by Mary Wood
With all this worrying her, and the excitement and noise of more guests arriving, Hattie didn’t rest well during her break. Tiredness gnawed at her bones as she closed Lady Marley’s bedroom door, having finished the last of her chores. The clock in the hall downstairs began to strike the midnight hour. The sound of the ladies coming up the main stairs as she turned towards the west wing hurried her step. Not being seen was another of the rules to be obeyed. Relief flooded through her as she managed to skip around the corner just in time. Oh, how I hope with all my heart I won’t be needed to help out when I reach the kitchen!
Going down the first steep flight of stairs tired her even more, and her pace slowed as she walked along the corridor towards the flight of stairs that would take her down to the kitchen. Doors leading to the bedrooms that housed the visiting staff led off one side. These were strange beings, with airs and graces, as if they thought themselves a station above the regular household staff. Most – though probably not the ladies’ maids – would be tucked up and snoring by now.
The silence and the dimness unnerved Hattie. She walked faster. She could see the banister and the source of the only light: a single gas mantle placed just above the stairs. As she hurried towards it, the closed doors took on a sinister feel. She had only one more to pass. Just as she reached it, it flung open. Her heart plummeted into her stomach as a large man barred her way. ‘Ah, so the little lady has arrived! Jolly good. This way, my dear.’
Shrinking back, she clutched the stair rail. ‘I – I’m sorry, sir. I . . .’
‘Come along now. Don’t be shy. Your master is waiting.’
‘But – but I’m on me way to the kitchens. I’ve to help out. I—’
‘That’s enough! You know very well why you are here. Mrs Barker will have told you. Now, come along and don’t keep your master waiting, or you may find your pay is halved!’
The man grabbed her arm. She tried to pull away. ‘You’re mistaken, sir. Mrs Barker told me to go to the west-wing kitchen . . .’
He pulled her into the room. ‘She’s here, David, and my, she’s a young piece and just ripe, I’d say. Pity it’s your turn to go first, old chap.’
‘Ha! Felix, you needn’t try that one. I intend to take my rightful turn, and you’ll not sway me.’
Hattie looked from one to the other. Her heart banged against her ribs. Lord Marley rose from where he had been sitting on a chair in the corner of the room and came towards her. His smile was a smirk that didn’t reach his ugly, cloying eyes. ‘Umm – very young, and petite with it.’ His usually high-pitched voice now sounded deep, raspy and slurred. ‘Come over here, little one, and take off your clothes. I’ve a mind to see you first. By the looks of you, you have tiny, firm breasts just emerging, and I’d wager a fluff’s beginning to sprout between your legs. I’m in for a treat.’
A scream formed deep within her, racked her throat and assailed her ears as her body cowered away from him.
‘Now, now. I like a fight, but there’s no need to go so far as to scream. We don’t want to wake the other servants, do we?’
He pulled her to him. The smell of cigars and wine tinged his breath, and his clothes reeked of musty perfume. Beads of sweat trickled down his fat jowls. He brushed her cheek with a clammy hand. Her stomach lurched. She swallowed hard, then kicked out with all her might. Her foot caught his shin, the pain of it causing him to wince. His hand shot out and slapped her face, bringing stinging tears to her eyes.
‘Little bitch! Hold her, Felix.’
A burning pain ripped through her shoulders as Felix pulled her arms behind her in a grip so tight she feared they’d come out of their sockets. She couldn’t move. Lord Marley’s face stayed close to hers. He snapped in anger, ‘I’ll stop your antics, you little vixen. You bloody well know why you’re here, so don’t play the innocent. If you want the money, you do as you are bid. Am I making myself clear?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I should go to the—’
‘That’s enough!’ Lord Marley looked over her head. ‘What do you think, Felix?’
‘Well, she’s here now, and she’s definitely the one pointed out to me. Her suddenly having cold feet isn’t our problem, is it?’
‘No, you’re right, and I’m not planning on giving up now. As long as you’re of the same mind?’
‘I think the plaster and the cords will help our cause . . .’
‘Good idea. Let’s get on with it, then.’
