what does he say in his letter?’
‘That’s none of your business, Jennie Porter,’ barked Cook.
‘Oh, go on. I ain’t got no young man writing to me.’
Lucy took off her cap and, not noticing the disapproving look Cook gave, pulled the ribbon from her hair and flicked her dark curls over her shoulders.
‘I’ve only had the one letter and it was quite respectable. He asked me how I was, if I still had the same job and asked what it’s like living at the Hall.’
‘Are you going to write back and tell him what you think of Mrs Gresham?’
‘Jennie! Get on with those spuds.’
‘Yes, Cook,’ the scullery maid said, shifting her stool and dragging the pail of potatoes across the stone floor. ‘Go on,’ she whispered, as she continued peeling. ‘Tell me more.’
‘He just asked lots of questions like where I came from. He wanted my address. Wanted to know about my mother and if she went out to work. Asked what happened to my Dad and if I had any brothers and sisters living at home. That was all, I think.’
‘You’ll have lots to tell him,’ Jennie said enthusiastically. ‘You are going to write to him, aren’t you?’
Lucy shrugged, ‘Maybe.’
After glancing at Cook to make sure she was not listening, Jennie leaned across the table. ‘When are you going to see him again?’
‘I don’t know that I am,’ Lucy said. ‘I won’t be home again till next July.’
‘That is if Mrs Gresham doesn’t send you packing before then!’
One of the bells on the wall jangled.
‘That’s for me,’ Lucy said, quickly tying her hair and pushing the loose ends inside her cotton cap. ‘Do I look tidy enough?’
No one answered.
‘Will someone put another pot on to boil? I expect it’s hot water she’ll be wanting.’ Lucy didn’t wait for a response and hurried to the back stairs.
‘What’s this fella’s name?’ Jennie called.
Lucy turned, ‘His name is Arthur Mellor.’
‘You can leave the rest to me, Doctor Thornton. I will take care of things.’
Washing his hands in the china bowl, the doctor thanked Mrs Gresham. ‘It’s been a long and rather exhausting day and I don’t mind getting along. Now with regard to advising his lordship—’
‘We don’t expect Lord Farnley back until tomorrow but, you can be assured, he will be told as soon as he arrives. Obviously the final funeral arrangements will not be made until he returns.’
The doctor sighed. ‘If you ask me, I’d say it’s a blessing in disguise. Amazes me she managed to linger as long as she did.’ He took out his watch. ‘Almost eleven. Time to bid you good night, Mrs Gresham.’
Lucy was about to knock when the nursery door opened. She stepped back and let the doctor pass.
‘Blessing in disguise,’ he murmured, as he shuffled out.
Lucy hardly dare look towards the bed. ‘Has she gone, ma’am?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’ The housekeeper’s voice was softer than usual. ‘Peacefully, I’m pleased to say. I’m sure his lordship will be relieved to know that. But he’ll be very sorry he wasn’t here.’
Tears formed in the corners of Lucy’s eyes and the lamp appeared hazy. As she squeezed her lids, a warm trickle ran down her cheek. She didn’t see the housekeeper looking at her.
‘We must make everything neat and tidy. I know it’s late, but we can’t leave it the way it is.’
Lucy had wondered why she’d been called from her room at such a late hour. Now she wondered why the housekeeper had picked her to assist her and not one of the other maids. Perhaps it was because she was the only one who was still awake. Most other evening she would have been fast asleep before ten o’clock but, this evening, she had stayed up to write a letter.
The women didn’t speak or even exchange glances as they straightened the sheet and pillow under the dead girl. They also straightened her legs and arms and nightdress, and combed her hair. Lucy folded the quilt and placed it in the blanket chest, and finally they straightened the top sheet and pulled it to the head of the bed covering Beatrice’s face.
‘What do you want me to do with this?’ Lucy asked, picking up the French doll which had slid to the floor.
‘Burn it!’
‘But it’s brand new!’
‘Are you deaf as well as daft, girl? I said, burn it!’
Lucy hesitated. She knew it was a gift from Lord Farnley.
‘Things like that carry diseases and we don’t want Miss Beatrice’s illness passed on to anyone else. Now take it downstairs and burn it! Do you hear me?’
Lucy nodded, tucked the doll under her arm and tiptoed out, closing the door quietly behind her.
Chapter 2
An Ill Wind
The kitchen smelled of meat fat, cabbages and caustic soda, but it was empty. The scullery maids had gone to bed early, as usual, and the milk churn standing by the door indicated Cook had also retired, as putting it out for the under-footman to collect was the
last job she did each evening. Heat radiated from the great stove and the large kettle standing on the corner of the hob breathed gentle puffs of steam and rattled intermittently. On the pine table, a lace-cloth covered a silver tray. The butler had prepared it in case Lord Farnley returned unannounced during the night.
