‘No more can I.’
She spoke calmly, matter of fact.
Sunlight glanced off the river, dazzling my eyes. From this distance it appeared cool and glassy. With dust swelling up from the road behind us, the idea of water was inviting. I had heard of young bucks leaping into the Serpentine in the height of summer, emerging to scandalise the ladies with their dripping shirts. No doubt that was what Lady Rose meant.
‘It is not at all safe,’ I cautioned. ‘It is not like the shallow areas in the sea where they take the bathing machines. The current is strong, the waters are rough.’
‘What would they do to me?’
‘They would toss you about. Chill you.’ I put a hand upon her arm, a nurse once more. ‘Promise me you will never attempt it, my lady. With all the refuse in the river you would be torn. Cut to pieces.’
She turned then, looked me squarely in the eye. ‘Sometimes, I think I should like to be.’
Chapter 9
I had been fond of my previous mistresses. Of course I had. I wanted them to adore me. But with Lady Rose it was something else: something greedy, all-consuming.
As the months passed, I found ways to make her smile. Cowper’s translation of Homer from the circulating library, marzipan from Gunter’s. Gradually, she lost the wild and hopeless look I had seen on the bridge.
She still refused to venture out into society, but this pleased me; we spent the days instead reading and sewing together like sisters. In all honesty, she showed me more affection than Meg had ever done. No doubt this was what Mrs Windrop meant when she complained about her daughter-in-law’s low breeding. No one born to her station would ever treat a servant with such familiarity. It was dangerous, she said. It bred ‘ideas’ amongst the lower orders.
She was right in that one respect.
Like any lonely person, I trusted too quickly. Let my heart believe it had found a home. At night I would tear myself away from Lady Rose, ceding the ground to Sir Arthur, but I kept her in my dreams. And in the morning, when I awoke, I would hurry to fix her chocolate.
One day, I took up the Willow pattern cup, only to find her already awake and out of bed, standing before the press in her nightgown. Its doors were thrown open and she was rummaging inside.
‘I fear you are punishing me, my lady,’ I teased as I entered the room and set the chocolate down on the dressing table.
She looked quite startled. ‘You, Stevens? Whatever would I punish you for?’
I smiled. ‘Is this not the method you took with Burns? Disrupting her careful ordering?’
‘Good heavens.’ Lady Rose glanced from me to the press and back again, sheepish. ‘I did not stop to consider. Is there a pattern to its arrangement?’
But when she saw me chuckle, she began to laugh herself.
‘If there is a particular item you require, my lady, perhaps it would be best if you ask me to fetch it. That is my purpose, after all.’
She threw up her hands and huffed. I was glad to see some of the life returning to her. ‘It is no use. I wanted to surprise you, but you see I am completely ineffectual without your help.’
‘Surprise me? I do not believe anyone has ever given me a surprise.’
The eyes she turned upon me grew tender. ‘Have they not, my Stevens? Then I feel all the more churlish for bungling it. Come here, please.’ I went to her side. She laid a hand upon my shoulder. ‘Do you remember a travelling dress? Fawn-coloured. Perhaps it was made of nankeen, but I am not certain.’
I was able to produce it at once. Fawn-coloured but poplin, not nankeen, and fitted tight about the bodice in the style of a riding habit. Dark blue frogging ran the length of the outfit, terminating in a broad band around the hem to catch dust. I had never dressed Lady Rose in it – I understood it was one of the gowns from her wedding journey.
She clapped her hands together. ‘That is precisely the one. What is your opinion of it, Stevens? Do you like it? Is it not prodigiously handsome?’
I said it was.
‘You shall have to take it in, of course. But I think it shall do very well. It is exactly designed to bring out the colour of your hair and your eyes.’
‘My . . .?’ The question died as she pushed the dress upon me. It smelt of her: orange blossom. A textured surface like skin. To think she had beheld such a beautiful item and seen me in it. ‘You want me to wear this?’
She nodded, beaming.
‘Are we . . . going on a journey?’
