Читать книгу A Pearl for My Mistress - Annabel Fielding - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Hebden Hall wasn’t a house, or even an estate; it was a world of its own, and it took time for its map to imprint on Hester’s mind.

There were whole clusters of rooms with unclear purpose: lamp rooms and hamper rooms and flower-arranging rooms. There were clusters of rooms long since shut, and in her more fanciful moments Hester liked to pause by these doors and listen, imagining the cries of a madwoman or the footsteps of a ghost.

But these were, of course, just silly fantasies. The key was turned on all these endless chambers, Snowflake parlours, and Lilac bedrooms, for more practical reasons: the house would have become totally unmanageable otherwise. With the skeleton staff that was left, taking care of it all was beyond possible.

The world of servants, the world downstairs, was a separate universe in its own right. Its sheer size whispered to Hester the stories of the past grandeur, of the disciplined army that must have once dwelled there.

This quiet spirit of forlornness didn’t spare even the servants’ hall, the heart of all things. Among the rows of bells that hung there, most had been deadly quiet for over a decade, intended for long-since dismissed servants. In its cavernous space, Abigail the red-haired housemaid looked painfully small as she sat there in the evenings, mending the towels with a coarse flaxen thread. Her movements were mechanical, but her eyes were alive; she hummed to herself the latest jazz melody, if she couldn’t put the actual record on.

Or, at least, Hester supposed it was the latest. She wouldn’t be surprised if by the time a fresh hit reached the world of Hebden Hall, in London shops it was already moved to the classics department.

Her anxiety waned a little as the time passed. Gradually, her days were drained of the sense of apprehension and filled instead with a sense of routine.

Then, Hester finally decided to clarify a silly little question, which had been disturbing her mind since that first day. It was embarrassing, really – to see a girl for several weeks and doubt whether you knew her real name. She couldn’t bear asking such a question in the hollow space of the servants’ hall; she’d have to wait until they were alone.

Thankfully, such an opportunity presented itself every day.

It was seven in the morning, and the sky was still veiled in a murky haze. Hester gulped down her tea as fast as she could, balancing the tray on her knees. The housemaid, meanwhile, was laying out and kindling the fire. Her face was pallid, and her eyes rimmed with red; the strands of ginger hair, straying from beyond her lace bonnet, seemed to be the only splash of colour in the world.

Hester hesitated for a moment; then she carefully put her cup away.

The tea would do for now. Her real breakfast would be later, after the masters had already been safely served theirs.

She wasn’t sure how to approach the subject.

‘I know it sounds rather silly …’

‘Aye?’ Abby turned her head. Her eyes, Hester noticed, were dim blue.

‘I was just wondering … well … is your name really Abigail?’

‘Of course!’ The girl laughed. ‘What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know. Mary? Rose?’ Hester never felt more stupid in her life. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, after all, that she had such a housemaid-ish name.

‘Oh! My sister’s Rose.’

‘Really? It must be nice to have a sister.’ Hester was relieved to find at least some kind of point of rapprochement. She was eager to ask any question now, just to bury her embarrassment. ‘Does she live somewhere around here?’

‘No, no. She stayed in the Highlands.’

Abigail’s accent left little room for doubt.

‘The Highlands? Must be a lovely place.’

‘Nae, not really.’ The first flame had already been woken up by Abby’s sure hands, and the faint glow turned her hair into threads of fire. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have to march down here to find a decent job.’

Hester blinked. ‘What do you mean, march?’

‘I mean march like the soldiers march.’ Abby looked a little amused by this strange misapprehension. ‘Actually, I took me Da’s army backpack with me,’ she added, ‘so I really felt a wee bit like a soldier.’

‘You came here all the way from the Highlands on foot?’

‘It wasn’t so bad,’ the redhead assured her. ‘The big problem was to find somewhere to spend th’night. I was lucky sometimes: people let me in the sheds. But usually I had to stay in a workhouse. I had to toil all the next day as a payment – a lot o’ time lost.’

‘I think they’re called institutions now,’ Hester said automatically. ‘Not workhouses.’

Abigail shrugged.

‘A workhouse’s a workhouse. I’m lucky they took me in here; I thought the housekeeper would turn me away at once. But it turned out they just wanted a housemaid who wouldn’t ask for too much. They didnae have much choice either. I saw it after,’ she added. ‘There’s no queue to serve in this house; that much I can tell.’

‘But you like it here?’

‘They feed me very well.’ It was so strange, to hear this forced purity, devoid of dialect. Mrs Mullet must have worked hard to bring this girl up to standards. ‘Always real butter. Never tasted margarine here. My brother’s jealous.’ Abby bit her lip so as not to giggle. ‘He had to go further south, down to Manchester. Works in a factory now. It was better here afore, though,’ she noted. ‘I worked with another girl back then. She left after the New Year, and they still didnae find anyone else. No queue, just like I said.’

‘It must have been easier to work together.’

