by Tessa Arlen
“I most certainly do, Eliza,” he said with dignity. In an effort perhaps to cover his absentmindedness, he pulled out his waistcoat watch and after consulting it said, “I thought we had an appointment at half past three, Miss, er … Miss…”
“Mrs. Jackson,” prompted Eliza quietly.
“Mrs. Jackson. But since you are here early, by all means let’s go upstairs and I will show you around.”
Still baffled by the situation in which she found herself, Mrs. Jackson decided it would be a good idea to have a little chat with the first housemaid when she brought her afternoon tea up to her. It was important that she establish exactly what was going on here. Had the butler been sampling his inventory in the wine cellar? He seemed quite sober but that was no indication. She drew near and discreetly inhaled, and found only the pleasant scent of well-laundered linen and a faint aroma of bay rum from a close early-morning shave. Either the shock of a murder in his dining room had temporarily addled Mr. Jenkins’s wits or, more likely, he was showing his age. At any rate she needed information, from someone other than Mr. Jenkins, that she could rely on and wondered when she could arrange a meeting with Miss Gaskell.
Before she followed the butler to the back stairs, she turned to the elder of the two housemaids and asked her name.
“It’s Martha, Mrs. Jackson. I will bring tea up to your office at five o’clock if that would be a good time for you.” Another bob and she gave Mrs. Jackson the sort of look that made it clear she understood her dilemma.
Now that he had been recalled to his duty, Mr. Jenkins was determined to more than make up for his earlier mistake. He embarked on what turned out to be a most thorough and edifying round of the house; her official escort on a guided tour, as if she had just paid sixpence at the door.
They took in the principal floors of the house, which included a well-curated library, the pretty little sitting room that looked out over the garden with its Adam fireplace and mantel brought in, Mr. Jenkins told her, from the old Kingsley rectory before it had been demolished.
“Like many of the grand houses in the area, this house was built with its neighboring houses by Thomas Cubitt in the late 1820s,” he explained, as he led Mrs. Jackson up the wide central staircase from the spacious inner hall, instead of the back stairs, so that she might better understand the layout of the house. “These gracious buildings still remain in the hands of those who originally bought them, nearly a hundred years ago now.” Mrs. Jackson, who worked in a house that was more than three hundred years old and looked nothing like those of its neighbors, nodded, as if she was impressed.
At the top of the stairs they crossed the wide landing to their right and Jenkins opened a pair of double doors into a comfortable, well-lit apartment that faced the street on its north side and to the west the neighboring house, which bridged the top of the square just discernible through the trees.
“Two pairs of double doors separate the small salon from the large one,” the butler explained as he opened them up to reveal the larger room. A handsome grand piano stood in the larger of the salons in front of two pairs of windows on the room’s west side. Then, with all the pride of revealing an ancient architectural secret, the old man walked to the paneled south wall of the large salon and, releasing a concealed catch, slid one side of half of the wall to the right and the other to the left, revealing a lovely room with graceful proportions that looked out over the gardens at the rear of the house. The walls, covered in dull gold brocade, were hung with old portraits and landscapes and had the faint musty air of a place that was rarely used. The furnishings were of a period that Mrs. Jackson recognized as George III, with graceful lines and gilded wood frames.
“When these three rooms are opened up into each other we have a large area indeed, Mrs. Jackson.” Jenkins turned to survey the three rooms almost with the complacency of ownership, she thought. “And there is plenty of space to seat everyone quite comfortably. The two rooms across the upper hall can of course be used as well to entertain our guests during supper. Miss Gaskell usually has the piano set here, just so.” He used his hands spread slightly apart, palms facing each other, and swung his arms to indicate the position the piano would be moved to. “And then everyone has a perfect view.” He smiled with pride. “Miss Gaskell says the rooms provide more than adequately for any singer or pianist to be heard perfectly well throughout. Almost as good, she says, as a concert hall.” He waved airily to take in what was in fact a large area indeed and one that could more than comfortably seat a gathering of the number invited.
