Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  — Fanny could see our trees, mother, for they are the prettiest sight in the world and when it grows dark we clip little candles onto the tips of the branches and light them and put out the lamps and it is enchanting to behold. There is to be a big dinner on Christmas Eve of twenty-four people and twelve more invited to the party afterwards and Miss Henrietta is in charge of it and is rehearsing charades with Captain Surtees Cook. Miss Elizabeth commented that she had thought charades by their nature were spontaneous and she cannot help but think any kind of preparation only a form of cheating and something papa would not approve of were he to come across it but Miss Henrietta for once dismissed this criticism of her sister’s and said charades were a form of play and if they were to be done properly required rehearsing like a play and as for their papa he had allowed charades and would remember he had and there was no need to worry him over such a thing. Miss Elizabeth said she would not worry him for the world and that it was Henrietta who did that, more was the pity. Miss Henrietta asked what she meant by that and Miss Elizabeth replied she had only to think of whom she rehearsed with to be able to answer that herself. Miss Henrietta blushed and left the room and I felt sorry for her. I did not let my displeasure with my own mistress show but I made sure when next I encountered Miss Henrietta that she sensed I did not condemn the charade practice. Indeed, I helped Miss Henrietta procure a mat from my room which Captain Cook had need of and carried it down to the drawing room where Captain Cook said it was just the very thing for one syllable he had in mind. Minnie says Miss Henrietta had better be careful for this rehearsing means being alone with Captain Cook and the master would be angry. I mentioned that the door was open and that the drawing room is a public room but Minnie said a great deal can go on behind an open door in a room public or not and that she was not born yesterday even if I was. She declares I am smitten with that young couple which is not true mother but I do feel for them. Captain Cook is very kind unlike some gentlemen in this house and always passes the time of day and is Considerate and remembers servants have feelings too. The other day he walked with Flush and me and the pavement being thinly coated with ice begged me to take his arm up to the corner where he would turn the other way and I was very grateful for it and thought it gallant.

  Wilson was going to Camden Town to visit Lizzie Treherne when Surtees Cook set her on her way. She had the address written on a scrap of paper with a map of sorts sketched on the other side by Lizzie. Always modest, she had not believed the invitation to call and take tea one Sunday was genuine but Lizzie was insistent and the piece of paper proved it. To go into someone’s home here in London seemed an event of such enormous significance that Wilson almost dreaded it and had begun to make excuses to Lizzie when last she called, declaring that she did not know if she would be free. ‘On a Sunday afternoon?’ Lizzie asked, reproachful and Minnie in whose room they all sat, echoed, ‘On Sunday, Lily? Now come.’ So there she was, slipping and skating a little, cutting through Regent’s Park towards Bayham Street with Flush pulling at the lead, in danger of tripping her up with every yard. She picked the dog up as she came out of the park and gave him a sharp slap and a warning to be still. She would rather not have brought him but he was her alibi: if asked where she had been, she could rightly say she had been taking Flush for a walk. Why she felt the need of an alibi she did not quite know but she was reluctant to tell her mistress where she was going, to whose house she had been so pressingly invited. Lizzie had not yet seen Miss Elizabeth though she visited Wimpole Street every three or four weeks. Always, told Lizzie was here and desirous to show her baby, Miss Elizabeth coughed and said she feared she would spread her cold to the darling baby and would Wilson please tell Crow (which was how she continued to address Lizzie) she was heartbroken not to be able to see her and looked foward to next time. Silently, Wilson nodded, wondering why Lizzie, an intimate of so many bygone years, was treated like some dreadful stranger. She said nothing but, discussing the excuse given with Minnie, she expressed the opinion that Miss Elizabeth could not bear to see her old servant blooming and happy, that it was necessary for her to retain the image of Crow as downtrodden and ruined by the marriage for which she had not forgiven her. Minnie thought this quite likely. It was hard on Lizzie, she said, to be spurned when she had been so close and given so much but then, when all was said and done, she was a servant and that was the way of things.