Lucy was relieved the kitchen was empty. She was tired and in no mood to answer questions. In the morning all the talk would be about the death of Miss Beatrice, but for the moment she preferred to keep her thoughts to herself.
The kitchen at Heaton Hall, though large, was a homely place, warm and comforting. It was the only room the maids could relate to the homes they had come from – most of them from many miles away.
Lucy cast her mind back to the house in Leeds where she had grown up, the back-to-back terrace in Loftholme Street with one room downstairs, one up, and a toilet down the street shared between six families. She thought of the cobbled street and the narrow strip of stone paving where she played as a child. She remembered the warp of washing lines running from one side of the street to the other, and the tall wooden props which held the sheets high enough for the rag man to drive his horse and cart beneath without getting tangled in them.
She pictured her mother down on her hands and knees scrubbing the stone doorstep. Remembered the fear she felt when gypsies were seen in the street. The joy when she heard the tunes turned on a tingle-airy and was allowed to drop a farthing in the tin cup rattled by the man’s pet monkey.
Lucy thought about her mother, living alone but had only scant memories of her father. She was seven when he died. Seven years old – the same age as Miss Beatrice. Instinctively her arms folded around the doll. The porcelain face was cold as marble against her cheek.
From the window, Lucy stared out over the courtyard. The moon was full, the wind blowing from the north bending the trees towards the house. The dark shadows danced impishly around the paving teasing her imagination. She turned from the window wishing she hadn’t looked, wishing Mrs Gresham’s words would stop ringing through her head – Burn it!
But how could she burn something so lovely? It was both exquisite and expensive and would have cost more than she could save in a lifetime.
Burn it! The voice repeated in her head.
How could she burn something she had admired every day for a month when she had seen it resting in the crook of the little girl’s wasted arm? It was something she had secretly longed to hold in her own arms? Something she had coveted?
The long case clock in the hall struck twelve. Lucy knew what she was supposed to do. Inclining her head towards the steps, she listened for the clacking of the housekeeper’s feet. But the house was silent. Perhaps Mrs Gresham had gone to bed.
Laying the doll on the pine table, Lucy cautiously opened the oven’s fire door. The metal handle was still hot. The flames had died but the embers glowed red. The firebox was large and deep, and there was ample room to put the large doll in.
Stacked up neatly beside the cooking stove was almost a week’s supply of firewood, including a small pile of sticks and branches which would be used as kindling for the morning’s fire. Choosing carefully, Lucy selected an armful of fuel – thick sticks, long branches and short twigs. Breaking them to the size she required, she placed them in a specific fashion on the hot embers. From the drawer in the pine table she took an empty cotton flour bag. It had been washed, ironed and folded. And from the tool drawer – a pair of scissors. Her hands were shaking and the heat from the oven was making her sweat.
She avoided the stare from the doll’s blue eyes, untied the plaited cord which held the velvet cloak, and let it fall onto the table. Carefully, she removed the feathered hat, sliding the two miniature hatpins from the lustrous hair and weaving them into the hem of her apron. Turning the doll over, she unfastened the buttons running down the back of the gown. The ivory satin reflected the firelight.
Suddenly, the kettle rattled, startling her. She listened hard, but the only other sound was the rustle of fabric in her hands. Hurrying, she removed the layers of petticoats and the doll’s delicate chemise. Only the shoes, stockings and pantalets remained.
Then her ears pricked to the sound of footsteps echoing on the first-floor corridor. She stopped, her heart thumping. The footsteps were distinctive. They belonged to Mrs Gresham. She had to hurry.
Grabbing a hank of the doll’s hair she sliced through it with the scissors. The dark locks fell onto the table. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
The footsteps were getting louder.
With the fire burning brightly, Lucy took the bundle of doll’s clothes and fed them, piece by piece, into the flames, carefully draping the garments across the twisted twigs and branches. The dress flared instantly in a burst of white hot flame but the cottons were slower to ignite. The hat’s feathers frizzled and the ringlets of human hair smoked and shrivelled before being consumed. Finally the blue cloak, which Lucy draped across the smouldering pile, burned. Then she closed the fire door.
Her hands shook, as she opened the empty flour bag. By now, the footsteps had reached the top of the stairs. Only a dozen more steps and the housekeeper would be in the kitchen. Grabbing the doll by the neck, she shoved it head-first into the cotton bag, rolled it into a bundle and dropped it behind the stack of firewood.