Perhaps to atone for his earlier mistake in forgetting who she was, the elderly butler became almost garrulous. “The other evening we had some music in here for a few of the ladies and gentlemen. It was only necessary to use the small salon.” He shrugged off the smaller room as merely a parlor, thought Mrs. Jackson, when it was of a grand size. “Of course we had to open up the larger salon behind it to allow for the power of the pianoforte, which is of similar scale and dimension to that used in the Royal Albert Hall.”
Mrs. Jackson wondered if anything could be heard outside the room if someone was playing the piano. Possibly not, she thought, then caught herself. No, she would not walk down that path, she would not be drawn.
She walked over to the windows of the gallery that looked out over the gardens. Two or maybe even three inches of snow lay over the shrubs and trees below, covering the garden and the world beyond it in a glittering blanket of faerie. She fleetingly felt a pang for Iyntwood and her missed country walk, the country was always so beautiful under snow. She had promised herself a trip to Selfridges to do some shopping tomorrow afternoon, but even shoveled clear the pavements would be slushy and the going treacherous. She sighed. It would take little of her time to arrange this charity evening and then she was not quite sure what she would do with her days.
She turned into the room as Mr. Jenkins was explaining how the chairs were set in straight rows around the piano, but not too close to the instrument, he cautioned, because of the power of its sound. She couldn’t imagine why the audience had to sit in rows. Surely there were enough comfortable chairs and sofas for guests to sit in groups so that they might relax and enjoy the music, rather than arranged in tight ranks like children in Sunday school.
“Would you like me to talk to the butler at Montfort House about helping you out on the night?” she asked Mr. Jenkins, and was instantly gratified with a sweet smile as the old man’s mild eyes quite lit up.
“If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, I would be most grateful,” he said. “It is becoming more difficult every year to acquire good servants. Our first footman left us quite abruptly a couple of days ago after some several years, and it has been the dickens of a job trying to find a replacement. The one I ended up with”—he made the luckless footman sound like an unsatisfactory new hat—”simply doesn’t fit at all. He is awkward and even though he came with a good reference I can hardly believe how badly trained…”
“What happened to the one who left you?” She was only making polite conversation but his reply was rather startling.
“Why, nothing at all, and that’s the puzzle of it. He just up and left us one day, for no good reason at all, and he didn’t even trouble to give notice even though he had been with us for quite some time. But that’s the way of young men in service today, such regrettably selfish behavior.”
But Mrs. Jackson was only half listening; she turned and looked over the rooms again. With the chairs they already had in there, she rapidly counted places; they would need only to bring in chairs and sofas from the other reception rooms in the house to make seating quite comfortable, and with the help of Montfort House servants it would be simplicity itself to organize a perfect evening for the charity. An evening that offered the finest things in life, without being overdone and fussy; delicious food with good wine in rooms filled with flowers and a salon arranged so that everyone would be comfortably seated to listen to the superb voice of Nellie Melba. She
mentally cast around the room so that she could make plans for the set-up of sofas and chairs. That immense potted palm would have to be moved to the far corner and the cumbersome Chinese screen taken out completely, as they both took up far too much space around the window. There were several other large and awkward pieces that perhaps could be moved altogether, she thought, as her gaze rested on a four-foot, Imperial-yellow Chinese water jar that squatted in front of the screen.
The walls of the two salons were done in fresh greengage silk damask, and Mrs. Jackson decided to arrange white roses around the piano and then send to Iyntwood for some bronze chrysanthemums and the creamy-yellow Crown Princess Victoria, a particularly beautiful Bourbon rose, from the hothouse if there were none to be had in the city. Feeling she had made tremendous headway with her plans, she turned to the butler. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Jenkins, you have been most helpful.” And off she went to enjoy a nice cup of tea in the little office and to ask Martha to enlighten her on the peculiarities of Miss Kingsley’s servants’ hall. Edna Pettigrew was right, the servant problem in London was a nightmare. She was quite looking forward to an evening with her old friend when she returned to Montfort House, so that they could be outraged together on the shortcomings of London servants.