Hattie fought until every bone of her body ached with exhaustion. Tears clogged her nose. The plaster stuck over her mouth was suffocating her, and yet it seemed that the more she struggled, the more they enjoyed themselves. They tore at her clothes, taking no heed of ruining her uniform. A deep shame overcame her as they gazed at her naked body, before dragging her towards the bed.
There was nothing she could do. They stretched her arms and legs as far as they would go and tied them to each corner bedpost. If she moved, the cords dug deeper into her wrists and ankles, and her struggles to breathe sapped all her energy. Lord Marley stood over her and undid the buttons on his fly.
Hattie found she couldn’t look away from the sight of what he fetched out from his trousers and rubbed up and down in his cupped hand. Was he really going to put that in her, like Daisy said men did? Her fear became a terror.
The bed sank as it took his weight. He knelt over her, his hand next to her head to steady him. His other hand still grasped himself.
She couldn’t swallow. Useless prayers mocked her brain. Lord Marley crushed her as he bore down on her. His hand touched her private part, then a pain seared right through her as she endured a stretching, ripping sensation. Her mind couldn’t take in the horror. Her thoughts swam away in the cold tears that ran down her cheeks. She was nothing, nothing, nothing . . .
The sound of splashing water woke her. Her head hurt, and her throat burned. Why was she lying on this soiled bedding in this strange room? Looking over to where the sound of the water was coming from, she saw the man that the master had called Felix filling the bowl from the jug on the washstand. The memory of what had happened slapped her. With it the pain and humiliation she’d endured revisited her.
With the gradual return of her senses came the realization that her mouth was no longer plastered shut and her arms and legs had been released, though her nose still stung from the stinking, cloying cloth that had been placed over her face after they had finished with her.
Looking around the room, she saw that the master had gone. Felix brought her attention back to him. ‘When I leave, you are to wash yourself. There’s a new uniform in the cupboard.’ He moved over to the door then turned towards her. The coins he threw jingled as they landed on the bed next to her. His withering look made her recoil. ‘Tell no one or you’ll be out on your arse with nothing.’
As the door closed behind him, every part of her body trembled. Her teeth knocked together, as did her knees. But then the warm wetness dribbling down her legs and dampening the sheet beneath her spurred her to take action – an instinctive action born of the memory of standing for hours with wet sheets tied around her whenever she’d wet the bed back at the convent.
Easing herself onto the floor, she made as if to strip the bed, but the sight of the bloodstains and the smell of her own urine renewed her terror. She crumpled to the ground and wept.
5
A Misdemeanour is Rewarded
A forced cough brought Megan’s head up from her work. She looked towards Cissy, then over in the direction Cissy had indicated with a nod of her head. She saw Miss Stallton walking towards Madame’s office with a sketchbook in her hand. The words ‘Miss Scot-Price, how nice of you to say you like my designs much better than Madame Marie’s’ flashed into her mind. Her body began to sweat with fear.
Just last week Miss Scot-Price had been in the salon to choose the gowns for her debutante year. When Megan had fetched swatches of material for the girl and her mother to choose from, the colours and feel of the different
fabrics had inspired her. She had sketched late into the night. Cissy had been enthralled with the designs and, as always, her fun-making had taken over. She’d picked up a crayon and drawn a figure with a bubble coming out of its mouth, with those words written inside it. Underneath she had penned ‘Madame Megan’. The joke had grown, and they’d drawn another figure with huge tears coming from its eyes and had written underneath ‘Madame Marie’.
The look of sheer delight on Miss Stallton’s face as she wafted that same sketchbook towards her before entering Madame’s office caused Megan to catch her breath in panic. How does Miss Stallton come to have it?
‘Miss Tattler!’ Madame’s voice boomed out from her office. Megan’s fear deepened. Oh, no . . . she’ll not stand for this. It’ll mean the end of me time here! A movement of the bench captured her attention. Cissy had stood up and was headed towards the office. ‘No, Cissy! No . . .’
‘It were my doing, Megan, and I’m not letting you take the blame.’