That was a bit of an understatement. Having scaled the enormous realm of Hebden Hall over these weeks, Hester failed to imagine how one could housemaid keep even a part of it in order.

‘Oh, it’s not just that.’ With an effort, Abigail stood up. ‘We had so much fun. We used to practise all the new dance steps, when no one saw, and …’ She looked at Hester with a slight suspicion, as if unsure whether to trust her with a grave secret. ‘Promise you won’t tell the Crow. She’ll have my guts for garters.’

It wasn’t hard to guess whom she meant by that soubriquet.

‘I’m deaf and mute.’

‘Well, it happened when we were still in town. It was so late, and we had to clean up after a party. So, we cleaned it …’ Abby made a dramatic pause. ‘Especially the cocktails guests didnae finish. We polished them right off.’

‘You didn’t!’

‘I know, I know! We felt so wild. But we’d never drunk anything like that before, so …’

‘What, even at Saturday dances? I mean … There’re Saturday dances in your hometown, aren’t there?’ Hester had never been to the Scottish Highlands, so she wasn’t entirely sure. Who knows how it was in that windswept wilderness?

‘Of course there’re!’ Abby sounded offended. ‘Every week, in the church hall or the baths. I’ve tried the Green Goddess during the break, but it was nothing like this.’

‘Oh, you’re bold! I’ve always wanted to try it, but could never bring myself up to it. I thought it was only for the most daring girls.’

‘You didnae miss much,’ Abigail assured her.

‘One minute!’ Hester remembered. ‘You said you were in town then? In London, that is?’

‘Aye. We all went there last summer, for Lady Lucy’s coming out.’

‘And how was it?’ Hester asked, her heartbeat firing up. ‘The city? How was it?’

‘It was stoating!’ The redhead exclaimed. ‘The house is much smaller, so I didnae have to clean so much. And on Sunday I could even go to the pictures.’

***

‘I wish all my readers good fortune; I hope my advice will help them in this dreariest of winter months!’

The typewriter clicked, and the last of the digits bloomed on the page in vivid fresh ink. Lady Lucy Fitzmartin leaned back in the heavy library chair and stretched her fingers. Her head hurt slightly; it was hard to decide whether it was due to the lack of fresh air or the excess of banality.

I swear to heaven, if I have to write the words ‘charming’ and ‘elegant’ one more time, the heads will roll.

Of course, it was all for naught – empty threats to the universe. That was what they were expecting her to write about: frocks and garden parties, weddings and tips on entertaining. Some Society gossip as well, of course. The heiress of such-and-such abandoned, at last, her Eton crop and began to grow her hair – congratulations! Lady Diana Mitford demonstrated a highly inventive way of wearing a tiara (on her neck, no less). A daring young gentleman came to a costume party in nothing but Zulu war paint and had to be turned away.

That was what they wanted her to write.

More importantly, that was what they were prepared to pay for her to write.

Lucy was certainly in no position to complain; at least, for now.

It was only now she saw, looking back at the last summer, just how haphazard was the start of her career, how fortunate. An encounter at a dinner party, a mentioned need for contributors to the fledgling Sunday Express, an ardent (too ardent to be ladylike) agreement from her.

A trial contract for three articles was signed during the same week.

She was not a fool, of course. She understood that this haste had nothing to do with Lord Beaverbrook’s belief in her talents, but everything to do with his desire to feature a titled name in his young newspaper. ‘Written by Lady Lucy E. Fitzmartin’: doesn’t it sound solid and respectable?

Never did Lucy feel herself in a greater grip of thrill and horror than in those weeks. The fact that someone deemed her writing interesting enough to print it (indeed, to pay for it) was unbelievable all by itself. For hours and days on end, Lucy refused to part with her notebook, writing and crossing out line after line, polishing the drafts until they shone. Despite all these measures, they all seemed to her unbearably silly, silly, silly.

But the Sunday Express was apparently pleased enough, and three articles soon turned into ten.

Lucy’s hands trembled as she signed above the dotted line.

It felt so strange. She always used to regard her penchant for writing as an embarrassing tumour rather than a useful asset. After all, she was neither deaf nor blind; she heard the sneer in people’s voices as they talked about silly and shameless women, who wrote romances, and horrid intellectual girls, who wrote anything else. She was used to scribbling when and where no one could see her, hiding the notebooks as soon as she heard the menacing footsteps.

Lucy was secretly relieved that her hasty handwriting was practically unintelligible: this way no one would be able to read her drafts, even if they unearthed them somehow.

Listening carefully, noticing small details, reimagining her life as a series of flowery sentences to make it seem more exciting – it was something she was always simply doing; recasting it as a serious profession seemed laughable. Holding her the first cheque (an actual cheque for a solid sum, intended for her, featuring her name on it – it seemed surreal), Lucy only thought about pin money, about petty pleasures and beautiful bookshops. But, as the time passed and the sums increased, her thoughts changed accordingly. Slowly but surely, she started imagining other things.

What else could money buy?

A household of her own. A name of her own. A life of her own.

Could it be possible?