  Outside the door of 6 Bayham Street Wilson hesitated. The place was a bakery, with William Treherne’s name in white letters on a black board running across the length of it, above the doors. She could see no knocker and when she pushed the big doors experimentally she found they were securely locked. She walked past the bakery and found an alley alongside but Flush growled as she began to walk timidly into it, another dog barked in reply and she stopped. The alley was dark, even on an afternoon with a hazy sun still about, and she felt nervous. She hated not knowing her way about, knowing only Wimpole Street and its environs all so broad and clear and grand. At home, she was familiar with streets like Bayham Street and no alley held any mystery for her but now she felt intimidated by her ignorance and was glad of Flush. She scolded herself, telling herself over and over that she was imagining shadows and noises and that Lizzie would live in a respectable neighbourhood and would not invite her where there was any danger. She was behaving like a grand lady, half terrified with tales of the violent poor. She smiled at this thought and as she walked more boldly into the alley a door opened and there was Lizzie, baby in her arms, beaming and welcoming her in.

  Wilson did not realise until she entered the Trehernes’ home how homesick she had been. She gasped with pleasure at the sight of the wooden table spread with a cloth exactly like mother’s best white starched cloth, even to the pattern of crocheted threads around the edge, and the scones and tea bread sitting on crystal stands that were a copy of mother’s. The room was tiny and too crowded and felt instantly familiar. A fire roared and Lizzie apologised for the sheets airing on the clothes horse and moved them away and Wilson begged her not to trouble herself for she was quite at home with sheets airing and indeed loved the smell. There was a battered old settle filling all of one wall and the table and a large armchair took up the rest of the space so that walking about the room was not possible and Wilson had to squeeze her way to the fire as Lizzie insisted. She set Flush on the floor admonishing him not to move an inch or he would be out in that alley where some other dog still barked. Obediently, Flush lay down and closed his eyes. Lizzie put the baby down too, laying her on the settle with a cushion to stop her falling off, and then she took the kettle from its hook over the fire and poured water into the waiting teapot. Tea was given, and scones offered and taken, and some of Lizzie’s mother’s raspberry preserve spread on them and Wilson was utterly content.

  She stayed an hour and never had time gone so quickly. Her normal reticence seemed to vanish, so much so that afterwards she could not believe she had told Lizzie the things she had. But then Lizzie understood, she had been in exactly the same circumstances and nothing had to be explained. It was a relief to talk about Miss Elizabeth, to discuss her with Lizzie who had been equally close and to ask questions it had never felt right or decent to ask anyone else. It worried Wilson that her mistress did not seem like other women and yet the subject was of such delicacy, it was impossible to bring up. Now, she brought it up, or rather clutched the line Lizzie threw when she enquired if Miss Elizabeth was still not well in other respects, apart from her chest. Wilson said this was something she had not liked to broach: Miss Elizabeth did not bleed and yet did not seem concerned. At first, she had thought her mistress dealt with this herself but she knew there was no way in which it could be done without her knowing. Where would she procure and prepare the material and how would she wash it or dispose of it? It was a mystery Lizzie solved. She told Wilson that Miss Elizabeth had ceased to have her monthlies when her brother was drowned and, ever since, she had bled only a little at long intervals. She would never have
this told to any doctor, Lizzie said, and called it a blessing. She said she was of an age when regular menses were of no consequence because there was no prospect of bearing children and that was the only importance of such things. But Lizzie had wondered often if this lack of bleeding might be an indication of serious disease and Wilson agreed with her – it might. But how could a doctor be consulted in the face of Miss Elizabeth’s obstinacy?

  They talked, too, of the other Barretts, of how uncomfortable they felt with George and with Stormie, for very different reasons, and how they positively disliked Henry. Lizzie asked Wilson if Mr Henry had been a nuisance to Tilly and they both laughed. She told Lizzie how useful Alfred was to Henrietta and Lizzie said she was glad of it, for Henrietta had been good to Alfred and she liked to hear he had overcome his natural indolence sufficiently to support his sister. In the middle of this discussion as to the rival merits of the brothers, Lizzie’s husband came in. Wilson stopped speaking immediately and almost spilled her tea as she hurried to stand up, and take her leave though both Lizzie and Billy Treherne himself urged her to stay.