‘No, Stevens. We have been on a journey. A very dark and disagreeable one.’ Her brow tightened, the smile dropped from her face. ‘I want you to have this for your own as a pledge that I shall never forget. Nothing shall erase the memory of the one who travelled by my side when others would not.’
Tears filmed my eyes; I looked up to see them on Lady Rose’s lashes.
‘It is too costly,’ I stuttered. ‘I cannot. It was my duty . . . my pleasure. I do not require thanks, my lady.’
‘But you have them, all the same.’
It seemed as if my entire life had been building to this: recognition, affection and an assurance it would never fade. Now that I had them, I was not sure what to do. Somehow, it was still not enough.
Lady Rose leaned forwards, kissed my cheek.
I thought my heart would explode.
‘Now take the dress to your room. Put it away before Mrs Windrop sees. She never gives Burns her gowns until they are at least two years out of style. The last thing I need is another homily on my extravagance.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
I emerged from her suite of rooms wearing an irrepressible grin and a small fortune draped across my arm, the finest gown I should ever own. There could be little occasion to wear it outside the secrecy of my own bedchamber, but it pleased me to possess something of hers.
It was not until I reached the passage leading to my room that I saw Mrs Windrop, standing in an open doorway. Watching me.
Hers was a gaze of fury. Full of outrage to see an exquisite garment, paid for by her son’s money, in my grubby servant’s hands. Or so I thought at the time.
Now I wonder.
Wonder if she was not viewing me as I was, but looking into the future, like the witch that I fancied her to be.
Perhaps she saw that same gown, stained with blood and pushed to the bottom of a trunk.
Chapter 10
Sir Arthur resented our intimacy. He wanted his wife to cleave to him, as she did to me, but quite how he expected this result only he can answer. It is a rich man’s way, I suppose: to anticipate reward for a fractional amount of effort.
The day after his mother had seen me with the travelling dress, he summoned me to his library.
I entered with some trepidation, for the room was unfamiliar to me, painted in a dull olive green with an Axminster carpet at the centre. It had all the accoutrements of a gentleman’s library: the bookshelves crowned with busts, a spinning globe, decanters of whisky-coloured liquid. But it all looked rather too new, too much like a stage set at the theatre. Sir Arthur did not appear at home behind his desk. For the first time, I saw him as the aristocracy did: a tradesman playing at gentility.
‘Ah, Stevens. Do sit down.’
The chair was made of leather. It squeaked as I put my weight upon it. I felt a flush of mortification.
‘How is your mistress, Stevens?’
‘Much recovered, sir. She has taken several airings in the carriage with me this week and is returning to herself. But it would be wise not to push her too far. She remains somewhat delicate, at times.’
He passed his tongue over his lips. His face seemed a little leaner than usual. ‘Yes. My mother does not recall being indisposed for so long on similar occasions, but as you say, my wife is . . . fragile. I am most anxious that nothing should occur to distress her.’
‘I trust it
shall not, sir. You may rely upon me. I have some experience in nursing nervous, as well as physical, disorders.’
He raised his eyes to mine. A challenge bristled there. ‘I have been reacquainting myself with your nursing experience,’ he said, moving a paper on his desk. My character letters lay before him. ‘I did not see your references, originally.’
‘I gave them to Mrs Glover when first we met.’
‘Yes.’ He waved a hand. ‘I let my wife employ her own maid as she pleased. But I would not be a responsible husband if I did not make my own enquiries now, would I?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I understand that your first mistress, a . . .’ He fumbled amongst the papers, ‘. . . Mrs Wild. She passed from this life, did she not?’
I bowed my head. ‘Yes, sir. God rest her soul. She was an elderly lady. I had been in her service for two years . . . The event was somewhat expected.’
‘Her sons certainly praise your care of her throughout her indisposition.’
They were nice young men. It was always a pleasure when they paid a visit, which they were scrupulous enough to do each time their mother took a bad turn. I had hoped, at the time of her death, that they might move me into one of their own households. I was not so fortunate.
