Читать книгу A Pearl for My Mistress - Annabel Fielding - Страница 8
ОглавлениеCounty of Northumberland, February 1934
Hester immediately braced herself for the furious wind as she stepped out of the car. As usual, the expectation didn’t fail her; it seemed to be cutting through her coat, through her jumper, through her skin, and chilling her straight to the bone.
Perhaps, though, car was too elegant a name for that vehicle. More than anything, it resembled the small blue vans that butchers in her hometown used for deliveries.
It also smelled oddly of hounds.
Instinctively, Hester reached for her suitcase; however, the chauffeur clearly intended to carry it for her all the way to the house. Not that she minded the courtesy too much; her hands ached after clutching the suitcase during the day-long journey, and having help made a pleasant change. However, seeing her belongings in someone else’s hands made Hester feel somehow vulnerable, almost naked.
Trotting along the gravel path, Hester raised her eyes. There it was, her home for the next several years: the massive stone bulk of Hebden Hall.
There were plenty of things one could say about this house. You could accuse it of being unwelcoming, forbidding, old-fashioned, or even eerie. But no one – at least, no one Hester knew – could level against it the charge of being unimpressive.
Like a medieval cathedral, this stately home must have been designed to inspire awe and a little fear in the hearts of visitors. If that was the case, Hester couldn’t help but give the unknown architect his due. He had clearly succeeded.
The oldest part of the building, where the walls were dark with age and tinged with green, was crawling with strange creatures. They leered at Hester from above, the eternal captives of stone. Some of them resembled cruel dogs; some seemed closer to hungry lions.
Gargoyles, Hester remembered. They are called gargoyles.
The main entrance glared at her, impossibly grand and preceded by a tall staircase. For a single wild moment, Hester thought that she would have to come through these forbidding doors.
But no, of course not. The fear was unfounded; furthermore, it was silly. The chauffeur, whose name she was too shy to ask, was already turning to an obscure door covered with green baize.
‘The servants always come in here,’ he explained, giving her the suitcase back. Hester took it with an ill-concealed relief. ‘Don’t you worry. We are almost there.’
On the other side of the door, the silence of long, half-lit passageways greeted Hester. Her escort’s energetic footsteps rang unnaturally loudly in this hollow maze. Half ashamed of her own unease (what was she, a child in the darkness?), Hester tried her best to keep up with him. The thought of getting lost in these corridors was terrifying in more ways than one. After all, she was tired, and the possibility of her rest being delayed still further was almost as frightening as the gargoyles outside.
Their way ended in an enormous kitchen. Hester was seated, a blissfully large cup of tea thrust into her hands. Not wasting any time, she put the cardboard suitcase securely by her side. Hester looked up with silent gratitude at the tall woman who greeted her in the kitchen.
‘You must be quite tired after the journey,’ the cook observed.
Hester half expected her to sit down beside her; however, the woman continued to stand with the rigid dignity of stone.
For some strange reason, Hester had always imagined cooks – particularly cooks in such grand households as this – to be plump, sturdy, motherly creatures. Mrs Mullet, however, was none of these things. Hester found herself wondering how she even managed to lift all the menacing-looking saucepans, let alone work with them for hours on end.
‘To be honest, I am. It took longer than I expected. Thank you so much for the tea,’ Hester added belatedly.
Really, she didn’t expect a journey of less than a hundred miles to fill all day. However, it turned out that to reach the place of her new employment, Hester had to change three trains. Of course, these were not the shiny new expresses, which could take you from one end of the country to the other in a matter of hours; the steam-powered trains used for local needs must have remembered Queen Victoria as a happy newlywed.
It didn’t diminish Hester’s excitement, of course. Ever since she’d left home, she had been clutching her thick cardboard ticket as if it designated her straight to Paradise. In the smoky refreshment rooms of every station she told the other bored travellers: ‘Me? Oh, I’m going to take up a new job. I will become a lady’s maid in the Earl of Hereford’s household. You must’ve heard of them: their seat is Hebden Hall. Such a grand place.’
Strictly speaking, Hester was to become merely a young lady’s maid; that is, she was going to serve the Earl’s debutante daughter, not his wife the Countess. But there was no need to go into such details for the strangers in railway refreshment rooms, was there?
Mrs Mullet apparently thought that the newcomer had had enough rest, and was more than ready to hear the list of her duties. The cook (or, rather, now she was in her capacity of housekeeper) went over each point with metallic precision and years-honed confidence.
‘The breakfast tray is to be taken upstairs at eight. The young lady is an early riser.’
Hester, having relaxed too much in the suffusing warmth of the kitchen, now leaned forward and listened closely. The meticulous list of times and things to do was growing threateningly, and Hester felt the slow burn of fear lest she forget anything.
