“Oh dear, is that the time?” I mustered up a shocked voice. “I have overslept.” Turning to my aunt, as if it was all her fault, I said, in an accusatory tone, “Aunt, why did you not wake me up at dawn like you always do?” Sorry about that, Aunt.
“Maria, you ought to have told me that you had a position with his lordship.” Aunt turned to Davenport; her palms clasped to her face. “Sorry, milord, I am terribly confused.”
“I was too tired to talk last night. I was drowsy with illness. It must have been something I drank yesterday.” I looked sternly at Davenport as if to remind him of the cider he’d given me yesterday.
Davenport changed the frown to a smile. “Ah! I see. There has been a misunderstanding.”
“Is there one?” said Aunt Pam, her wide eyes regarding the both of us. “Why of course there must have been. Why don’t I make us a nice brew, eh?”
“Yes, please!” Davenport and I said together.
Aunt Pam fluffed about like a mother hen. She commanded me, “Get changed at once!” Turning to her guest, she asked, “Do you like your tea weak or strong, milord?” and “Do you take sugar?” and “Why don’t you try some of these? They are fresh out of the oven.”
Davenport said, “I do apologize to you, Mrs. Broughton, for my harsh words about your niece.”
“Let bygones be bygones, I say, milord,” she said cheerfully.
Davenport and my aunt shared niceties about the weather, about the harvests, and the vibrant dahlias in her garden, and the big talk of the village—the church fete coming up in a fortnight. Meanwhile, I changed into a simple frock in the bedroom and deliberately spent a lot of time tidying my hair up into a bun. The discussion that followed in the other room caused the hairbrush to fall from my hands.
Davenport said, “Mmm, Mrs. Broughton, these cakes are divine. I see where your niece gets her talent from.”
“You mean her cooking?” The aunt let out a laugh. “My Maria burns water.”
“Oh, I thought…having such a talented baker for an aunt, Miss Smithers would be a good little hand in the kitchen too.”
“Yes, she is, but not as one might think. She collects and cuts up wood to keep the range going, and she looks after the vegetable garden. Cooking has never been her thing. She hasn’t got the concentration for such a task.”
I timed my re-entry into the living area as the man asked, “Oh, so she lacks the ability to focus?” He placed some cake into his mouth and turned his head to face me; his frown unseen by my aunt who was seated on the other side of the table.
“Maria is good at focusing on most tasks,” Aunt Pam said, “just not cooking.”
Ignoring Davenport as I deposited myself at the table, so all of us were seated in triangle-fashion I was well aware the visitor analyzed my every mannerism while he munched on yet another cake.
“Here, have something to eat, my dear. You need nourishment to keep up your strength.” My aunt was speaking in her “how-do-you-do” voice that all the self-conscious commoners used when talking to those above their stations.
“Yes please,” I said, eagerly clutching hold of a teacup and saucer. Aunt used the special chinaware that rarely ever came out. I reached rudely across the table, seized the quaint little matching jug, and slopped a portion of milk into my cup; just as rudely I grabbed hold of the matching teapot, and, in doing so, carelessly caused tea to leap out of the spout and pool about the saucer. Raising the cup to my lips, not bothering about the droplets of tea, I gulped away.
Aunt Pam’s face showed restrained horror. I anticipated that later on, I would receive an angry admonishing once his divine lordship left. In the meantime, I enjoyed gobbling down a couple more of the cakes with sloppy fervor, deliberately designed to show my lack of decorum in front of Davenport.
I didn’t care if the man disliked me from now on. I didn’t care what my aunt would say later when he eventually left. If my actions meant putting him off employing me, then that was a thought of comfort, because it meant I would never become anyone’s servant and I could pursue my dream as an artist.
Davenport, with delicate precision, lowered his cup and saucer to the table. He smiled at my aunt and looked across at the appallingly behaved girl that I was, who still had a large mouthful of cake in her cheeks. “Miss Smithers,” he said. “After much deliberation, I have decided you still have a position in my household. I shall arrange for a maid to be waiting at the servant’s entrance at one o’clock today. They will train you up in your new duties.”