Chapter Ten
When Mrs. Jackson was called for the following morning, she found her ladyship dressed and busy at her writing desk. Mrs. Jackson had thought long and hard about Lady Montfort’s request to find out as much as she could about the goings-on at Chester Square and felt she was already part of a fait accompli, which caused a twinge of resentment. She decided it would be best if she spoke to her ladyship of her reluctance to involve herself in Miss Kingsley’s business right off the bat, so that they might avoid any misunderstanding going forward. But speaking out to Lady Montfort was difficult since the housekeeper rarely revealed misgivings and had certainly never actively disagreed with her ladyship.
So her opening words were rather stilted and to her own ears sounded uncouth and unwilling, making the rest of what she had to say come out awkwardly too: “I know you appreciate it when I speak plainly, m’lady.”
And Lady Montfort said she did, and turned in her chair to give her full attention.
Mrs. Jackson consciously relaxed her hands at her sides and took several slow, measured breaths, and since looking at her directly was not the proper way to address her ladyship, she fixed her eyes on a point a little above Lady Montfort’s head. And then with a final, steadying breath she said, “I have every desire to be of help to Miss Kingsley after what happened in her house, but I think it would be best if I were to concentrate my efforts on the charity evening only.” She paused for this to sink in and was rewarded with a sympathetic nod of understanding from Lady Montfort, which had the effect of making her feel ungracious. She managed the last piece with a calm voice: “I do not feel it is my place to involve myself in making discoveries about the murder at Chester Square.”
There I sound like a scullery maid with a grudge.
“Yes, I see, Jackson,” Lady Montfort said. “Completely understandable, thank you for being so candid. Have you by any chance met with Miss Gaskell yet?”
Mrs. Jackson said she had not, but that she hoped to meet Miss Kingsley’s companion this morning. Miss Gaskell, although still far from well, was thought to be a little improved and certainly not contagious. What a relief, of course she understands! So much better to have things out in the open.
Lady Montfort nodded again and said nothing, and Mrs. Jackson somehow knew, with a sinking heart, that this part of their conversation was far from over. Having said her piece made her feel less of a paid spy in Miss Kingsley’s house, but she sensed the matter was not quite resolved between them.
“Very well, Jackson. I will be here when you get back from Chester Square this evening; I plan to have a quiet evening in for a change. Will you look in on me before you retire? I have some ideas for the hunt ball at Iyntwood that I want to run by you.”
And with that their little talk ended.
* * *
As Mrs. Jackson was driven through the snowy streets to Chester Square she still felt disconcerted by her situation and was a little unsure how to proceed. Like many people of her background who worked diligently to attain a higher position than the one into which they were born, she guarded her status as an upper servant to a family of consequence carefully and, because she knew what it was like not to have them, set great store in the importance of dignity and self-respect. She felt almost trapped; something was looming on her horizon and Lady Montfort knew what it was. When the chauffeur drew up by the area steps that led down from the street to the servants’ entrance to Miss Kingsley’s house, Mrs. Jackson hoped that she would be able to meet with Miss Gaskell soon, so that she could get things moving on the charity evening. And most of all she prayed that Mr. Jenkins would remember who she was today.
As she was taking off her hat in the stuffy little between-stairs office, Martha arrived to inform her that Miss Gaskell was much improved and would be pleased if Mrs. Jackson would step up to her room when she had the time.
An hour later, when she was ushered into Miss Gaskell’s bedroom by Martha, she was completely unprepared for the sight of the young woman lying flat in her bed, in a darkened room. It seemed to her the patient was far from well.
She turned to the maid in the doorway. “Martha, are you sure Miss Gaskell is recovered enough to see me?”
“Yes, ma’am, she particularly said it would be best now rather than later.”