  Afterwards, once she was back in 50 Wimpole Street, a wistfulness settled over Wilson which turned into a kind of sadness. Miss Elizabeth asked her if she was quite well and being told she was wondered if she had had bad news from home which Wilson assured her was not the case but no more was said. It was like a dull ache inside, her memory of Lizzie’s living room and the longing to have just such a happy home with a husband as handsome and pleasant as Billy Treherne and a baby as sweet as theirs. She had no doubt that as her mistress suspected Lizzie worked too hard but it was all for something, it all went somewhere and such happiness came of it whatever the weariness. As she went through the dull routine of preparing Miss Elizabeth for bed, Wilson felt slight tremors of panic. Three months ago she had been twenty-four, a great age not to be married and without a sweetheart or even a follower in her life. Unplaiting her mistress’s hair and beginning the brushing, a task she usually found rewarding, Wilson felt horrified at the thought of doing this forever, leading this kind of life until she was too old and was pensioned off. She did not want it. She wanted what Lizzie had and she wanted it sooner rather than later. Everything her mistress had said to her over the last few months on the subject of marriage suddenly seemed to her absolute nonsense and she felt angry that she had allowed herself to be deluded with fine talk of a freedom from marital servitude which was no freedom at all. Her anger, some of which found its way into the hairbrush she was using, extended to Miss Elizabeth herself. Minnie had told her that next birthday her mistress would enter her fortieth year, her fortieth, and Wilson could not bear to think of it. How could this life she led of reading and writing immured in this stifling room, how could that be preferable to what Lizzie had? That darling baby alone made Lizzie’s fate infinitely preferable.

  The next day Wilson was her usual placid self but she was aware of looking about her differently. Timothy, encountering her on the turn of the stairs, as he did many times a day, was surprised to find she did not drop her eyes and merely murmur a good morning with clear intention of evading conversation, which was how she usually responded to his greeting. She said good morning but smiled and looked him in the eyes and seemed disposed to chat further. It was the first time since the incident in the yard that she had acknowledged him as a human being and he felt reprieved from a crime he knew he had never committed but for which he had been sentenced. Wilson was not pretty, he found himself thinking, but she had a poise and stillness about her which was far more attractive than mere prettiness and when she smiled, which was rarely, the change in her was far more remarkable than in other women who smiled more often and with greater ease. Dimples appeared and the up-turning corners of her mouth drew attention to the generous lips and the fullness of the cheeks. What Timothy liked best about Wilson was the intelligence that radiated from her – she was not silly, as so many maids were, nor was she proud. There was, he was sure, a great deal more to her than anyone supposed, if only he could find his way through to it. But his time was limited. Soon Mr Kenyon would return and he would be taken on again in Devonshire Place and would not hesitate to go, vastly preferring the Kenyon establishment to the Barrett one. Except, of course, for the absence of Wilson there.

  Her smile gave him hope and on Christmas Eve the hope was justified. First, there was a dinner of some grandeur – certainly Wilson, who had seen nothing like it, thought it fantastic though to Timothy, who witnessed such dinners almost weekly at Kenyon’s, it was nothing spectacular – and then in accordance with Henrietta’s wish, everyone gathered in the drawing room for charades. The servants filed in at the back of the room and stood watching, keeping well towards the wall where there were no lamps and they were almost invisible in their black and white clothes. Minnie Robinson was the only one seated and Wilson stood behind her, marvelling at the richness of the reds and gold reflected in the mirror along the far wall. Miss Henrietta attracted every eye in her red velvet dress and beside her Captain Cook, in full regimental dress, caught the light on his epaulettes and buttons. Admiring the way in which the red of Miss Henrietta’s dress set off her dark hair and white skin, Wilson thought of her own mistress, lying alone upstairs refusing to come down even for Christmas, wearing her dull black gown, the one she wore day in and out, and how magnificently transformed she would look in just such a red. Now Miss Henrietta was clapping her hands and calling out excitedly – Wilson saw her father frown – that Captain Cook’s party would lead the charades when everyone was still. Mr Barrett, in full evening dress, sat bolt upright with Miss Trepsack, his dead mother’s old companion, on one side and Miss Graham-Clarke, his sister-in-law, on the other. Wilson had heard a great deal about this lady, who was distantly related to the Mrs Graham-Clarke she had served, and was rather in awe of her, as indeed were all the servants. Minnie had told her how, in Hope End days, this aunt had come to stand in for the dead Mrs Barrett and had ruled the roost most effectively. There was an air of tension in the room in spite of the chatter and the festive decorations with everyone waiting to see what Captain Cook would come up with and half dreading a scandal.

