Wildflower Hill

by Kimberley Freeman

  Tears obscured the words on the page. Beattie drew in a sharp sob, determined not to upset Lucy. She sniffed back the tears quickly, hurried inside to hide the letter under her pillow. Outside, she could hear Mikhail’s car pulling up, the peremptory bleat of the horn. Life went on, life had to go on. Her stomach clenched with regret, and she remembered Charlie Harris, what he had said about having lost both his parents somewhere in the past. Just me in the world now, looking after myself. Palming away tears, she hurried back through the house and outside. There would be time to cry tonight, after her shift, curled up with Lucy in bed.

  TWELVE

  Beattie had been working at Wildflower Hill for six months before she met Raphael Blanchard. She had glimpsed him once, on her arrival, when looking at the upper story. She’d seen his profile at the window, but he hadn’t seen her. She’d had an impression of dark hair, pale eyes, and youth, but nothing more. Meanwhile, Alice came down to the kitchen every day after lunch to catch the passing warmth of the stove, and she’d told Beattie bits and pieces about Raphael. He was the fifth son of a minor earl in England, and had been charged with expanding their business interests in the empire, but Raphael had little interest in business, much less sheep. He hired a farm manager and kept himself busy with his social life. Mikhail was the general handyman and gofer, and he drove out three or four times a day to pick people up and drop them home.

  It was a fine winter morning. The sun had been late to get up, but now it shone clearly, lending its golden light to the trees and fields. When Beattie arrived at work, Alice was in the kitchen, sitting at the little table with her head in her hands.

  “What’s wrong?” Beattie asked, hanging up her coat and tying on her apron.

  Alice looked up. Her face was flushed, and she held a crumpled hankie in her hand. “I’m sick,” she croaked. As if to prove it, she succumbed to a coughing fit that seemed to go on for minutes.

  Beattie fetched her a glass of water and put it at her elbow.

  Alice brought her coughs under control and sipped the water. She blew her nose loudly. “Beattie, you’ll have to serve lunch today. I can’t be coughing all over the food.”

  “Of course. You only have to tell me what to do.”

  Alice looked at her blearily. “There’s just one rule. Don’t make eye contact with Mr. Blanchard.”

  “He doesn’t like it?”

  “Not for his sake, Beattie. For yours.” Alice shook her head. “Just keep your head down. He’ll only have one guest with him: Mr. Sampson, his lawyer. Wait until they are deep in conversation, then be invisible. Leave them their food, and leave the room. Two courses: soup and roast. I’ve already got the roast on.”

  They worked in the kitchen together that morning, while Beattie turned Alice’s warning over in her mind. Keep your head down. He must be a tyrant, a terrible bully. How did Alice put up with him, if that were the case? She grew more nervous as the day wore on. After Henry, she’d hoped never to have to deal with a domineering man again.

  At last it was time to take the soup up to the dining room. Alice gave her directions, and after forcing her hands to be still, Beattie finally emerged from the kitchen to see a little more of the Wildflower Hill homestead.

  Directly opposite the kitchen was a room used for storage. Its door was closed. Stairs led up to the sleeping areas. Dark wood paneling absorbed the light. Behind the stairs were a sitting room and a large dining room. She found the door to the dining room, could hear men’s voices from within. Perfect timing. She balanced the tray on her hip, opened the door, and slipped in quietly.

  Head down. She caught the smell of cologne, under it a less pleasant musty smell. She registered the same tall cathedral windows in the room, and folding French doors opening to a damp, lichen-spattered patio. She didn’t look at the men, and they kept talking as though she weren’t there. A bowl in front of each of them—Alice had set the table that morning—and she was on her way out again.

  But before she made it to the door, the conversation stopped abruptly, and an imperious voice said, “You’re not Alice.”

  Beattie turned, tucking the tray under her arm. Was she still to keep her head down? It seemed rude, and she didn’t want to be scolded for that. She lifted her gaze and smiled politely. “I’m Beattie, sir.”