I stopped munching. My throat felt dry all because my mission of rudeness had failed. My hopes and dreams of being a free woman, an artist, were diminishing by the second.
My aunt cried, “Thank you, milord, for forgiving my niece’s trespasses!”
Davenport looked sideways at me with a smirk. Abruptly, the conversation of hiring had concluded, for he did not require an answer from me; and I knew he knew I could not say “no.” Now that he had ensnared me, I was quickly ignored in favor of him giving my aunt his full attention about other matters.
“Mrs. Broughton, did you know of a little boy who used to live here in this house about eight years ago?”
“There are my three boys, Trevor, Johnny, and young Frankie.”
“They are the boys with red hair?”
“Yes, that is correct, milord.”
“There was once another boy, with dark hair, who abided here in this very cottage around the time of my parents’ funerals.”
“No, there never was a boy of that description here, milord. I’ve lived here for several years now. And if there was ever a boy who had dark hair, he would have been a visitor, their names being”—the man leaned toward Aunt—“Bobby, oh what’s his name?” Aunt closed her eyes, I noticed our visitor’s face radiate with interest. “Oh yes! Little Ernie.”
Davenport sat hard-back in his seat. “The boy’s name was Murray.”
I sat stiff as a board. The name sounded like my name, but the first syllable of the name pronunciation had been adjusted. Davenport could not see beyond the boundary of his stubborn perception that the boy was not a boy but a girl; that the one he sought was virtually staring him right in the face!
“The only person with that name is”—Aunt looked casually across at me, while I sat frozen in fear—“is Murray Fairfax, but he is a blond boy.”
Visibly disappointed, Davenport placed his palms face down on either side of the empty teacup and saucer, and said, “Thank you for your wonderful hospitality, Mrs. Broughton.” He glanced across at me, the one woman who had displayed anything but. “I shall now leave both of you fine ladies in peace.”
“It has been our utmost pleasure,” replied Aunt Pam, rising to her feet at the same time as the visitor. She gave me a dark look for remaining seated. “Maria, what do you say and do?”
I always hated my aunt’s out-of-the-blue questions, ones always directed toward me and always around strangers. I would have liked to have answered, “No, thank you for your stupid job. Find your own damned slave!” but that was stretching the rudeness too far, so I arose to my feet and said politely, “Thank you, milord, for the work. I shall be there at one o’clock as you have requested.” I rued in secret, where I shall be forever dictated to, from dawn to midnight, by your servant hierarchy; the heavy mantle of slavery, thereupon, forcing my creativity to die a slow, cumbersome death.
Chapter Eight
The coach road wasn’t busy today. I trudged along it, regretting I’d not taken Big Red. It seemed an age before I entered through the main gateway of Evercrest. There before me in the distance was Evercrest Hall, as intimidating as a fortress, although it had never seen any battles, unlike the crumbling castle hidden behind. The Davenport predecessors, right up to the latest death-departed, had extended the place, using the finest of architects. The replacement of large sections of the outfacing walls with windows could not have been accomplished without the wealth of the late lord’s American father-in-law.
An
cient plane trees hugged the serpentine of the driveway in perfect pairing, guiding me along into the depth of the tree park that skirted the acres of flower gardens. To avoid soiling my shoes on the white gravel, I stuck to running along on the grass instead. As soon as I came out of the tree cover, rather than go via the main courtyard, where there would be prying eyes, I skirted around the gardens to the servant side of the house. By the time I walked right up to the servant’s entrance, I was not heaving for breath.
Just as Davenport had said, there was a maid waiting outside on the step for me. She smiled, and said, “Hello there, you must be Maria.” The lady’s voice was gentle like a young girl’s, though she looked to be in her thirties. “Welcome to Evercrest Hall. My name is Millie.”