I returned to the Registry Office, and that had led me to Mrs Farley.
‘Your next employer,’ Sir Arthur went on, ‘is particularly eloquent about your attention to her children. Little Robert, it seems, was a favourite of yours?’
‘They were all dear children, sir. But Robert was the best of them. Perhaps that is why . . .’ My voice caught, remembering that cherubic face. ‘I often told Mrs Farley he was too good for this earth.’
He scrubbed a hand across his chin, watching me. ‘Yes . . . because he died too, did he not? And you were a prodigious comfort to Mrs Farley in the years that followed.’
Tears pricked at my eyes. ‘I hope I was, sir.’
‘And you left the position because . . .?’
‘My mistress was widowed and remarried. The children were sent to school and the household retrenched.’
His expression did not change. I wondered how Lady Rose could be married to a man of so few emotions. ‘So that leaves us with Miss Gillings.’
A rare creature: a spinster who inherited funds. At forty, she still held out hope of catching a husband.
‘Miss Gillings was an excessively kind mistress, sir. She treated me more as a companion than a maid. It was my honour to accompany her as chaperone to a selection of parties. I was very sorry to leave her service.’
‘She left you, it seems,’ he returned. ‘For Naples. A better climate. Quite a perilous journey, in these times. Was she so very desperate?’
‘The matter of her health became pressing, sir.’
‘Yet she did not take you with her? Despite all your skills?’
This was a sore point. I tried not to show how it ruffled me. ‘I should have gone, had my mistress requested it, but I do not believe she could justify the expenditure. Besides, sir, my father may have objected. I am his only unmarried daughter. Neither he nor my mother would wish me to be so far away.’
His eyebrows lowered. ‘That is touching. I was not aware you were close to your family. I do not see you leave the house to visit them, even on your half-days.’
He had caught me out: my parents would gladly see me as far away as the Antipodes, if it caused no embarrassment to them. Only Meg seemed to care, and with her it was the habitual, weary concern of an elder sister rather than true love.
‘No, sir. I keep myself available, in case I am required. My duties must come first.’
‘Indeed. Well, happily it appears that your last mistress Miss Gillings survived on the Continent without your company. To judge from the hand she writes, I might fancy her returned to full health.’
‘That would be a great pleasure. I hope it is the case.’ It smarted to have all my failures read out before me. Any other master would be delighted with these unimpeachable references, but Sir Arthur was not. From the tone of his voice, I could tell he nursed the same suspicion I did: that I was hexed, an omen of bad luck. I shifted in my chair, eliciting another farcical squeak. ‘May I ask, sir, to what all these questions tend? Have I dissatisfied you in some way?’
Sir Arthur steepled his fingers. ‘No . . . I do not believe there is any cause for complaint.’ How carefully he worded it. ‘You seem quite as dear to Lady Rose as you have been to all your previous mistresses.’
It did not sound like a compliment, coming from his lips.
‘I am very fortunate in my position.’
‘All the same . . .’ He gathered my character letters into a pile and bound them with string. ‘Vast as your experience is . . . I believe I shall consult a midwife, should my lady find herself with child again.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Offended pride clipped my voice.
‘That will be all, Stevens.’
He did not look up, did not see the way I clenched my jaw. It took a Herculean effort not to slam the door behind me.
Chapter 11
Anger has ever been a failing of mine. When it surges, it sings in my veins like a dram of gin. Any action seems possible, reasonable. It is only afterwards, when the fire fades, that I see the dark soot-stain of what I have done.
I thought I had conquered it in time for Lady Rose’s next baby. Reconciled myself to the idea she would prefer the child’s company to mine. Because after all, a baby would be a part of her: a girl with her heart-shaped face, or a boy with her melting brown eyes. Perhaps I could love it too.
I would be there throughout its upbringing, and – who could say? – perhaps it would grow to favour me above the other servants. Perhaps it would call for me before its mother, as Robert Farley had done.
I could make it need me.