  Raphael Blanchard would have been very pretty had he been a woman. He had thick, dark hair that curled around his brow and round, pale blue eyes with long lashes. His face was white, though shadowed with stubble, and his hands were long and flaccid. He bore the distinction of being both thin—his arms and legs appeared almost wasted—and carrying too much fat around his middle. Beattie couldn’t help but be reminded of a doll she made once with Lucy: a stuffed sock for a body, sticks for arms. She glanced briefly at his companion, an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard who smiled at her kindly.

  Raphael didn’t smile, though. “Beattie, who are you, and why are you bringing me my soup?”

  “I’m your maid, and Alice is sick.”

  “Are you new?”

  “No, sir, I’ve been here nearly six months.”

  “Six months! And I’ve never met you!” His eyes rounded in surprise. “Alice has been hiding you, hasn’t she?”

  “No, sir. I work in the kitchen and the laundry. There’s never been any reason to come out before today.” Slowly, Beattie realized that Raphael wasn’t angry at her. She relaxed a little and smiled. “I’ll be off now. Main course is roast beef.”

  “I look forward to seeing you again.” His gaze roamed over her face and body hungrily, and Beattie felt a prickle of revulsion.

  Back in the kitchen, she confessed to Alice. “He saw me, but he was very nice.”

  “Of course he was,” Alice muttered. “Just don’t let him be too nice to you, if you know what I mean. That’s how we lost our last maid.”

  Beattie put the kettle on the stove to boil. In between courses was always a good time for a cup of tea. “Go on. You’d better tell me.”

  “She was a young fool. When he started proclaiming his love for her, she believed him, even though I told her I’d seen it all before. He’s never going to marry a maid! He wanted one thing, and when he’d got it, he sacked her.”

  Beattie stared at her in horror, remembering Margaret’s warnings that Wildflower Hill was a place of sin. “He never!”

  “He did. Now, don’t you worry, after today you’ll be back down here and in the laundry, and he’ll forget about you quick enough. He’s got plenty of other pretty young things to keep him busy. Mikhail’s always running them here in the evenings. Let’s have tea. I’m dying here.”

  Beattie made the tea, then sat with Alice. Strong, hot tea. Beattie gazed out the window at the rolling fields and pale distant sky and thought about Henry, about the girls at Morecombe House, about the relationships between men and women. Leaving Henry had taken a lot of strength, and she had been proud of herself, but it hadn’t erased completely her feelings of vulnerability, her deep conviction that she was just a victim, waiting for someone to take advantage of her. She thought about the hungry look that Raphael had shamelessly given her; perhaps there was something inherent about her that made him feel he could do that. She decided that when she went back in, she would not simper and smile. She would lift her chin and show him that she was not a silly bauble to be toyed with.

  So when she returned to the dining room, she did not keep her head down. She walked erect, keeping her shoulders square.

  Raphael, who seemed to have been waiting for her return, broke off his conversation midsentence. “Ah, she’s back. Can you believe, Leo, that Alice has had her hidden away downstairs all this time? Quite the beauty, isn’t she?”

  It had been a long time since anyone had said Beattie was a beauty. She’d not changed much—still small and thin, dark hair still refusing to hold a curl—but she suspected there must be an air of tired wariness about her that repelled the gazes of men.

  The other gentleman had the good grace t
o sound embarrassed. “Any woman is beautiful if she has grace and compassion,” he muttered.

  “Beattie, this is Leo Sampson, my lawyer.”

  Beattie nodded at the lawyer, giving him a smile in acknowledgment of his kindness.

  “Why don’t you sit with us awhile, girl? We can leave our business talk until after we’ve eaten. Tell us about yourself. That’s a Scots accent I hear.”

  Beattie cleared the soup dishes and, without meeting his eye, said, “Thank you for your kind offer, but Alice has asked that I return to the kitchen.”

  “Alice! She’s my employee. As are you.” A cold edge touched his voice. “Don’t forget who pays your wages.”