The success depended just as much on the power of her title as it did on the actual quality of her writing. Again, she was not a fool. She doubted that regular journalists, however talented, were paid hundreds of pounds for ten articles.

Of course, any real influence her title ever held had drained away decades before she was born. The only inheritance it brought her was a swarm of illusions: illusions of elegance and sophistication for some, illusions of might and tradition for others.

However, in this day and age, even illusions could have their power, if wielded carefully.

Lucy used to picture the future very differently.

Only a year ago, she believed – indeed, she knew – that the only way out for her lay in marriage. That’s why she waited for her first Season with such impatience, such ardour. She believed – indeed, she was sure – that it would be enough for her to come out officially, to appear at a few debutante balls, and she would immediately catch the attention of some eligible young man. That was the whole point of the Season, after all.

She wasn’t particularly sure what this man should look like (although he must love books, otherwise life with him would be unbearable). But there was one vital, iron-wrought condition – he would marry her as soon as possible and take her away from this house.

These were all childish dreams, as she discovered soon enough.

Meeting someone suitable and interested enough to propose, despite her uncertain dowry, during her first Season was improbable all by itself. However, even if this fairy-tale-like encounter did occur, her family would never permit such a hasty union to take place. Several Seasons were an accepted norm, an approved time for seeking the most promising match. Early marriages reeked of scandal.

And if there was something the Fitzmartins strived to avoid at all cost, it was scandal.

Lucy knew it all too well.

Several Seasons – that meant several years. Several more years beneath this roof, several more years among these people. Several more years of degrading, sickening dependency used as a lead on her neck – a lead they could pull any second.

And did.

These short-term contracts she secured now were too unsure as a base (although they still brought her more than any allowance would, and it weakened the pull of the lead just a little). But if she proved herself – and, once again, if she played her cards right – they might as well lead to something more. An editor’s post in some small publication, for example, with a stable position and a stable income to match. Of course, it would most likely be some women’s magazine; she would have to write about garden parties and frocks all her life. But it was still much sweeter than the alternative.

The sound of hurried footsteps snapped her out of this reverie.

‘There’s a call for you, my lady,’ Blake said, clearly nervous. Had she ever used a telephone before? Lucy doubted it. ‘Mr Chesterton says he wishes to speak with you as soon as possible.’

Lucy rose to her feet sharply, all dreaminess forgotten.

‘Thank you, Blake.’

She almost had to restrain herself from running to the telephone. The maid followed her with unsure footsteps, her gaze tinted with concern.

Such a peculiar creature she was, this Blake. No, Lucy corrected herself, this had nothing to do with Blake herself; the situation itself was peculiar. She could never have guessed that their strained finances would allow her a maid of her own. That sale of outlying portions must have gone really well.

Outlying portions. The unused land on the margins of the estate. Disposing of it was all about rationalization and consolidation, as any struggling landowner would tell you; it had absolutely nothing to do with financial need.

Not for the first time, Lucy couldn’t help but marvel at the power of carefully chosen words. How well they could hide any unpleasant necessity under a cloak of respectability!

‘Mr Chesterton?’ Lucy asked breathlessly, finally clutching the telephone ‘candle’ in her hand. She was almost afraid he would somehow get tired of waiting and hang up. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ She winced at the reply. ‘I … I understand, yes. I am truly sorry for the delay. I absolutely had to find these numbers … The article will be ready in the next few hours. I will send it by the express post. It will be on your table tomorrow …’ She let out a breath. ‘Thank you for your understanding, Mr Chesterton. Me? Not, I am not nervous. What?’

For heaven’s sake, this telephone must have been installed before the Great War.

‘Thank you! I wish you a pleasant afternoon. A PLEA-SANT AFTER-NOON!’

Blake was waiting for her outside the room, a worried expression on her soft face. ‘Did everything go well, my lady?’ she enquired cautiously.

Lucy couldn’t help but smile. Poor girl, she really was concerned for her!

‘Yes, it was … Oh, never mind. It was just a little difficulty. If Mr Chesterton calls here in the future, or sends a telegram, or leaves any message at all, you will have to alert me immediately. It has to do …’ Lucy hesitated. Should she or shouldn’t she?

No. Blake might be sweet, but there were things she didn’t have to know.

‘It has to do with my work,’ she said finally. ‘Very important work.’

‘Of course, my lady.’

Lucy nodded briefly.

She would have thought her mother would find someone older and sterner to guard her virtue. But then, someone older and sterner would most likely ask for more money …

Guarding her virtue was, after all, the whole purpose. The events of the last Season must have convinced Her Ladyship that Lucy clearly needed someone to keep an eye on her conduct, especially when they were among the perils and temptations of the city.

The young woman walked back to the library as briskly as she could. She had already lost enough time daydreaming and battling with the veteran telephone. It was time to get to work.

Lucy replaced the sheet of paper in her typewriter. The old page, rippling with fresh black letters, now lay safely to her right. Now, the duty out of her way, she could finally approach the task she really wanted to do …