‘I am afraid you’ve arrived a little too late for Lady Lucy to meet you now,’ Mrs Mullet added with a note of genuine regret in her voice. There was also a hint of reprove, as if the country trains might have done well to be a little more considerate of her lady’s time. ‘Abigail will take you to your room. I wish you a good night’s rest, Miss Blake.’
She didn’t add, ‘You are going to need it,’ but the heavy implication seemed to hang in the air.
Unwilling as she was to steer herself from the brightly lit kitchen and her warm cup, Hester nonetheless took the hint. She stood up, took the long-suffering suitcase, and followed sprightly Abigail into the gloomy maze of corridors.
Was she actually called Abigail? Hester wondered. Her uncle used to serve in the magnificent household of Lord Londonderry, and, according to him, a lot of masters had a propensity for giving their servants ‘smarter’ names. He was once rechristened Charles, and plenty of maids went by the name of Abigail.
‘But don’t you worry, Hettie,’ he said. ‘They don’t do such things any more. Not to ladies’ maids, anyway.’
It might have been true, of course. After all, he went into service way before the war started – therefore, as far as Hester was concerned, in unimaginable antiquity. He was hired as one of the ‘matching’ footmen, chosen for their impressive height and build. Lord Londonderry had, it seemed, very particular aesthetic preferences; his housemaids were also invariably tall. Hester’s uncle was to wait upon bejewelled guests during most splendid receptions. His hair, like the hair of the other footmen, was powdered, his gloves spotless.
Departing for Hebden Hall, Hester half expected to find a similar grandeur here. That was silly, of course. The sheer fact that Mrs Mullet the cook also had to take up the duties of a housekeeper said enough.
Abigail’s smile was tinged with compassion as she opened the door for her. Nodding gratefully, Hester stepped into the room – and, for the first time in this impossibly long day, found herself surrounded by silence.
The simple outlook of the room would’ve been dear to the hearts of ancient Spartans. However, the fact that she had her own room was a pleasant surprise all by itself.
It was strange to think of it now; but, as Hester reminded herself, this was going to become her home for the next two or three years, at least. Therefore, she had better start getting used to it.
Waving exhaustion aside, Hester began unpacking.
First things first, of course: print frocks, sturdy shoes, sensible woollen dresses. Hester was fortunate: unlike poor Abigail, she was spared the need to wear the uniform, the lace bonnet, and clean aprons. However, there were still certain rules she had to abide by.
Hester grieved silently for her red lipstick. But then, she usually only wore it to dances, anyway; there would be no dances here.
The frocks looked pleasantly new, sewn only last week. The fabric felt encouragingly fresh beneath her fingers.
The turn of treasures came only when the necessities were unpacked and hung.
Hester carefully placed the postcards upon her table; they seemed to glow with colour in the grey strictness of the room.
The landscapes of Java, the boulevards of Paris. The purple of imperial palaces, the green of Alpine slopes, the white of the sea foam. Dazzling, vivid windows into other worlds.
And now, Hester was closer to them than she had ever been.
Her heart was thudding in her chest, but this time it was thudding with pleasant anticipation.
Yes, she was closer to her dream than ever before. And she would reach it one day; yes, she would reach these enigmatic shores, the exotic and the urbane. Whatever cold nights and mind-numbing efforts it took.
The stack of letters, tied with a pretty red ribbon, was the last thing she unpacked.
***
Hester couldn’t have imagined the stairs to be so long.
The breakfast tray was a deadly weight in her hands. She watched her every step, bathing in cold sweat every time the precarious balance of cups and plates seemed to be threatened.
Please, please, please, don’t let the door be heavy …
Her prayers were left unanswered.
When all the dangers were finally overcome, and the threshold of her mistress’s bedroom was safely behind, Hester discovered two surprises waiting for her.
The first was the room itself. Hester had somehow expected the bedchamber, belonging to the daughter of the house (and the only daughter at that) to be the epitome of silken luxury. However, it was quite as gloomy and almost as austere as Hester’s own, if admittedly grander in size. The stark white walls and sparse pieces of furniture seemed to have been left untouched since the first Earl of Hereford won his fortune in some medieval adventure.
The second surprise was the fact that all her tiptoeing and worrying was for nothing. Lady Lucy Fitzmartin, the daughter of the ninth Earl of Hereford, was already fully awake, with her head propped on a pillow, her night-black hair spread across it like a net.
And she was smiling.
‘Why, good morning!’ she said, turning her head to the newcomer. Her eyes were wild with delight, as if she had awaited this visit for hours. ‘I hope I didn’t startle you.’
‘Not at all, my lady,’ was all Hester managed to say.
