‘Oh, no,’ said Jane in a small voice. ‘I do not wish to be any trouble.’
There was a scratching at the door, which Nancy opened to admit two footmen, carrying Jane’s trunk between them, along with her bandbox. On their heels was a young scullery maid with a jug of warm water, which she poured into the washing bowl on the washstand before leaving.
‘Now then, miss,’ said Nancy briskly. ‘Let me help you with your buttons.’
And so, for the first time in her adult life, Jane allowed a maid to assist her with her toilette. She knew inside that it could not be right, but she was simply too overwhelmed to protest.
Nancy was around her own age, a pretty red-haired maid, with a sunny, talkative disposition. She unpacked Jane’s trunk while Jane washed, selecting a plain evening dress in amber silk that Jane had washed many times when it had belonged to Lady Kingswood.
‘Oh, but surely I shall be dining with the servants?’ Jane protested weakly. ‘That dress is much too fine for me. Indeed, I am not sure why my mama and my employer have packed me so many fine things!’
Nancy eyed her shrewdly. ‘Perhaps because they anticipated what you did not, miss—that you will be dining with the family.’
Jane was aghast. ‘What?’ She gulped. ‘Every night?’
As she spoke, she dimly recalled Mama and Miss Marianne suggesting this very possibility. Stupidly, she had discounted it, not wishing to hope for such preferment or luxury.
Nancy shrugged. ‘I do not know. But my instructions for tonight were very clear. The master spoke to Mrs Thompson, our housekeeper, yesterday. He told her only that a young relative of the family would be arriving. Although raised as a servant, he said, she was to be given an upstairs room and brought to the large salon before dinner, suitably dressed.’ She bit her lip.
‘So all the servants know about me?’
Nancy’s eyes danced. ‘Of course! You know it is impossible to keep secrets in the servants’ hall!’
‘And—“suitably dressed”?’
‘In truth, no one was sure if you would bring suitable clothing. The housekeeper will be relieved when I tell her about all this.’ She indicated the pile of clothes on the bed. ‘Although there is only the one evening dress. Now, can I help you with it?’
What else could she do?
Jane stood as Nancy buttoned her into what had been one of Miss Marianne’s favourite gowns. The neckline was much lower than she was used to, and she had to resist the urge to try to pull it up.
‘A perfect fit, miss!’ Nancy beamed.
‘Yes, Lady Kingswood and I are of a similar size,’ Jane offered weakly.
‘Please be seated, miss, and I shall dress your hair.’
Feeling as though she were in the middle of a strange but beautiful dream, Jane sat at the dressing table while Nancy brushed and pinned up her hair.
How many times have I performed this service for Miss Marianne?
Nancy then got to work with the curling irons that had been heating in the fireplace, and soon Jane was enjoying the sight of her own face framed by dainty, fashionable side curls.
‘I love it!’ she muttered thickly. ‘Thank you, Nancy.’
Nancy beamed. ‘It is easy to dress the likes of you, for you have so much natural beauty. Now, I did not notice any gloves in your trunk. Do you have any?’
Jane shook her head. ‘Only cotton gloves for daytime wear. Nothing suitable for dining.’
‘Never fear! Mrs Kendal will provide!’
Jane’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Mrs Kendal?’
Robert is married?
‘Yes—Mr Kendal’s mother.’
‘Of course.’ Her face flamed at her foolish error. How could she have forgotten that Mr Kendal’s mother lived with him here? And why would she worry that he had a wife? Her mind was in complete disorder!
Jane pretended to study her side curls again in the mirror. Never had she looked so fashionable, nor so aristocratic!
Never forget who you are.
Was this what Mama meant? A wave of guilt laced with fear washed through her.
‘Nancy...?’ Her voice trembled.
‘Yes, miss?’
‘I cannot dine with the family. You know I am a simple servant—a lady’s maid, like you?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Then, when I am here, am I to be a servant or not?’
‘I have no notion. But tonight you are to be a guest.’ She stood back. ‘There! You are ready, miss. You look beautiful!’
