by Laura Powell
Whatever evil schemes Lady Hawk might be concocting, Pattern thought it was to her credit that she did not exploit her staff. In fact, so far the only unusual thing that had been discovered about the lady was that both she and her daughter were vegetarians, which, although eccentric, was hardly criminal.
The second housemaid showed Pattern to their shared attic room. Elsie was a pink-cheeked girl of about eighteen, and as chatty and unquestioning as Pattern could have hoped. Elsie confided that the butler, Mr Perks, was a stickler for the dusting, but wasn’t a bad sort on the whole; that Alfred, the first footman, fancied himself a ladies’ man; and that when she was in a good humour, Mrs Palfrey, the cook, would give them the off-cuts from her pastry-making. She also assured Pattern that, despite the Hawk ladies’ unusual diet, meat was served to their servants as well as their guests.
Pattern nodded and smiled. At this stage, all information was useful. She had already studied the list of her fellow servants and so knew their names if not their character. The upper servants were Mr Perks, the butler; Mrs Robinson, the housekeeper; and Mrs Palfrey, the cook. Then there were the first and second footmen, Alfred and William; James, the coachman; Jacob, the groom; and Nathaniel, the hall boy. The female domestics were the kitchen maids, Ellen and Mabel; Tilly, the scullery maid; Anne, the laundry maid; and then the housemaids, Jane, Elsie and herself. Miss Jenks, Lady Hawk’s maid, was currently accompanying her mistress on her visit.
‘When I started, I was afeared we’d all be worn ragged,’ Elsie confided. ‘There may only be two ladies to look after, but the missus is a great one for entertaining, make no mistake, and hardly a day goes by without a crowd of gentlemen calling for the young miss, or a whist party or supper or a dance. So you’d expect there to be a deal of work, but, truth be told, somehow it doesn’t add up to all that much. Jane was saying just this morning there’s times she fancies the house almost cleans itself!’
Pattern knew that gossip was her first and best resource, but encouraging it did not come easily. People assumed she must be a very serious person, partly because she had more schooling than most girls of her kind, but also because of her natural reserve. She tried to match Elsie’s prattling manner.
‘Is the young lady, Miss Hawk, as lovely as they say?’
‘Wait till you see her! Like a little doll, she is. Peaches and cream and curls of gold. I should think half the gentlemen in the country are in love with her.’
‘Perhaps they find her foreign ways refreshing.’
‘Oh no,’ said Elsie, looking somewhat shocked by the notion. ‘Miss Hawk is as fine and proper an English lady as ever there was.’
‘But I heard the mistress has been living overseas?’
‘I s’pose she does have something a touch “continental” about her,’ Elsie admitted. ‘They’ve done a deal of travelling, anyhow. Paris, I think, and that city where they make the pastries, and somewhere with mountains, and someplace else with lakes . . . And now we’re to journey to distant parts ourselves! I’m not sure what to think of it, myself. People say Cornwall is full of the queerest things: pirates and mermaids and the like.’
In normal circumstances, Pattern might have laughed. Pirates and mermaids, indeed! But after her own adventures, who knew what strange encounters might be awaiting them?
CHAPTER TWO
The best proof of wisdom is to talk little, but to hear much.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
Pattern disliked muddle and fuss. She feared never growing any taller, the London Omnibus and dragons. What she was not afraid of was hard work. Which was useful for her first challenge: how to pass as an experienced housemaid. She had not emptied slops or beaten carpets since her time at Mrs Minchin’s Academy of Domestic Servitude, where she had been top of the class, and so quickly graduated to less irksome chores. After her unprecedented promotion to lady’s maid, her duties – dragon slaying aside – had been even more refined.
Lady Hawk’s domestics were well paid, the food was plain but plentiful, the servants’ quarters were not excessively draughty, and her mattress only had a couple of lumps in it. But, as the third housemaid, Pattern would be working fifteen-hour days of hard labour. She had got used to a life of feather beds and silk stockings more quickly than she would have thought possible.
She was reminded of this the morning of her second day of work. She was below stairs looking for more scouring paper for the grates when a lad around her own age peeped out of the doors of the boot room.