  There was a sharp ‘sssh’ from Alfred. ‘Ready?’ he asked and there was a chorus of ‘yes’ from within. ‘Then pray silence,’ he shouted and silence fell instantly as the door opened and Mr Septimus entered alone, dressed to look exactly like a boot boy and carrying the mat from Wilson’s room. Solemnly, he unrolled the mat as the door opened again and Mr Octavius dressed as a postman, walked past him and made a great pantomime of climbing imaginary steps and knocking on an imaginary door and dropping a letter through an imaginary opening. All the time he was doing this, provoking laughter, even from Mr Barrett, with his winks and suggestive expressions, of boredom, exhaustion, anticipation and the like, Mr Septimus was shaking the mat. ‘That is the end of the first syllable,’ Alfred announced as Septimus and Octavius finally exited. ‘Post,’ shouted out Henry, followed by ‘step’ and ‘door’ and ‘stamp’. Mat, thought Wilson, but said nothing. Now Alfred shouted for silence again and on came Henrietta dressed as a country girl and carrying what looked like heaps of straw. Octavius and Captain Cook followed, dressed to look like farmhands which caused great mirth, and all three actors began gathering up the straw and tying it into stooks. Once more the little company left the improvised stage and next in was Captain Cook carrying two big sacks which he put on the table. Meanwhile, Henrietta went past him and stood in a corner eating honey from a jar. Alfred announced that was the third and final syllable. There were calls of ‘honey’ and ‘bags’, but nobody could come up with a whole word. Wilson could not hear what anyone was saying, there was such a hubbub, but Mr Barrett was smiling and shaking his head and everyone seemed very pleased. ‘You have failed!’ cried Alfred, ‘and now here is the whole word.’ He opened the door with a flourish. There stood Octavius in a white tablecloth and a gold and purple scarf, clearly meant to be a clergyman in vestments. He walked across the ro
om and then turned and waited and the strains of the wedding march floated into the now utterly silent room as Henrietta marched in on Septimus’s arm, carrying flowers in her arms and with a veil over her head.

  ‘Matrimony!’ shouted Henry in the silence and there was a great storm of applause followed by loud accusations again of cheating. Wilson kept her eye on the master, as did all the servants and a good many of the family and guests. He was no longer smiling but he clapped slowly and made no sign of anger. Once everyone saw this, they turned to cheering the performers.

  The servants had their own party afterwards and the one subject of discussion was the daring of Captain Cook and the impudence of him. ‘He could have been out in the street for all he knew,’ Minnie vowed. ‘I’ve seen the master turn nasty for less.’ But none of the other three groups with their ‘Catastrophe’ and ‘Magnificent’ and ‘Uproarious’ had come anywhere near entertaining the company as much. Now, as Mr John played his fiddle and there was dancing, Timothy presented himself to Wilson and asked her if she would care to hop with him, for hop it would have to be in such confined quarters. A week earlier, Wilson would have said no. When she nodded and smiled she knew she was deliberately choosing to reject all her previous attitudes. She said yes and took Timothy’s arm and together they jostled in the space where the big kitchen table usually stood. Above the noise of the fiddle and clapping and talk, they discussed, as everyone was doing, the full implications of Captain Cook’s choice of word. Did he intend matrimony this coming year? Would there be a wedding in the house at last? Was 1845 to be the year for the lovers?