“Hello, Millie,” I answered sheepishly, feeling self-conscious from the thought that I might reek of smelly perspiration. “I am so sorry for being late. I misjudged the distance.”
“You’re not the first one to have done so. I’m sure his lordship will not mind in the least that you are late this one time.”
How about twice in one day?
“Now, come inside, and we can start with a brew before I show you about the place.”
I immediately felt at ease with the pint-sized woman. She had gray sparkling eyes and light brown hair that was swept neatly up beneath her white frilly cap. Before long, we sat over a cup of tea in the vacant servant’s dining hall while Millie spoke of the chores she was in charge of. She explained how she was like an underling to the management of the household, but unlike other stately places, there was no housekeeper in charge.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Mister Davenport’s wife has yet to find someone suitable.”
All of a sudden, I felt a wave of anxiety strike. Did Albert Davenport have a wife? I didn’t have to ask.
“Lady Charlotte likes to run a tight ship; she will be very particular with whom she wants in that role.”
“So, they both live here?”
“Mr. Ewan Davenport normally resides at Clearwater Manor. He stays there, even though…” Millie glanced away.
I knew why. It was at that manor, on the neighboring property, where Lord and Lady Davenport, and a stranger, had been found on the drawing-room floor stabbed to death.
“So, Lady Charlotte lives over there and has to look after the staff here too?” I asked.
“My mistress resides here at all times. It is an unusual arrangement, I know, but I suppose they are a pair preferring their own company. It has not affected their love, though, because when one sees them together, one can see that they only have eyes for one another.” Millie shook her head and looked away. “Such a pity they never had any children.”
The night of the rustlers, and the carriage, and the baby crying inside from within came to mind. Whose baby was it? Maybe as I got to know Millie more, I might find out of its existence, or what had become of it.
“I’ve only seen Mr. Davenport occasionally when he has ridden through the village. All the girls think he is handsome.” I didn’t care to mention how this man used to stop and stare at our cottage when I was a small child. And if I happened to be outside, he would chat to me.
“All the Davenport men are fine looking. Look at the youngest! He certainly is going to make a fine husband for some lucky young lady. She will be someone predestined by his family no doubt; one of his peers’ daughters, unless, like his mother”—Millie scanned over her shoulder before leaning forward and whispering—“it is for money.”
I felt an unexplainable stirring in my chest. I asked Millie where Ewan Davenport was; normally, he came into the village weekly, but he hadn’t done so for months.
“He is away on an archaeological dig somewhere in Africa. It is not uncommon that he is away for several months of the year, especially if there is a big discovery of ancient ruins.”
“Who else of the family lives here?”
“Just Mister Albert, Lady Charlotte, and now the…” Millie looked over her shoulder, then back. “There are several visitors here. They have all come for the ball gathering being held at Dorchester’s tomorrow.”
“What about Albert Davenport’s sister?”
“Our beautiful Miss India went off to London twelve months ago before going to a German deportment school. She was accompanied by Lady Charlotte in her last departure. From what I hear, she will be off to America when she completes her training, to stay with her grandparents Mr. and Mrs. Rivers.” Millie leaned forward with her characterized lowered voice. “They are extremely rich, you know. Mr. Rivers is a businessman who owns a big printing firm in North America. So much is his wealth, Albert Davenport and his sister will never have to worry about want of money, ever!”
The life of luxury, I thought. “It seems like a small number of people to look after. Why is there so many staff?”
“Not only do we have to look after the family, there is always the upkeep of the place. And at any given time—like last night—visitors can turn up without warning.” Millie leaned forward across the table. “A word of warning—Lady Charlotte is as watchful as a hawk. Her peck can be especially painful.”
I bit my lip and nodded with the amusing thought—I expect to feel a lot from her beak then.
A tall, gaunt, elderly man entered the servant hall. He stared at me for a time before turning up his nose and walking past us.