  “I won’t, sir, and I’m very grateful.” She made sure her voice sounded strong; she tried to imagine what Margaret would do in such a circumstance. “But as God has been good enough to give me this work, I’d best show my gratitude by going and doing it.” There, now she sounded too pious to be seduced.

  Raphael fell silent—though she sensed he was angry—and she slipped quickly from the room, heart thudding, but glad that she could return to life in the kitchen and never have to see him again.

  The following day, a Saturday, Mikhail didn’t come in the car at ten, as he always did. Beattie waited for half an hour while Lucy bounced around her and asked her repeatedly if she was still working today.

  “I don’t know,” Beattie said again. “I should be.”

  It was too cold to wait outside, so she decided that she would hear Mikhail when he came, and dragged Lucy back into the house.

  Margaret looked up.

  “No car?” “No car.” Beattie’s heart trembled. She’d lost her job, surely. Raphael Blanchard had taken exception to her refusing to sit with him. In trying to be strong and untouchable, she’d merely come across as condescending and rude. She sank into the sofa.

  “Don’t you worry,” Margaret said. “You’d be better off out of that place.”

  Beattie thought of going to the post office and placing a telephone call to Alice but didn’t want to spend anything: she had some savings and didn’t want to start eating into them yet. Still, she didn’t give up hope that the car would arrive. That Mikhail had been held up or there was some problem with the engine. But as midday came and went, as the afternoon grew chill, as sunset colors began to blush in the sky, Beattie was forced to admit that she had lost her job. She sat, tensed, in her chair, while Lucy tried to rouse her from her dark thoughts. But she couldn’t even raise a smile for the child.

  Margaret was muttering about starting the fire early when there was a honk from out front. Beattie raced to the door. The car was there. Mikhail was waiting. But it was five o’clock: the time she normally finished. Curious, she went down to the car and opened the side door. “What’s happening?” she asked Mikhail.

  “You come,” he said.

  “Why so late?”

  He shook his head. He either didn’t know the answer or didn’t know what she was saying. She looked back over her shoulder at Margaret and Lucy on the verandah. “He’s saying I have to go to work now.”

  “But it’s nearly dinnertime, Mummy,” Lucy protested.

  Margaret’s mouth was hard. “You be careful.”

  Beattie ran back up to the verandah to kiss Lucy good night, then turned to Margaret. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

  “Who’s going to take care of you?”

  “Perhaps there’s a dinner on tonight and they need extra staff.”

  “I know what happens there at night.”

  Beattie swallowed hard. “What?”

  “I suspect you’re about to find out.”

  “I’ll stay in the kitchen.”

  “Be sure that you do.”

  Lucy’s face was pale, her eyes anxious. “Mummy? What’s happening?”

  “Never mind, dearie,” Beattie said. “It’s just work.”

  Margaret scooped Lucy up. “Come on, sweet pea. You can help me mash the potatoes.”

  Beattie returned to the car and climbed in. “Thank you, Mikhail,” she said.

  He grunted and pulled the car onto the road.

  On the journey, Beattie’s head was full of wild imaginings of decadent scenes. But then she had to laugh at herself. Margaret’s idea of what sinners did and her own did not match up. She decided to reserve her judgment until she spoke to Alice. At this point, she was just grateful to be working.

  Alice met her at the car, apologizing before she’d even opened the door. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Mr. Blanchard has changed your hours. He’s hired another maid for morning work and laundry. No more scrubbing clothes for you.” She smiled weakly as she led Beattie into the house. “But I’m afraid you won’t be able to hide in the kitchen any longer.”

  Beattie’s heart sank. “Oh, dear.” She could hear music and voices, muffled behind the door of the sitting room.

  “He wants you to work from five until midnight, just four nights, but for the same pay.”

  “Really? Fewer hours but the same pay?”

  Alice nodded. Beattie was jubilant. Certainly, the night work would be tiring, but it would give her much more time with Lucy. “And what do I have to do?”

  “We serve dinner together—Thursday to Sunday he usually has guests staying—and then you’ll stay to help with drinks. There’s a bar in the sitting room. They . . . play cards.” Alice looked at her meaningfully.