So after she missed her second course, I dedicated a few weeks’ free time to sewing a complete set of baby clothes: barracoat, swaddling band, clouts and pilchers, two bonnets in hollie-point lace and a quilted gown. As the garments began to take shape, so did my affection for the stranger who would wear them. I grew impatient for chubby limbs to fill out the sleeves, a soft skull to place inside the caps. My tired fancy conjured up images of a baby that cooed and gurgled, a baby happy to be passed from its mother’s breast to me.
It was on a Wednesday that everything began to unravel. Shortly before they struck the dinner gong, I tied off my last stitch and folded all the tiny clothes into a linen parcel which I secured with ribbon. If I took it down right now, my lady would have time to open it before I changed her dress. But I hesitated.
Unaccountably, my stomach came alive with nerves; I felt vulnerable, as if I was exposing part of myself in this gift. Showing, perhaps, how truly devoted I was: that I would sacrifice my leisure hours, sacrifice sleep itself, to make her smile.
Hugging the parcel to my chest, I took a breath and set off towards my lady’s suite.
As I approached the door, I became aware of voices murmuring behind the wooden panels. The words were muffled.
I knocked.
‘Oh, that will be Stevens.’ My lady’s rich tones rang clear now. ‘Enter, Stevens.’
With some trepidation, I turned the knob. Entered the bedroom to see . . . myself.
Or in fact a better version of myself; the woman I might have been, who had always eluded capture.
A dignified bearing. Hair of a darker colour tied neatly into a chignon at the back of her head. Her face rested, solemn, but the features were softened at the edges by a prettiness mine lacked. She stood with hands lightly clasped by her waist and her shoulders held high, carelessly highlighting the excellent cut of her plain navy gown.
‘Stevens,’ said Lady Rose, ‘this is Mrs Friar.’
Friar nodded to me, pleasant enough. I did not know what to do with myself
. The parcel of baby clothes seemed a ridiculous thing to be holding. I put it aside hurriedly on the bed, my practised speech all forgotten.
‘I am pleased to meet you, Mrs Friar. Excuse my interruption. Will you be dressed for dinner, my lady?’
‘Heavens!’ Lady Rose looked down in dismay at her plain clothing. ‘I had quite forgotten. Any gown should do. Did you let out the blue satin? I will wear that.’
I moved to the press to search out the gown, astonished that Mrs Friar did not seem to be going away.
Behind me, she cleared her throat. ‘May I ask what you usually dine upon, Lady Rose? It may be wise to make some adjustment.’
‘Nothing very exciting for today, Friar. Mutton, I believe. My mother-in-law Mrs Windrop takes the menus in hand, you had better speak with her.’
‘As you wish, madam. And I would take it as a great favour if you declined any wine with your meal. Many liquids can be pernicious – I would not have you take anything stronger than barley water.’
Lady Rose caught my eye; hers widened, seemed on the point of a comical roll. ‘Indeed? Well, of course, I shall do exactly as you say.’
‘I will leave you to get dressed, madam. But Stevens,’ I started, nettled by Mrs Friar’s familiar use of my name, ‘no stays. Jumps, if you must. I should prefer no constriction at this point.’
With that, Mrs Friar left the room.
My lady’s lips twitched with amusement. ‘Is she not impressive? Such assurance. She makes one feel quite safe.’
I smoothed out the blue satin, feeling as if I had gone mad. ‘Yes . . . But if you’ll pardon me . . . Who is she, my lady?’
Her laugh rang shrill. She moved over to the bed and slipped off her shoes. ‘Well might you ask! She simply arrived this morning like an apparition. I had not the slightest idea she was coming.’
This hardly answered my question. Distractedly, I lay the blue satin down on the bed beside the bundle of baby clothes. What should I do with them now? My plan had all gone awry. I knew her moods and humours; she was not in the frame of mind to receive the present – or at least, not to give me the reaction I craved. To see her open the parcel without interest and put the clothes quietly aside would destroy me.
The House of Whispers Page 7