“Yes, please come in, Miss Jackson. I am much improved and if you will make yourself comfortable I will do all I can to help you with our task.” The voice that came from the bed was low and hoarse from coughing, not feeble exactly, but its owner sounded deeply cast down. Mrs. Jackson approached and took a seat in a chair placed conveniently close to the bedside. In the low light of an oil lamp burning on a table by the bed, Mrs. Jackson could just about make out a dark head lying quietly on the pillow.
“I am so sorry you have been burdened with my unfinished responsibilities, Miss Jackson. But Miss Kingsley assures me that the charity evening will benefit for the better from your organization.”
“I am doing my best, Miss Gaskell, but I doubt I can improve on your original plans.” How could Miss Kingsley have told this sick young woman that Mrs. Jackson would do a better job of what had been Miss Gaskell’s creation in past years? She was embarrassed at the insensitivity of the young woman’s employer and immediately resolved to include Miss Gaskell in all her plans, and to tread carefully in introducing any improvements for the evening.
She opened her notebook. “If I might ask a few questions to make sure the arrangements I have made are in keeping, hopefully toward the end of the week you will be well enough to refine what I have put in place.”
They worked quietly together for the next hour, until Mrs. Jackson was aware that the voice in the bed was tiring.
“Perhaps a sip of something warm to ease the throat, Miss Gaskell,” she suggested and got up from her chair to ring for the maid. After another fit of coughing that sounded tight and hard, Miss Gaskell struggled to sit up. She was bent almost double, and Mrs. Jackson was instantly at her side, supporting her upper body as she pulled in pillows and packed them up to provide a wall of support behind the young woman’s shoulders. Then she eased her back, saying how important it was not to lie flat when one coughed. Miss Gaskell drew a breath, and Mrs. Jackson held a glass of what looked like rather dusty water to her lips and told her to take small sips. As the maid came into the room, she said without turning her head, “Will you please put the juice of half a lemon and a full tablespoon of honey into a cup, pour in hot water, and stir thoroughly to dissolve. Then bring it up here quick as you can, please.”
She heard the door close and concentrated her attention on the invalid. Now that she was sitting up, Mrs. Jackson saw her more clearly. Miss Gaskell’s pale face was a perfect oval, made paler by h
er illness. She had deep circles under wide gray eyes that regarded her with the frank interest of the young. Miss Gaskell started to cough again and Mrs. Jackson took the cushion from her chair to place behind the pillows to support the young companion more fully in an upright position. As she pulled the pillows forward to push the cushion behind them, her hand brushed against something concealed there. Looking down, she saw it was a small portrait or photograph in an ornate but inexpensive frame.
When someone keeps a portrait under the pillows in one’s bed, it is usually for only one reason. A likeness concealed this way was not meant to be seen, and its owner would no doubt be embarrassed to have its place discovered. Mrs. Jackson, half bent over Miss Gaskell, had one moment to see that the figure in the photograph was a stolid, broad-chested individual with the sort of side-whiskers worn by the late Prince Albert. No doubt it is a photograph of Miss Gaskell’s father, she thought as she rearranged the pillows, but why would his photograph not take pride of place on the table next to her bed?
The door opened and in came Martha with a tray bearing a large kitchen cup and saucer from which steamy puffs of citrus scented the chill air of the room.
“Well now, Miss Gaskell, hot honey and lemon, an excellent remedy for a sore throat. Thank you, Martha. Please bring a fresh cup every two hours.” Lifting the thick cup and saucer from the tray, she said, “It has lost some of its intense heat in the time it took to bring it up, but little sips please, and tell me if it is too tart.” She held the cup to Miss Gaskell’s lips.
Cautious sips until Miss Gaskell finished the cup.
“How is that now, a little better?” Mrs. Jackson put down the cup on its saucer.
“Indeed it is, Miss Jackson, my throat feels so much better.”
“Honey has that effect, and it’s Mrs. Jackson, not Miss.” And then in response to the young woman’s fluster of apologies: “It’s an understandable mistake since there is no housekeeper in the house. Even if a housekeeper is unmarried, which I am, we are given the title out of respect. I think last thing tonight we will add a little scotch whiskey to your honey and lemon, it will help you sleep.”