by Erica Brown
‘She comes in the month after the baby’s born. Does everything that’s needed while the mother rests in bed. My gawd, not a bit like my mother. She ’ad thirteen babies altogether. They didn’t all last, mind you, but she did make ’em and birth ’em. Sometimes I wonders whether rich folks ever really do either of it. I swears to God, they’d get someone else to do that for ’em if they could.’
Just before they entered the nursery, Blanche remembered something else she’d wanted to ask. ‘What did Lady Strong mean by a posture hour?’
Edith looked at her meaningfully, her hand on the door handle. ‘You’re about to find out,’ she said with a grimace, and swung the door open.
Little effort had been made to make the room a cheery place for children. Sunlight glared through an un-shaded window and into her eyes. For a few seconds the rest of the room seemed in darkness. A step further and out of the sunlight, she finally focused on a scene she would take to her grave. Four children were sitting still and upright on straight-backed chairs. The youngest one, no more than three or four years old, was crying piteously. The next one up in years was sitting stony-faced and still, the only sign of movement his quivering bottom lip. All four heads bobbed in her direction as she entered. The older children looked more stoical though the girl she judged to be the eldest had a defiant look about her. She looked directly into Blanche’s face and asked, ‘Are you the new nurse?’
Unable to find her voice, Blanche nodded.
‘You’re not very black,’ one of the boys exclaimed.
‘Not very black at all,’ said the eldest boy with obvious disappointment.
The girl looked to Edith. ‘I think our posture hour is up, Clements.’ She jerked her chin at the youngest child whose tears had combined with a runny nose and made a mess of his face. ‘You’d better un-strap George first before he starts screaming.’
‘You do Arthur,’ said Edith to Blanche, jerking her head at the second smallest child as she went behind the chair of the youngest. ‘I’ll do George.’
Blanche went behind the second chair and saw why the children were sitting so still and so upright. As she undid the straps, she couldn’t help her anger spilling over into words. ‘What kind of family is this that tortures children? And I’m the colonial, the savage from the Sugar Islands. Would I do this? No! No, I would not.’
‘Do you eat people?’ asked the eldest boy with a hopeful expression.
‘Not lately,’ Blanche answered.
His face dropped. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘But I might develop a taste for the human flesh of whoever strapped you into these things.’
‘They’re backboards,’ said Edith, and proceeded to show and explain how they worked. ‘The board is put like this so the biggest part of the board is resting against the back, then the arms are crooked behind these long pieces…’ She proceeded to demonstrate how the arms were hooked over the thinner pieces. The latter were not unlike racket handles in some odd ball game although there were two, one on each side. The whole thing was strapped to the child and the wrists were attached at the front. ‘It’s to improve posture,’ Edith said awkwardly. The expression in her eyes said it all.
‘Mrs Grainger persuaded our mother it would be good for us,’ said the girl, her chin jutting defiantly and a look in her eyes that Blanche had never thought to see in a child of her age.
‘You can eat Miss Grainger if you like,’ said the eldest boy, smiling brightly as he rubbed the feeling back into his arms. ‘Though I think she’d be all gristle.’
Edith poured water from a large jug into a china bowl, dipped in a cloth and handed it to Blanche, muttering so the children wouldn’t hear, ‘Your first job. Get rid of that boy’s snotty nose before I throw up.’
Blanche put an arm around the little boy and wiped his grubby face. ‘Come on, now,’ she said softly. Once she’d done that, she rubbed at the little boy’s arms to get the blood flowing again. ‘There! Better?’ She gave him a big hug.
His smile was worth it, but she couldn’t help noticing what a pale little boy he was and wondered how often he got to play in the sunshine.
‘You’re nice,’ he said. ‘Are you our new Peters?’
‘She’s a darkie,’ said the girl. ‘If you remember rightly, Mother said she thought it best to call her Mrs Black or Mrs Brown rather than Peters.’
Blanche grimaced. Duncan’s suggestion no doubt.