  “They gamble?” Just ordinary sinners, then.

  Alice nodded. “Are you fine with that?” She knew a little about Henry, about Beattie’s aversion to drinking and gambling.

  Beattie almost laughed. Serving drinks at an illegal poker party. Five years on, she was back in the same job. “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  Margaret waited a month before expressing her disapproval of Beattie’s new job. The three of them were walking to the shops together. Lucy had run on ahead to the Garretts’ long stone fence, which she loved to climb up on and walk along, arms spread out for balance. The morning was fine but very cold, and Beattie’s breath made fog in front of her.

  “How’s it going, then, up at Wildflower Hill?”

  “Fine, thank you.” Beattie glanced at Lucy, her new winter coat and shoes. She’d found that Raphael Blanchard’s guests would happily slip her a few shillings if she smiled at them the right way, and that she didn’t mind Raphael’s hungry gaze so much when it meant good clothes for her child. He’d not spoken directly to her again, apart from barking an occasional order at her. He’d certainly not tried to get her to sit and share confidences with him, and for that she was glad.

  Margaret harrumphed.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” Beattie said. “They drink a little and play a few games of cards.”

  “And the women?”

  “There are no women. It’s like a men’s club.” Not entirely true. Mikhail had brought two girls in just the previous night, but Beattie had studiously not paid any attention to them.

  Another harrumph. “And what’s your job there?”

  Lucy was singing a tune, turning on her heel, and walking back along the fence. The morning sun warmed the leaves on the frosty hedges. Mrs. Garrett, who was gardening in a pair of tweed trousers Beattie had rehemmed just last week, called out a good morning to them.

  Beattie dropped her voice. “I just bring food and drinks and clean up.”

  “In those clothes you’ve been wearing?”

  Alice had told Beattie she was required to wear something fitter for company on her evening shifts, so Beattie had spent part of her savings on new fabric and had run up two pretty floral dresses with soft gathered sleeves. “You should see how the men are dressed. In their wing collars and waistcoats. Much finer than me.”

  Lucy grew tired of walking the tightrope and jumped down, ran to catch up with them. They were turning on to the main street now.

  “I hear there’s going to be a job going at the bakery,” Margaret said. “Lizzie Flower is pregnant and sick
all the time, and they’ll need someone to help out in the shop if she goes. Why don’t you stop in and ask them today? Better than coming home smelling like cigarette smoke and gin.”

  “I don’t want to work at the bakery. I have a perfectly good job.”

  One more harrumph, and then Margaret fell silent. Beattie knew, though, that now she was a sinner, too, in Margaret’s eyes. How long before she put them out on the street? Alice had mentioned the possibility of her staying at the homestead over shearing season in September to deal with all the extra work. Beattie hoped Margaret would keep them until then. Angry tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. She refused to believe she was doing the wrong thing: she was looking after her child the only way she could.

  Lucy woke. Something had prickled her in her sleep. She’d been having a dream, one that escaped the moment she tried to remember it. She turned over in the bed to see if Mummy was home from work yet, but she was alone. She stretched out, closing her eyes and praying in her head again as Margaret had told her. “Please take Mummy away from the sinners, please take Mummy away from the sinners . . .”

  There was that prickle again. But it wasn’t a real prickle, it was a prickle in her head. She realized she’d heard voices, and for some reason, they seemed important to her. She climbed out of bed and went to the door of the attic room, opened the door an inch, and listened.

  Margaret’s voice. Murmuring. Lucy could pick up only a word here and there. Meaningless words such as “long time” and “couldn’t understand.” Then a man’s voice. That was where the prickle had come from. Why was there a man in the house? He, too, spoke quietly, but she heard him say her mother’s name. She opened the door a little farther to lean out. The hinge squeaked, and the talking stopped instantly. Footsteps approached.

  Lucy ran back to the bed and hopped in, screwing up her eyes tightly.

  “Lucy?” It was Margaret.

  She didn’t open her eyes.

  Margaret approached, sat on the bed. “I know you’re awake. You left the door open.”