Astoundingly, Jane could not disagree. Who was this vision she saw in the mirror? Her hair was expertly and fashionably styled, and her dress was both flattering and elegant.
‘I never realised before that my eyes were so blue!’ She flushed, conscious she was falling prey to vanity.
Nancy, smiling, would only repeat her compliments.
Ten minutes later, Nancy having returned with a pair of elegant white evening gloves, Jane was ready to descend for dinner. Nancy offered to lead her to the salon, where the family would gather—‘For you’d easily get lost in this place, miss.’
Jane was grateful, but noticed that Nancy carefully stayed one step behind her as they descended the staircase.
Jane, her gloved hand sliding along the marble handrail, felt as though she was an actor in a play. After five days away from home—five happy days travelling with Mr Kendal—she had suddenly found herself walking on to a strange stage and playing a role for which she was entirely unprepared.
Nancy accompanied her down a long, elegant corridor. ‘That’s the dining room, miss.’ She indicated a door to her left. ‘The salon is the next one along here.’
They stopped outside the salon door. Jane squared her shoulders.
‘Good luck, miss.’
Nancy’s half-whisper sounded behind her. Jane nodded and went inside.
What seemed like a sea of faces turned towards her as she paused in the doorway and Jane found herself subject to the scrutiny of what felt like a dozen pairs of eyes. In reality, as well as an impassive footman, there were only four other people in the room. An old gentleman, seated by the fire. A tall lady next to him. Another lady, this one plump. And to her right Mr Kendal, magnificently attired in full evening dress.
He stepped forward. ‘How do, Miss Bailey?’
His handsome smile was welcoming—it was clear he was attempting to reassure her. He bowed to her, then tucked her hand in his arm, drawing her forward into the room. The old gentleman turned his head sharply to stare at her.
My grandfather.
They looked at each other. He was slightly hunched as he sat in his chair, and his face was creased with the lines of advanced age. His eyes—as blue as her own—bored into her.
‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘Come closer so I can see you properly, girl!’
Mr Kendal stayed with her, the warmth of his arm giving her fortitude. They stopped in front of Mr Millthorpe, whose narrowed gaze swept assessingly over her.
She let go of Mr Kendal’s arm to make her curtsey. ‘How do you do?’
He emitted a bark of laughter. ‘The Runner had the right of it! Genteel, he said, and of good character.’
Jane’s eyes widened. Runner? Oh, the Bow Street Runner who had found her. But he was speaking of her as if she were not present...
Remembering his treatment of Papa, she lifted her chin. ‘And why should that surprise you, sir?’
‘You have steel in you, then?’
His piercing stare increased her discomfort. She, not knowing how to respond, merely stood, keeping her gaze level.
I do—though I only discovered it recently.
The plump lady intervened, seemingly distressed by the tension in the air. ‘Robert, I should like to make Miss Bailey’s acquaintance.’
‘Of course, Mama.’
He introduced them, and Jane was encouraged by the kindliness in Mrs Kendal’s demeanour. Of course she would be kind. Mr Kendal must have got his good heart from her.
The other lady could only be Mrs Millthorpe. She had remained grim-faced throughout, and when Mr Kendal introduced Jane to her she gave only the slightest nod of acknowledgement.
Jane, who had seen many such interactions during her years as a servant, understood the subtle language of the cut. Mrs Millthorpe was making it clear she was not welcome. So be it.
The dinner gong sounded and Mrs Kendal immediately moved forward to assist Mr Millthorpe to rise from his chair.
‘I can do it!’ he snapped, but he leaned his weight on Mrs Kendal’s arm while she passed him a stout walking stick. He moved slowly towards the door, Mrs Kendal hovering solicitously by his side. Meanwhile his wife followed wordlessly, her face a mask of tight disapproval.
That left Mr Kendal and Jane to take up the rear.
He gave her a sympathetic grimace, then leaned forward to murmur, ‘You look beautiful, Miss Bailey!’