‘You the new girl? I’m the hall boy, Nate.’
‘Penny,’ said Pattern. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Nate had an easy smile and air of confidence that she rather envied. His dark skin was in contrast to the pale and pasty faces of his fellow servants, but the most significant difference about him, Pattern thought, was the very sharp look he had in his eyes.
‘Same to you,’ he said. ‘Where d’you spring from?’
The Silver Service had provided Pattern with an account of her working life that was as dull as it was conventional; Mrs Robinson had found it entirely satisfactory, and she assumed Nate would as well.
Yet when she’d finished her history, the hall boy whistled. ‘Coo! I thought this place was cushy. But I ain’t never seen an ex-scullery maid with hands like yours.’
Pattern coloured despite herself. She had bitten down her nails as part of her preparations, but the skin on her hands was still relatively smooth, not cracked and red from months of scrubbing dirty pans. Fortunately, Nate’s attention soon moved on. He, along with the rest of the servantry, was excited about the trip to Cornwall, and eager to share his hopes for the party.
‘I reckon there’s good tips to be made, on account of all the gentlemen wanting their boots extra shiny to go courting.’
Pattern understood that the guests included Miss Hawk’s most favoured suitors, as well as her high-society friends. ‘Everyone keeps telling me Miss Hawk’s the toast of London.’
‘I don’t see what all the fuss is about myself. One of them milk-and-water types.’
Pattern, who had herself been described as ‘milk and water’, as well as ‘mousy’ on occasion, wondered if Miss Hawk was similarly misunderstood. It could be useful to be underestimated. However, her chief concern for the moment was Miss Hawk’s mama. ‘I’m sure having her daughter so admired must be a comfort to the mistress. Seeing as she’s a widow, and has spent so many years away.’
‘Well, the missus can’t have been very sentimental about her husband, whoever he was. Ain’t no sign of him around the shop. Even the—’
The stately tread of Mr Perks, the butler, was heard on the stairs. Nate immediately vanished into the boot room. Pattern rubbed her aching back, and hastened off to her grate-polishing. Elsie might have said that the house cleaned itself, but Pattern was yet to see evidence of such a miracle.
She saw no evidence of Lady Hawk’s late husband, either, let alone Sir Whitby’s missing ward. The house’s furnishings were handsome and costly, but there was little indication of individual taste. As she worked her way through the rooms, Pattern was disappointed to find no portraiture or keepsakes, let alone journals or letters that might shed light on the lady’s past exploits or future intentions. She and her daughter had left no trace of personality behind them.
On her last night in London, Pattern went to collect correspondence that the Silver Service had forwarded to her, under care of a grocer’s in Grantham Green. She was presented with a somewhat sticky package of gingerbread, sent by Dilys, once housemaid at the Castle of Elffinberg, now promoted to keeper of the royal wardrobe. The gingerbread was accompanied by a bulletin of below-stairs gossip, which Pattern struggled to follow, but was very glad to receive. There was also a very long, very affectionate letter from the Grand Duchess, full of exclamations and underlining, and written in a variety of coloured inks.
The mere sight of this exuberant penmanship was enough for Pattern to feel a surge of homesickness for Elf
finberg. It was still a marvel to her that she should have such a friend. They had begun as mistress and maid, and the Grand Duchess was no easy employer, irritable, excitable and prone to all kinds of madcap schemes. But once Pattern had discovered the hidden dangers that beset her young mistress, the Grand Duchess’s eccentricities became easy to understand. Understanding grew into mutual respect, and then to true and deep affection. They had vanquished monsters together – both human and beast – and each considered the other a sister of the heart.
‘. . . It is still a Great Mystery why you should choose to toil away in such a disagreeable and dangerous fashion, when we could be having a perfectly delightful time together here in Elffinberg. Hardly any sort of fun is to be had without you! Now, I know that you are Excessively Sensible, as well as terribly clever, but whatever Unpleasantness you get mixed up in next, you must take very great care, and remember how much I am counting on you for all manner of things. My new maid, Morris, is Fearfully Dull (she has not a tenth of your way with ringlets!), and, furthermore, I suspect the Finance Minister of muddling his sums. Is it not extraordinary how these learned gentlemen can be such dunderheads? Dearest Pattern, you must make haste to finish whatever Heroics you are undertaking, and come home and set us all to rights . . .’