The oldest girl eyed Blanche thoughtfully. ‘Mrs Grainger told us you were black and probably a cannibal. She said you should stay in your own country. I wish she’d stayed in Nuneaton. It’s a village, I think.’ She cocked her head and frowned. ‘You don’t look very black.’
Blanche exchanged a glance with Edith who was suppressing an impish grin. She had to remind herself that these were only children. Perhaps she was prejudging Mrs Grainger, but so far, she didn’t like the sound of her.
‘My father was white. So was my grandfather on my mother’s side,’ she said through gritted teeth, her jaw aching with the effort of keeping her temper. ‘And his mother was an actress and a friend of Mrs Siddons.’
There followed a quick intake of breath from everyone in the room. Edith nudged her arm and whispered, ‘Heard all about them actresses. Lead a right life, they do. Seen gentlemen out with them round and about the Pithay were me ma lives now.’
Blanche realized immediately that actresses were not quite so respectable as her mother had led her to believe.
The boy interested in cannibals marched up to her and introduced himself in a manner she was quite unprepared for. ‘My name is Rupert, and this is Arthur,’ he said, indicating the second smallest boy. ‘My sister’s name is Caroline. Don’t mind her, she’s terribly bossy. George, of course, you’ve already met. He’s still in dresses for the moment, but he’ll be breeched once he stops peeing his drawers.’
Edith explained that it was quite usual for boys to wear dresses at least up until about three years old. George was taking a little longer than his brothers had done.
A floor clock, the top of which almost scratched the ceiling, chimed four times. The eldest children exchanged glances. George burst into tears, ran to Blanche’s side and promptly buried his face in her dress. Blanche dropped to her knees.
‘Come on, George,’ Edith moaned, reaching for the hairbrush. She looked at Blanche and said softly, ‘They go down to the dining room to see their parents at four o’clock every day for tea. Sometimes you’re required to go down with them, but not today apparently. That task falls to Mrs Grainger. I’ve been told to help you set up supper in the nursery.’
Blanche prised George’s head from the folds of her apron. Tearful blue eyes looked up at her and his bottom lip quivered again. ‘Don’t you want to see your mother and father, George?’
Caroline came over and took hold of his hand. ‘He doesn’t like Mrs Grainger.’
Edith clapped her hands. ‘Come on, children. It’s teatime. Let’s get you ready before Mrs Grainger collects you.’
Blanche straightened collars and sleeves while Edith brushed the children’s hair.
Mrs Grainger wore a mauve dress with a tight collar and had tight lips to match. A pince-nez swung from her neck on a silver chain and although her dress and the fullness of her skirt were reasonably restrained, she swept into the room like a flag ship heading for battle. The moment she saw Blanche, she stopped and sniffed.
‘Good day to you, young woman. I am Mrs Grainger. I trust you have been informed of your duties by the housekeeper and by Lady Verity?’
Blanche had met the housekeeper that morning, a less tense meeting than that with Lady Verity.
‘I have.’
‘Good. Today I will take the children down to see their parents. In future it will be your duty. Come along, children.’
Blanche felt George grip her apron again and made an instant decision. ‘You don’t need to do that. I can take them down.’
The jaw tightened, a broad brow stiffened above
hard, black eyes. ‘It is not for you to decide,’ she said, her mouth moving as though she were taking bites from a hard apple.
Blanche felt the children’s eyes on her, recognizing her as a possible protector. She heard Edith’s quick intake of breath and didn’t hear her breathe out. All of them were terrified of this woman. But not me, she thought. Not me!
‘As the children’s nurse and their governess we have equal duty to the children.’
A slow smile crossed the wide-jawed face. ‘I was here before you, young woman. I will be here when you are gone.’
Cowed and silent, the children watched round-eyed. Hidden until now by the folds of her skirt, Mrs Grainger brought up her right hand in which she held a short, thin cane. She flicked it towards the open door. ‘Come along, children.’
The children trooped out of the door like a flock of young chicks, some half grown and already thinking of fleeing the nest. Caroline held tightly to her little brother’s hand and threw Blanche a helpless look before she left and the door closed behind them.