Megan jumped up and ran round the benches, but wasn’t in time to stop Cissy. She’d already reached the office, knocked on the open door and walked in.
‘Miss Grantham? Get out at once! I called for Miss Tattler.’
‘But it weren’t her doing – not the fun-making weren’t. It were me. All Megan did was to draw the designs and—’
‘Are you daring to address me without permission? And to call Miss Tattler by her first name?’
‘Aye, I am. Megan is me friend, and I’m not for letting her take the blame for sommat as I did.’
Megan’s deep-seated fear made it hard for her to swallow the spittle forming in her mouth. She looked from one to the other: Cissy, red-faced and defiant, and Madame, just as red, but with a rage on her that made her eyes bulge from their sockets. Madame broke the stare and turned in Megan’s direction. ‘Miss Tattler, is this true? Have you gone against my instructions and formed an alliance with Miss Grantham?’
Megan nodded.
‘You are two of a kind. I should have known. I should not have given you privileges you did not appreciate, Miss Grantham.’ She paused, her eyes scanning the drawings. ‘However, Miss Tattler, you have settled in well and apart from this – this . . .’ – the pages of the sketchbook flapped with a snapping sound as she waved them in anger – ‘I have to admit that I have been pleased with your work and your manner. The pleats you stitched into the bodice of Lady Gladwyn’s frock were beautifully done. She commented on them.’
Megan kept her head bowed, not sure whether to say sorry for the drawings and the little figures in the corner, or to thank Madame for the praise she’d given. But the rasping of pages being torn from her pad made her lift her head.
‘You have a talent, Miss Tattler, but if you think design is all about producing good drawings and having a lively imagination and flair, you are very much mistaken. The drawings are only the basis of design; they need to be broken down into pieces to form a pattern. Each piece must be precisely measured to fit – not only with the other pieces to build the garment, but to the figure of the client. All the details need to be enhanced in smaller drawings for the finishers, and only then can it all go to the patternmakers who produce paper patterns for the cutters.’ She stopped for a moment and gazed at one of the drawings that she had sifted through. ‘Umm, yes, well, imagination and flair you certainly do have. This is very good, but without the technical know-how, you cannot call yourself a designer. It takes years – years.’
Without Madame seeming to make any movement, one of her desk drawers sprang open. She tucked the drawings into it. ‘Now, Miss Grantham, what are we going to do about you? It appears from these early days that you are good at sewing on buttons, hooks and eyes and press studs, but not much else. Obviously there is a need in the finishing room for someone who is good at these tasks and willing to do them, but you are headstrong and, at times, very, very rude. This must change. Otherwise I will write to Laura – Mrs Harvey – and tell her you are not suitable. I know this won’t please her and, as she is a valued client, I am reluctant to take that step. Therefore I want you to make an extreme effort.’
‘Yes, Madame. I’m sorry, Madame.’
‘Miss Tattler, I think you have earned the right to have a companion. Miss Grantham, you may move your things to the attic and occupy the other bed in that room. I have already spoken to Mrs Harvey about this, and she expressed surprise that I had allowed you to share with the ladies in the first place. You will carry out the task this evening, Miss Grantham.’
‘Yes, Madame. Thank you, Madame.’
‘I do not want a repetition of what happened today. And, Miss Tattler, if you do any drawings in the future, I want you to show them to me. If you continue to show promise, I may consider training you in the techniques of design.’
‘Oh, ta, Madame. Ta very much.’
‘You mean thank you. Oh, just get back to your work, and ask Miss Stallton to come to my office.’
They bumped into one another in their hurry to get out, and Cissy giggled. Megan’s joy spilled out in her own giggles, but the smug look that Miss Stallton gave her when she came out of Madame’s office deadened her happiness, and an uneasy stirring began in the pit of her stomach.