Pattern had explained to Eleri as much about the Service as she was able, but she was not able to relate the details of Sir Whitby’s case. So her reply was devoted to answering Eleri’s various questions and complaints rather than conveying any real news of her own. She felt rather worn out by the time she was finished. From here on, the only letters she would write would be to Mr Crichton and Mrs Jervis. They would be addressed to a fictitious sister, relating Pattern’s progress using various coded references. But this was assuming the Isle of Cull had the facility to dispatch letters. It was quite possible that, once there, Pattern would be without any means of communication with the outside world.
The journey from London to Cornwall, made with the other servants in public stagecoaches under the watchful eye of Mrs Robinson, was long and arduous. When they finally arrived at the fishing village from where they were to take the four-mile boat journey to Cull, Pattern was so cramped and stiff she felt she would almost be glad to get back to scrubbing grates and mopping floors.
Elsie had not stopped chattering since they had left London. Everything was new; everything was of interest. Pattern had sympathy for this – she had been just as wide-eyed on her first escape from the city. However, she had kept her astonishment to herself. Elsie could not pass sight of a cow, or a stream, or a picturesque cottage without remarking on it – and the moment she and the other maids caught sight of the sea there was a hubbub to rival even the noisiest gull. Not even Mrs Robinson’s stern admonishments could silence them.
It was not the best of days for a visit to the coast. The fog seemed to have followed them from London, and everything was dank, dripping and smelling of fish. Pattern – already somewhat sick from the jolting of the coach – looked at the choppy grey expanse of water and felt queasier still. She reflected that the Service had been advised that Cull was a craggy and desolate place. The fisherman who was to ferry them over would only shrug in response to Pattern’s enquiries about the island’s history.
‘Loss,’ was all he would volunteer.
‘Who is lost?’ she asked. His accent was so thick, and his manner so brusque, she feared she had misheard him.
‘Cull. ’Tis from the Cornish for “loss”.’
The Isle of Loss . . . This did not bode well. Pattern was not a fanciful girl, but she shivered all the same.
Yet when the shores of Cull first rose out of the mist, Pattern gaped in admiration just like the other girls. Although the island’s cliffs were rocky, they were fringed thickly by trees, and the cove they were approaching glittered with white sand. The waves that lapped the island were a deep blue-green, not grey.
Except, that is, for the sea immediately ahead of their vessel. Pattern thought the black mass beneath the water must be submerged rocks, but then the darkness moved, passing under the boat like an underwater shadow. A few dirty bubbles rose to the surface. Nobody else had noticed it, and Pattern herself could not be sure of what she had seen.
Then all at once the last of the clouds parted and the sun blazed through, so that the scene before them was bathed in golden light, and the remaining mist that enveloped the isle was transformed into a sparkling, shimmering haze.
CHAPTER THREE
Judge of your employers from your own observation, and from their behaviour to you.
S. & S. Adams, The Complete Servant
The fishermen drew the boat up to a stone pier and helped them disembark on to the landing platform at the end. An old man, swathed in a billowing black cloak, was waiting to receive them at the top of the steps.
‘My name is Glaucus Grey, and I am the steward of this isle. On behalf of Lady Hawk, I am pleased to welcome you to Cull.’ He gave a stiff little bow. Some of the more impertinent maids smirked at his appearance. He had bristly white eyebrows and a wild white mane of hair, and a face that was exceedingly knobbly. But he hobbled across the beach very briskly, and it was quite a struggle to keep up with him as they hauled their baggage up the rough steps cut into the cliff face.
At the top of the steps, Pattern paused to take a breath. When she glanced back, she saw the boat that had brought them was already swallowed up by mist. Yet the sun continued to shine on Cull as the party followed a path through a wood. On the other side of a narrow though not particularly deep ravine was a sheltered glade dappled with snowdrops.