His flattery soothed her spirits, and his company bolstered her courage as they entered the dining room. The table had been laid for five, with two places set on the long side facing the door. The others moved fluidly to what Jane assumed were their usual places—Mr and Mrs Millthorpe at the head and foot of the table, Mrs Kendal on the near side, and—
‘You have been placed next to me, Miss Bailey,’ said Mr Kendal, to Jane’s great relief.
Mrs Millthorpe tutted. ‘An uneven number of diners is so imbalanced. I declare it vexes me greatly!’
No one had any reply to this, though the comment made Jane’s stomach lurch.
They all took their places and Mrs Millthorpe directed the footmen to begin serving. The food smelled delicious, but in truth Jane felt a little sick with nerves. Mr Kendal engaged her in conversation about her choices, and assisted her by serving some vegetables and sauce to accompany the soup. Jane slipped off her gloves, placing them in her lap like the other ladies, and tentatively began to eat.
Mrs Millthorpe, to Mr Kendal’s right, claimed his attention.
‘In what state are the roads, Robert? We are promised to Staveley House for their February soirée on Thursday next week, and the road to Staveley can be appalling in winter. Why, last year only two families managed to get through!’
As Robert replied Jane took the opportunity to study her grandfather’s wife. Mrs Millthorpe was a tall, stately lady, with stiff posture and deep lines etched into her face. Jane glanced across the table. Mrs Kendal was probably of a similar age, but her face was creased with crow’s feet and a few worry lines, rather than the deep unhappiness evident on Mrs Millthorpe’s visage. The contrast was marked and, to her, significant.
Mr Kendal was in the middle of confirming to his aunt that the roads were generally in reasonable repair, and reassuring her that, if the weather stayed dry, he had every confidence that they would get to Staveley House with little difficulty, when she suddenly cut across him—speaking in French, of all things.
‘My husband tells me she is a servant.’
Jane understood every word.
Robert hesitated, a look of clear discomfort flitting across his features. He replied in English, ‘Yes.’
‘I cannot believe,’ his aunt continued, still speaking French, ‘that Mr Millthorpe can insult me this way. To sit at table with a servant—someone reared in service to her betters! Why, it demeans all of us!’
Jane glanced at her grandfather, whose eyes were alight with unholy glee.
He plays with all of us!
She dropped her eyes to her dinner, giving no indication that she could understand every word. Mr Kendal did not reply to his aunt’s outburst, but turned to Jane with a mild query about whether she was enjoying the soup.
‘Mmm, yes, it is delicious,’ she managed.
In truth, her hand shook, and she was desperately trying not to cry. To feel such hostility from someone she had never even met before was disturbing.
Thankfully Mr Kendal covered her distress with a stream of bland conversation, to which she only had to contribute the occasional monosyllable. But as the second course was served Mrs Millthorpe reverted to French again.
‘Just look at her hands, Robert! A servant’s hands—disgustingly red and chapped!’
It was all Jane could do not to flinch and hide her hands. Yes, they remained chapped—although they had healed enormously during the journey—but to hear part of her referred to as ‘disgusting’ was truly upsetting. It also fired her anger. Mrs Millthorpe had never had to work. How dared she sit in judgment over those who did?
Mrs Kendal, who had been eating in silence opposite, lifted her head and gave Mrs Millthorpe a long look. This was met by a bold glare from Mrs Millthorpe. Mrs Kendal dropped her gaze.
Somehow Jane managed to endure the ordeal. She ate very little but stayed in her seat, and she managed not to cry or to answer with a defiant outburst. It was strange to feel angry and upset at the same time, and to force both to bow to her own self-control. But she survived it.
Finally the servants moved in to clear away the last course and Mrs Millthorpe rose to lead the ladies out. ‘Let us leave the gentlemen to their port,’ she declared.
Oh, no! I must leave Mr Kendal and go with her! At least his mother will be with me.
Heart thumping, Jane rose and followed Mrs Kendal out of the room. As she walked, she could feel Mr Kendal’s gaze on her back.
If only I could stay here with him!