‘Good.’ Lady Lucy nodded. ‘The rainfall must have wakened me, and then I simply couldn’t fall asleep again. My thoughts never allow me to.’ Was her tone apologetic? ‘You are Blake, aren’t you?’
No smart new name for her, Hester remembered. Only a surname.
‘Yes, my lady.’ She set the tray down, dutifully careful. ‘I arrived yesterday evening.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard about it. And how do you like Hebden Hall so far?’
Hester hesitated. It wouldn’t do to lie to her young mistress, of course. And, in any case, she was a terrible liar.
‘It’s … very impressive, my lady,’ she said at last.
‘It certainly is.’ Lady Lucy grinned again, and Hester felt as if she had seen through her clumsy politeness clearly, as if the truth was written on Hester’s cheeks. Surprisingly, this was not a discomforting feeling; her mistress’s smile held no maliciousness.
Or, perhaps, it was all merely a fruit of Hester’s overanxious imagination.
She ran through her next duties as quickly and efficiently as possible. While Lady Lucy dedicated her full attention to the breakfast tray, Hester picked up the clothes she had worn on the previous evening and set about preparing her morning bath. With soothing timeliness, it was ready just in time as the lady finished her tea. So far, Lady Lucy looked friendly; however, making her mistress wait was the last thing Hester wanted to do on her first day.
Lady Lucy climbed out of bed vigorously, as if the duvet had held her captive. She wore a long, thick nightgown, which could have belonged to her Victorian grandmother (and, in all probability, it did). Hester wondered if it truly saved her during the cold Northern nights; after all, even now she could feel the chilly draughts seeping into the room through a thousand unseen cracks.
The lady’s skin was still breathing with the warm languor of the bath, while Hester fastened the hooks of her blue morning dress. An ardent blush still bloomed on her cheeks.
Lady Lucy probably blushed very easily, Hester reflected. After all, her skin was so fair; her veins could have been painted in vivid blue upon the ivory surface of her wrists. Her fingers were so thin that Hester found herself catching her breath in fear.
What if she had an accident? They would be so easy, so painfully easy to break …
Some ladies, Hester had heard, enjoyed the daily ritual of having their hair brushed and arranged. However, her new mistress clearly wasn’t counted among them. She frowned into the mirror, turned her head in discontent, and drummed her fingers on the table tirelessly, as if performing some unnerving melody.
‘Have you arrived from far away?’ she finally asked, clearly aiming to fill some time.
‘No, my lady.’
The name of her hometown was unlikely to tell Lady Lucy anything; however, she made a courteous nod of recognition upon hearing it.
‘To be honest, I imagined you to have come from some distant clime,’ she noted. ‘You have such lovely olive skin, after all. Most local girls look as if they’ve spent their youth and childhood in Château d’If.’
‘Well, some of my ancestors might have come from those distant climes,’ Hester replied, her tone tinted by pleasure at the compliment. ‘There is even one family story … Although, strictly speaking, it’s more of a family legend.’
She stopped, as if her speech had been cut away with a knife.
You are not bantering with your friends now. She isn’t interested in your family legends. Or stories, for that matter.
She must remember; she must mould herself into this new role.
‘Do tell!’ Lady Lucy’s blue eyes, lucid and unnervingly clear, now shone with curiosity. She looked at Hester, unaware of her painful thoughts. ‘I love legends.’
As she moved her hands, Hester couldn’t help but notice a scar cutting across the lady’s right palm. It resembled an ugly stitch, made by an indifferent apprentice upon transparent white satin.
‘Well …’ Hester lowered her eyes, continuing to brush her mistress’s fine hair. The strands flew between her fingers, like water. ‘It says that my family actually came here from Spain many centuries ago, fleeing the wrath of Queen Isabella. They were Moors, I mean. From Granada,’ she hurried to explain, belatedly. ‘Isabella captured it …’
‘I am familiar with the events of the Reconquista, thank you.’ Lady Lucy’s voice grew harsher for a second, before melting into genteel neutrality once again. ‘It is quite fascinating. Do you believe it, Blake?’
Hester paused. Was she supposed to tell the truth or to play along with her lady’s evident wanderlust?
Of course, she must nod and agree; it would have been obvious for any servant, Mrs Mullet wouldn’t even think …
‘To be honest, my lady, I don’t. I am not sure how these things work; but, I think, if my ancestors came here in the fifteenth century and married the locals ever since, there wouldn’t be any traces left by now. Not even the olive skin.’
It was still only a half-truth. Hester didn’t trust the exact facts of the story, of course; she wasn’t that fanciful, whatever her mother might say. However, the lure and enigma of the legend never failed to capture her imagination. Ever since she had heard it for the first time, she was entranced by these visions of the sun-soaked lands. She closed her eyes, daydreaming in the warmer afternoons, and saw the bright shawls of dark-eyed beauties, the orange trees blooming in March.