‘So that’s Mrs Grainger,’ said Blanche.
‘Right ole witch, ain’t she?’ Edith said. She began to tidy the room.
‘She enjoys being cruel,’ Blanche said thoughtfully as she unfolded a tablecloth and laid it on the table. Knives and teaspoons were brought out from an ancient oak dresser that had definitely seen better days.
Edith sighed. ‘Cold with it. But then the only warm woman in this house is Cook, and that’s only because she toasts her backside against the fire. Mind you, Lady Verity’s the mistress in name only. It’s Miss Horatia who really rules the roost. Even Mrs Grainger is all smirks and smiles when that one’s around. Miss Horatia is Sir Emmanuel’s daughter—’
‘I know,’ said Blanche and paused in what she was doing as she remembered the things Nelson had said, the things they’d done together.
Edith looked surprised that she knew, but took it some other servant had told her and went on. ‘The gaggle of geese you’ve just met are the product of the second marriage. Horatia and her brother Nelson are the children by his first wife. She died after her third child was born.’
‘And Nelson,’ said Blanche, her heart already beating hard at the mention of his name, ‘do you see much of him?’
‘Nah!’ said Edith as though mention of him left a nasty taste on her tongue. ‘Bit of a pansy that one. I prefer Captain Strong. He might not be a blood relation, but he’s the bloke I’d most like to curl up to in a storm at sea, I can tell you!’
Tom had been kind, but it was Nelson who had written poetry for her, had captured her in oils and appeared to be the key to her happiness. She had to let Nelson know she was here. He couldn’t know or he’d have come to see her already.
The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs and along the bare boards outside the room prevented anything else being said.
‘Now who’s that up here snooping? Not that old bag Grainger again,’ said Edith.
‘I hope not,’ said Blanche.
‘Stop grinding yer teeth,’ said Edith.
‘I can’t help it. I feel I want to bite her.’
‘It might be the ghost that lives up in the attic,’ whispered Edith.
Blanche laughed. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true, I tell you.’
The door swung open to reveal a pair of dusty, leather boots, masculine legs and a smiling Tom Strong.
‘Not with feet like that,’ said Blanche.
Tom filled the doorway, his hands behind his back. ‘Ladies! I’ve come to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
Edith reddened and giggled as she attempted to hide her blushes with her hands. ‘You can make me any offer you like, Captain Tom!’
Blanche hid a smile. It was obvious that Edith adored the man. She could understand why, but told herself that she was less enamoured of him. He lacked Nelson’s grace and soft manner, but conceded that he was attractive. He has depth, said the small voice deep inside. Her mother’s voice, she decided.
Since that morning Tom had thought long and hard about how he might get Blanche on her own again. It wasn’t in his nature to bring flowers, to court her with sweet words and fine manners, like Nelson, for instance. His feelings were sincere and he was convinced she would see through his friendliness and recognize his esteem for what it really was. He’d concocted a plan.
‘Hopefully,’ he said, ‘tomorrow will be fine. How about taking your young charges for a drive in the city? I know it’s Saturday, but I need to call in at the refinery and then to the Miriam Strong. What do you think?’
Edith answered for both of them. ‘I think the youngsters would love it. So would I, come to that. What about you, Blanche?’
Tom’s intention had been that Blanche would be in sole charge of the children, but he couldn’t possibly leave Edith out if she wanted to come too. He’d seen the way she looked at him. He looked at Blanche, his teeth aching as he held his smile, waiting apprehensively for her to answer.
‘Yes,’ she said.
His eyes sparkled mischievously. Tomorrow wasn’t soon enough.
‘And tonight, after the children have eaten supper…’ With a flourish, he brought out a brightly coloured kite from behind his back. ‘We go flying,’ he said.
Blanche laughed.
‘Well, fancy you thinking of that then,’ Edith said.
‘Fancy,’ echoed Blanche, a swift understanding passing between them. He’d overheard her conversation with Conrad Heinkel’s children and was trying to please her. She was deeply touched.