Chapter Thirteen
Once in the salon, Jane waited until the other two ladies had seated themselves, then chose a hard chair near a side table, closer to Mrs Kendal than to Mrs Millthorpe.
‘I suppose,’ Mrs Millthorpe declared generally, ‘this is the first time you have sat at a formal dinner.’
Jane started. Is she speaking to me?
She eyed Mrs Millthorpe cautiously. That lady was staring fixedly at a Chinese vase at the far side of the salon.
‘Have the manners to answer my question!’ Mrs Millthorpe was now glaring at her.
‘I...um...no, I have not dined formally before.’ Jane’s voice shook a little.
‘What sort of accent is that?’
Jane looked at her in bewilderment.
‘Where are you from, girl? Where were you raised?’
‘In—in Cambridgeshire, ma’am.’
Mrs Millthorpe seemed to be expecting more.
‘Although I now live in Bedfordshire. I confess I was unclear as to your meaning as I am not conscious that I have an accent. But of course I can hear that you are from Yorkshire, so it is logical that there is something about the way I speak that is different to you.’
‘Are you daring to suggest I have a Yorkshire accent?’ Mrs Millthorpe’s eyes were bulging with outrage.
‘I believe we all have different accents,’ offered Mrs Kendal tentatively. ‘Although yours could never be described as Yorkshire, Eugenia. I am sure that was not Miss Bailey’s meaning.’
‘No, indeed,’ lied Jane.
What is wrong with having a Yorkshire accent, anyway?
‘Hrrmph! Where have you worked? How many positions have you held?’
For the next hour—though it seemed longer—Mrs Millthorpe questioned Jane on her work as scullery maid, housemaid, then lady’s maid. Jane carefully omitted the year after Papa had died, unwilling to expose herself or Mama to Mrs Millthorpe’s contempt. Being a servant was perfectly respectable. Being a near pauper—though it had not been their fault—would have left Jane and Mama open to her scorn.
Mrs Millthorpe was also interested to know about Jane’s mother and the course of her work. Jane remained composed, answering her questions calmly and politely. In this, her servant’s training stood her well. She simply pretended insi
de that Mrs Millthorpe was her employer, and therefore entitled to question her.
Never forget who you are.
At least it allowed her to contain her temper.
The illusion created by the side curls and the silk dress that she was anything other than a servant had been shattered by Mrs Millthorpe’s pitiless examination of her past and her background. And as the time went on Jane became more and more distraught.
Through it all Mrs Kendal looked distressed, but each time she tried to intervene she was silenced by Mrs Millthorpe.
By the end Jane felt as though she had been forced through a mill—tumbled and crushed and broken into pieces. Mrs Millthorpe had been relentless, ruthless and heartless. Jane was barely managing to retain control of her emotions. She felt like running from the room, from the house, from the entire county of Yorkshire.
At last the door opened, admitting the gentlemen. Mr Kendal was slightly behind his uncle, and his eyes immediately searched hers. She could give him nothing—no sign of welcome or even of animation. She was exhausted. Empty. Crushed.
A slight frown marred his brow briefly, but he instantly smoothed it away as he greeted the ladies. Mr Millthorpe took his seat in the same armchair he had used earlier, and they all conversed generally about the weather and the Staveley House soirée.
Jane sat silently, empty of thought, word and emotion.
‘We shall use the small carriage,’ declared Mrs Millthorpe.
‘Oh, but, my dear Eugenia...’ Mrs Kendal’s hands were fluttering in distress. ‘You forget there are five of us now. We should never fit comfortably in the small carriage.’
‘Five? Five?’ Mrs Millthorpe’s voice was shrill. ‘There are but four who will be seen in public at the Staveley soirée.’
All eyes turned to Mr Millthorpe for adjudication, but he was staring into the fire, seemingly lost in thought.
Jane’s anxiety reawakened. She wished to be anywhere but Beechmount Hall. If only she were at home with Mama. Or downstairs with the servants. Or—
Rags-to-Riches Wife Page 11