Two weeks later, engrossed in her work embroidering a rose on the collar of a silk blouse, Megan was thinking of Hattie. She listed the things she needed to tell her. She’d start the letter tonight, so that it would be ready to post by the time her leave days came and she had the money for a stamp. She could use some pages out of her sketchpad. She’d tell Hattie about Cissy’s mam’s letter inviting her to go home with Cissy for their leave days and – best of all – to spend Christmas there, too! She trembled with excitement at the thought of going to a real family home, but the feeling dulled to an ache as she remembered that it would be her first Christmas without Hattie. She hoped Hattie was as happy as she was.
A door banged at the other end of the room, bringing her out of her thoughts. The ladies were back from breakfast.
‘Come on, Megan, I’m—’
Madame’s voice commanded their attention, stopping Cissy from finishing what she was going to say. ‘Gather round, ladies. This is the first of the garments for Miss Scot-Price. There is a good deal of smocking to be done.’
Megan glanced over at Cissy, willing her not to say anything. Cissy’s mouth opened and then closed. Megan nodded at her, letting her know she was right not to speak out.
The emerald-green satin caught the light and enhanced the flounces of the skirt just as she knew it would, and the smocking would tighten the bodice in a soft way that was so suitable for a young lady. The frock was just how she imagined it would be.
‘It is superb, Madame,’ Miss Stallton said. Megan caught the sideways glance Miss Stallton gave her as she continued, ‘The gowns you create are always exquisite, Madame. What did Miss Scot-Price think of this one?’
‘Thank you, Miss Stallton. Miss Scot-Price is thrilled with my design, and when she came for the first fitting she had tears in her eyes. Now, Miss Tattler . . .’ Madame’s eyes narrowed. Megan read the warning; she dared not protest. ‘I want you to do the smocking and, Miss Stallton, you are to attach the lace edging around the bodice and sleeves.’
‘Delighted to, Madame.’
Megan knew Miss Stallton’s eyes were on her as she said this, and she didn’t have to look to know that a smirk would be creeping across Miss Stallton’s face. Madame must have sworn her to secrecy over the designs she’d seen in the sketchpad. Knowing that she could do nothing made an anger well up within her, and unsheddable tears formed in the back of her eyes. She took the garment from Madame Marie. The woman offered no further explanation. She didn’t have to, as she knew Megan would know exactly where the smocking should start and end.
As she and Cissy left their benches and went towards the dining room, Megan acknowledged for the umpteenth time how glad she was of the rule that they took meals and breaks when the others had finished.
&nbs
p; ‘Eeh, Megan . . .’
‘It’s all right, Cissy. Don’t fret yourself. I’ll get me own back one day. I’ll show her.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll tell you when we’re sat down. I’m starving.’
‘I’ll make you some toast. The fire’s glowing, so it won’t smoke the bread. There’s not much left to go with it, by the looks of things.’ The lids of the breakfast trays clanged one after the other as Cissy made her fruitless search. ‘Just a dried-up fried egg and some crispy rinds the ladies cut off their bacon slices – and that’s your lot.’
‘I’ll stick with toast. I don’t want any of their cast-offs.’
Whilst she worked, Cissy again asked Megan how she thought she could get her own back on Madame.
‘Oh, it won’t be for a while, but I’ve a dream in me and I mean to catch it.’
‘Catch it? That’s a saying as I haven’t heard afore, Megan.’
‘It isn’t a saying as such.’ Something stopped her from telling Cissy about the locket; it was as if she would lose something that was precious to her if she spoke of it. ‘It just means . . . well, thou knows: like a falling star carrying your dream, and you have to be ready to catch it.’ She’d thought this explanation over when she’d been mulling over the engraving on the locket, and she hoped that was what it meant. It sounded nice.
‘That’s grand. What is your dream, Megan?’
‘To own me own establishment just like this one, where the frocks and gowns I design are known as mine and . . .’ The tears she had tried so hard not to shed spilled over and she brushed them away. ‘But I’ve a lot to learn afore that can happen, and saying owt about Madame taking me drawings and using them as her own won’t help me.’ She knew what she said was meant for herself, as much as for Cissy. It helped, and her need to cry passed. ‘I have to keep doing good work and giving Madame me ideas, and then hope as she’ll keep her promise and one day teach me how to turn me drawings into garments.’