Mrs Gresham was at the door.
Looking down, Lucy noticed a fine fuzz of brown on the table. Praying the housekeeper was not watching, she dusted the hair into her palm, then pushed the handful of clippings deep into her apron pocket.
‘Oldfield!’
She could hardly hold herself still. ‘Yes, Mrs Gresham,’ she whispered, not looking at the housekeeper’s face.
‘Have you done what I said?’
Lucy nodded, unable to answer.
The housekeeper sniffed the air and was satisfied – singed hair has a distinctive smell, then leaning forward towards the firebox she noticed a sliver of peacock blue velvet protruding from the iron door. Opening the door, she inspected the fire. It was burning brightly and within the flames was a distorted, mangled shape covered in the unrecognizable remains of burnt clothing. Satisfied, she flicked the fragment of blue velvet into the blaze and slammed the door.
‘What are you looking at me like that for, girl? Go to bed! We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow!’
Glancing at the pile of firewood, Lucy glimpsed one corner of the canvas flour bag protruding from behind it. Surely Mrs Gresham would notice. And if she didn’t, the scullery maid who stoked the fire in the morning would find it. What then? The maid would tell Cook, and Cook would report it to the housekeeper. Lucy had been blatantly disobedient and before long, Mrs Gresham would know her order had been disobeyed. If the deceit was discovered, Lucy would be accused of stealing and instantly dismissed. Imagine the shame. Imagine what her mother would say.
‘What are you waiting for, girl?’
Unable to reply, Lucy bobbed a small curtsy. Her hands, wet with sweat, were clasped tightly behind her back, with doll’s hair stuck to her palms.
That night Lucy did not sleep. At two o’clock she crept down to the kitchen and recovered the flour bag. She was thankful the sky was cloudless and the moon almost full so she didn’t need to light a candle. By the time she got back to her attic bedroom, her heart was thrumming in her ears. She was grateful she had a bedroom to herself.
Pulling the doll from the bag, she wrapped it in one of her petticoats and forced it into her wooden suitcase. With its legs and arms bent forwards, it only just fitted. Buckling the leather strap around the case, Lucy slid it under the bed. She could only hope and pray no one would open it.
It was two months since Miss Beatrice had passed away and every day Lucy had looked at her case and wished desperately that she had not taken the doll. As she lay awake at night, she considered how she could dispose of it. She thought of throwing it into the lake, but wasn’t certain it would sink, or burying it in the woods. But if a fox unearthed it or the hounds found it,
it might be brought back to the house. What then? One night, after midnight, she got up, dressed herself and prepared to go to the kitchen. She intended to burn the doll in the kitchen fire as she should have done earlier. But just as she was about to step out on the landing, she heard voices. Had someone guessed what she was about to do? Sitting on her bed, trembling, she waited, but nothing happened. After that, she never attempted to dispose of the doll again.
A few weeks later, rumours ran through the house that most of the staff at Heaton Hall was to be dismissed. Like all the other maids, Lucy was shocked – but she was also relieved. At least, when she left, she would be able to take the doll with her.
In a letter from Lord Farnley dated 15 November 1896, the butler announced to the household that Heaton Hall was to be sold. For most of the staff, their employment was to terminate the second week in December.
Though no specific reason was given, Mrs Gresham explained that his lordship had decided the upkeep of the Hall was too expensive and it was his intention to sell the property and move to the south coast. The staff, on the other hand, were of the opinion his lordship’s decision was not for financial reasons but because he had lost interest in the house after his daughter’s death. Heaton Hall was a fine stately home, built by his predecessors over 200 years earlier. It was a house Lord Farnley had once loved, yet the building itself was only part of the valuable estate. If he had needed extra funds, which seemed unlikely, he could have sold a portion of the estate's 400 arable acres, retained the house with its sculptured lawns and ornamental gardens, or leased out the grazing land and sold his livestock.
Word quickly passed around that Simmonds, the butler, and Mrs Gresham were to stay on, together with two maids, two footmen and the gardeners. But with talk in the village that Heaton Hall might be converted into a boarding school or sanatorium, it was likely those positions would not be secure for long.
It was drizzling the day the majority of the staff left. The gloomy weather reflected their mood and any sense of excitement or anticipation at the idea of going home for Christmas was dampened by the worry of unemployment. The number of positions coming available in good houses was fewer and fewer every year, and, despite the minor irritation Mrs Gresham caused Lucy, the Hall had been a good house to work for. The idea of a job in a noisy woollen mill did not appeal to any of the girls.
Through Glass Eyes Page 2