Hester was still unsure about this latter image, though. She suspected it to be at least an embellishment. How could anything bloom in March, let alone oranges?
Her hometown was a practical place, built around shipyards and factories. Lady Lucy’s Victorian grandmother must have seen it rising. It was sturdy; it was sensible; it was part of the backbone of the industrial empire. It wasn’t a gloomy place, either; there were teashops, and Saturday dances, and even a park. But no oranges or lemons bloomed there in March. Or in any other months, for that matter.
‘Still, it’s a splendid story,’ Lady Lucy concluded, as if answering her thoughts. ‘And, as I’ve said, I love legends. Speaking of which, we have quite a good selection in the library. Have you already been there?’
‘I can use the library?’ Hester blinked.
‘Of course you can.’ The young woman turned and stared at her, slightly frowning. ‘All upper servants can. Didn’t Mrs Mullet tell you?’
‘I didn’t ask,’ Hester confessed.
She said it as quietly as she could, as if trying to drown the evidence that it was her first time in service, and she only knew the barest of rules.
‘Well, then I am telling you. You can read however much you want there.’
A weight seemed to lift from Hester’s shoulders. She had already imagined the trouble of carving out time for trips to the nearest town’s library; or, even worse, the nightmare of living without any new books at all.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ was all she could say. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘You are welcome. Now …’ Lady Lucy touched her newly arranged curls ‘… I think that’s quite sufficient. I wouldn’t dare keep you here for too long; I imagine you have plenty of duties to attend to.’ Her tone and smile were as courteous as they could be; however, from her eyes’ expression, she could just as well have been a military officer saying Dismissed. ‘As do I.’
***
Lucy was a child of winter.
She was born in the crispy frost of January, in the deafening silence of snow-covered countryside.
She was born in the early years of the war, which later passed into the realm of legends. On the Continent, emperors fought with kings, and the fields were soaked with blood. Here, the lights went out, and the country stood in the hushed silence of terror.
Lucy was the first child of a young, sweet, impossibly proper couple – as proper as they came in those turbulent days. She was really supposed to be a boy: a sunny heir, the first of more to come, the harbinger of hope. There would have been joyful celebrations; there would have been tables laid out for tenants. Maids in pristine aprons would have patiently queued to receive a golden sovereign each from their benevolent master.
As it was, there were only veiled consolations.
‘Don’t worry,’ the well-wishers must have said. ‘It will all turn out properly next time.’
No one recounted such words to Lucy, of course, but it was easy enough to imagine them. They appeared in her mind so readily, as if they were lines in an already written novel, just waiting to be called to light. Ordering life in the format of a novel made it so much easier for her to understand.
Lucy was also, at least, supposed to be cheerful and hearty, never bothering anyone with fevers or complaints. She was supposed to be stout and perfectly healthy, a lover of horses and hunting, her cheeks bright as apples. Instead, she turned out to be weak and pale, rarely getting through spring without a flu. Later, she learnt to apologize for it.
And the next time never came. Little Lucy didn’t, of course, know the word ‘miscarriage’ – she was shielded from this improper knowledge as she was from many others. But, as she grew and found out, the strange, unnamed tragedies of her childhood suddenly blossomed with blood and meaning.
She was, in other words, a walking spectre of happiness that never came. She was a living reminder of a failure. She was the failure incarnate.
There was a way to atone for being a failure, and that was to become perfection.
After all, diamonds could be cut and polished. Why not people?
The polishing came in many ways. There were books she wasn’t supposed to read (at least, if she didn’t want them to end up in the fireplace). There was a list of people she could correspond with (all related and female), provided, of course, that her letters were dutifully submitted for inspection. There were things she was never supposed to ask about.
There was a catch, though: namely, that Lucy wasn’t a diamond, and thus didn’t patiently sit on a pillow and wait for the tools to cut her. She learnt to evade the questions and hide the books, to invent codes for letters, to guess the moods, to coax the smiles she wanted and sometimes the permissions she needed. She learnt to navigate the labyrinth of traps (which was hard, as their positions changed every time) and to tread on eggshells.
This latter skill was vital for every inhabitant of the house, from Her Ladyship to her housemaid. After all, her father’s rages were the stuff of legends. They were always called that: rages, with a tint of awe. Never tantrums or, God forbid, hysterics. These words were reserved for Lucy herself, for the times she raised her voice.
She learnt a lot of things, and she went through life with the apologetic air of someone who wasn’t really supposed to exist.
At least, so it was until the last year. Until Lucy learnt with growing surprise that, perhaps, there was someone who might actually be very grateful for her existence.
Very grateful indeed.