“Mr. Gregory, this is Miss Smithers, she will be working here from today onward.”
He twirled about like a ballerina to face us. “I did not know that there was a staff vacancy.” His voice was pompous. “Why was I the last to know?”
“Well, err, you are the second staff member to know,” replied Millie.
His response was a snort. He raised his chin and departed the room quickly.
Millie whispered, “The cook and he don’t get on. She thinks he has a fancy for the other side, if you know what I mean.” She winked twice. I nodded ignorantly. “Anyway, let us get cracking. First of all, we’ll have to rig you up with a uniform, and afterward, I can show you about the first floor.”
“Do you know what I am be employed as?”
“I think he wants you as a kind of factotum, you know, an all-rounder, someone who can do the general duties that no one has time for. He said to me that he thinks you have promise and that you are not afraid to get your hands dirty.”
The cheeky scoundrel! I nearly uttered.
In no time, Millie had me dressed in a black pinafore, white blouse, a frilly white apron, and a white cap. Next, she took me on a tour of the first floor of the massive house, but she pointed out to the family living areas, saying they were off limits to everyone but the butler and footmen.
It was overwhelming to a young village girl, the extent of rooms coming off the sides of large corridors. To add to the confusion, there were the servant passages; their door openings deliberately inconspicuous to not detract from the family’s visitor’s eye. What fascinated me most of all, after we had left the stairwell foyer, was the long gallery. In between tall narrow windows hung oil paintings of ancestors; even more interesting, was a bright area halfway along that seemed to glow with all sorts of different colors.
Millie must have observed my interest. “Is it not beautiful? That is the rotunda.” She hurried toward it.
“My word, look at the pretty colors!” I exclaimed, looking upward. We walked underneath a dome ceiling assembled with lead-lighted panes depicting the biblical scene of Jesus Christ at Calvary. I felt at that moment I could have fallen prostrate to the floor. The color that stood out in the refracted sunbeams filtering through the glass, and onto the white marble floor, was the blood coming out of Jesus’ abdomen.
“The young man doesn’t like that. He is considering having that removed,” whispered Millie
“How could he? It is so beautiful!”
Millie answered, still in a hushed tone, “He hates anything to do with religion.”
I stared in horror at the maid; I was
met with a sympathetic look.
“This was his father’s favorite feature of the house. He rescued the stained glass from an old abbey. He commissioned an Italian artist to build the rotunda especially to show off this masterpiece.” Millie looked up at the crucifixion and sighed. I swore I saw a glistening in her eyes. “He was such a great man.”
I wondered which lord she meant.
Another narrower gallery passed through the rotunda at right angles, connecting the west and east wings of the house. Millie exuberantly described that if one were to have a bird’s eye view looking down on the property, one would notice the perfect design of a cross lying smack-bang in the middle of what was once a massive central courtyard; the rotunda being situated at the cross’ heart.
We continued through the rotunda and along the main gallery’s length. Instead of wall hangings, there were marble busts of strong-profiled men, who seemed to look at us with distaste as the both of us strode between them. Right at the extreme end of the gallery were two sets of large double doors, facing one another. One door hid the chapel, and the other, which we opened, led us into a large ballroom. On one side of the dance floor, was a large concertino glass door separating us from a terrace, and beyond, one could see the expanse of a neatly clipped lawn.
The completion of the tour was a few more stately rooms. All shared the same grandeur—elaborately plastered ceilings, voluptuous textiles that swept down from heavy curtain rods, overlooking ancient floor furnishings, and furniture, such as Persian divans, that, in my view, were too frightening to lay a finger on.
“Will I be cleaning down here today?” I dreaded the thought.
“Ah, he hasn’t mentioned what you are going to do exactly. He said for me to occupy your time until he finishes with his meeting. He has never employed anyone before, and you being the first, well, think of it as an honor.” Millie chuckled.
The Heir to Evercrest Hall Page 10