* * *
Once the children were ushered from their presence, Lady Verity slammed a knife against a plate so hard that it broke. ‘You should have told me!’
Emmanuel Strong turned from the anger of his wife’s face. When they’d first married, he’d thought himself a lucky man to be marrying a woman half his age. Although of a wealthy family, their fortune was as pennies compared to that of the Strong family. But even so, he hadn’t married her for that. She was younger than him and the appetites of his youth had not diminished that much.
‘Look at me, damn you!’
Astounded at her outburst, he turned from the window where he’d been watching the object of her anger running across the grass with the nursemaid, Edith. Tom ran out in front of them flying a kite. Determined rather than nervous, he straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat. ‘It was Jeb’s idea – and Otis’s too come to that. How could I refuse?’
She pursed her lips and her pink cheeks flared brighter. ‘You insult me!’
He shook his head and walked the length of the table to her side. She shrugged aside the heavy hand he placed on her shoulder.
Sir Emmanuel Strong had spent all his life in the sugar trade and other schemes connected with shipping, building and lining a nest already comfortably cushioned by previous generations. Business had been his lifeblood over that period, but now, middle-aged, he had a need for a family and a woman with whom to share his wealth. What he did not need were petty jealousies.
He sighed. ‘Her mother’s dead. It’s only right that she should come and live here. Isn’t it enough that she’s a servant?’
‘Pah!’ Verity pushed herself to her feet and faced her husband so that her nose was level with his chin. ‘And a servant she shall be! She’s the one who’ll take care of all these brats you landed me with.’
Emmanuel was shocked. He adored his children – all of them. They too were part of his wealth, pawns in an increasingly material world.
‘Verity! You’re talking about your own children!’
She pointed a finger at him. ‘You wanted them. That’s why you married me. I’m a brood mare on whom you sire stock to carry on your name and your business. That’s all I am!’
To some extent she was telling the truth. He’d convinced himself that she wanted a family too. It shook him to the core to find this was not the case.
She sat back down then and helped herself to the
last of the blancmange and jelly, added fruit cake and poured cream over the lot.
Affection dead in his chest, Emmanuel watched as she used a tablespoon to ladle food into her mouth. Such a small mouth, yet such a big appetite. Suddenly all the passion he’d felt for his wife when she’d been little more than a girl, was snuffed out. She made him feel sick.
As his heart hardened, he waved his arm over the table, indicating the food still sitting there from teatime. ‘The leftovers go into the swill bucket for the pigs – should you chance to leave them anything!’
A blob of blancmange hung from her mouth and her eyes froze to malice then burned into anger.
‘Stay away from me!’
A plate of bread and butter flew through the air, followed by what was left of an apple tart and a bowl of strawberry jam. Streaks of food ran over silk wall hangings of palest green, pink and white almond blossom, hand-painted by an artist who had never been to China but thought he knew what it was like.
Emmanuel ducked it all and as he reached the door, he said with undisguised malice, ‘I’m glad that girl’s here. Hopefully my children might know a woman with a warm heart. That will be good for them.’
Verity reached for the sugar bowl, her eyes still blazing. ‘So long as she stays upstairs with them, and out of my sight!’
Chapter Fourteen
Blanche Bianca. Her name was like a song, thought Tom. He watched her run through the wet grass until the kite took flight, the children skipping and laughing around her. Her hair had come loose, pins, ribbons and bonnet flying off into the grass.
Puffing and panting some way behind, Edith tried to keep pace, but gave up and bent almost double, her hands resting on her knees as she fought to catch her breath.
‘Blow me,’ she said, her cheeks red with exertion. ‘She runs like the wind. No one can catch her.’
‘I can,’ murmured Tom.
He ran after her, his strong legs hurling him through the grass, over the gravel drive and through the trees, circling around so she came upon him rather than him catching her up. Engrossed with the kite and the children, she didn’t see his manoeuvring and ran full pelt into him, bounced off and blushed when he held her shoulders to prevent her from stumbling.