Elsie, naturally, stopped and stared. ‘What pretty flowers! Like little stars!’
‘The local name for them is the moly flower – but they’re for looking at, no more,’ cautioned the steward. ‘That side of the wood is dangerous, and strictly out of bounds.’
Mrs Robinson peered across. ‘But it looks such a charming spot.’
The old man grunted. ‘You’ve heard of the Cornish adder, perhaps. Well, the Cull viper is its more vicious cousin. It nests up here, in that very glade, and a bite from its fangs is fatal. So keep your distance.’
After this warning, all were relieved to leave the wood. Emerging from the trees, they saw an arcaded villa set against the hill. It was classical in style, with ice-cream-pale-yellow walls and a roof of terracotta tiles. A wide lawn in front of the house gave way to a formal garden with flower beds worked into patterns of stars, half-moons and mathematical symbols, broken up by white pebble paths. Statues of nymphs and satyrs peeped out from a tangle of rose bushes.
There was no sign of groundsmen or gardeners, and the place was silent apart from the drone of bees and the sigh of the sea. Even the chattering maids were quiet, too overwhelmed to do anything but stare. As the visitors made their way through the grounds, it felt as if the villa and landscape were half asleep, lying there drugged in the spring sunshine.
‘Gracious!’ exclaimed Mrs Robinson, surveying the orchard. ‘Are those lemon trees?’
Mr Grey smiled. ‘Cull’s positioning is geographically unique. Thanks to a most favourable union of winds and tides, the climate here is considerably warmer and drier than anywhere on the mainland.’
‘I see,’ Mrs Robinson said rather faintly. ‘Am I to understand, Mr, er, Grey, that you have sole charge of the property in Lady Hawk’s absence?’
‘That is so. I have been in service to my lady for so many years, I can hardly remember a time that I wasn’t.’
‘And no one else lives on the island?’
‘Folk from the village make the crossing to tend to the estate, and deliver such produce we cannot supply ourselves, but none are resident unless stranded here by bad weather.’
‘But are there really no other servants? I was under the impression that casual staff would be engaged—’
‘My lady is quite satisfied that you will be up to the job.’
Mrs Robinson pursed her lips. The maids exchanged grimaces.
Sixteen servants was a large number for a town house. But in a country villa of this size, with a party of guests to look after, they would be sorely stretched.
The aged steward led them through a sunken walled garden, richly scented with herbs, to the service quarters. The rooms were large and echoing, with plaster peeling from the walls, and windows so overgrown with creepers that the place was bathed in a greenish light. In the servants’ hall, a bare lofty room with a tiled floor, they were met by Mr Perks, the butler, who had come ahead with Mrs Palfrey and the other domestics and was doing his best to act as if he’d had charge of this strange property his whole working life.
The sleepy silence of the place was soon overwhelmed by noise and bustle. Rooms must be aired, fires laid and beds made, and the contents of cabinets, closets and pantries explored. It was heartening to find the house, though unlived in for so long, was in excellent order. Mr Grey had previously arranged for provisions to be brought to the island by boat, and the larder and wine cellar were well stocked. The meat safe, coal-hole and ice-house were all packed to bursting. Everything from shoe polish to sealing wax was in its proper place.
Lady Hawk and her daughter would be arriving the next morning, the rest of the party the day after. As Pattern set about beating carpets, she rehearsed what she knew of the visitors in her head.
The gentlemen were all suitors of Miss Hawk. The most eligible was Lord Anthony Charnly, heir to a vast estate in Norfolk. His friend and rival Captain Henry Vyne was known as the handsomest man in England – and the best card player in his regiment. The Reverend Frederick Blunt was more of a catch than most young clergymen, thanks to his aristocratic connections and the patronage of his uncle, the Archbishop of Barnchester. The final suitor was a poet, Mr Thomas Ladlaw, who had been favoured by very complimentary notices in the London Poetical Review. His fortunes had further improved with a publication of a novel in the Gothic style, The Towers of Callabrio.