Читать книгу The Silent Woman: The USA TODAY BESTSELLER - a gripping historical fiction - Terry Thomas Lynn - Страница 10

Chapter Two

One week had passed since Annie Havers had run away from her mother and lied her way into a service job in the posh Carlisle home. Timid Annie Havers had faced Isobel Carlisle and had told her that she was an orphan who needed a job. The minute she spoke the words, she expected the heavens to open and lightning to strike as punishment for her falsehood. At the very least, Annie expected Miss Carlisle to laugh in her face and send her back to Bermondsey.

But Miss Isobel Carlisle had not laughed in Annie’s face. Instead she stared down her long nose and asked a handful of questions relevant to housekeeping. Did Annie know how to dust? How would she go about cleaning a room? Could she cook a bit?

Annie answered all the questions truthfully. She knew how to keep house. She’d been helping her mum for as long as she could remember. She enjoyed it. She appreciated the satisfaction of a job well done. She didn’t tell Miss Isobel that the best part of domestic work was that it gave Annie time to paint pictures with her mind. She didn’t tell Miss Isobel that while she swung the broom back and forth, she imagined the brushwork necessary to capture the crashing waves of a seascape or that she could figure out which colours to mix to develop a shade of deep red as rich as blood. But this was the Carlisle house, and Miss Isobel Carlisle was looking for more than an uneducated girl. ‘Can you read?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Annie said. ‘I can do sums as well. I am – was – a good student, ma’am. I also draw. My dad was going to let me go to art school.’ Annie looked out the window. She could tell a partial form of the truth about this part of her life, for her father was indeed dead, and he had promised art school before the accident that had taken his life. ‘But he and my mum died. There was no place for me to go, and now I need a job.’

Miss Carlisle stared at Annie, judging her. Annie met her eyes and smiled. ‘I’m a good worker, ma’am.’

Miss Carlisle nodded her head and crossed her arms over her stout bosom. ‘I usually wouldn’t ask a girl with no experience about cooking, but our cook is taking care of her husband who has been ill. I’m looking for a temporary replacement, but have yet to find one. It’s usually just me, Marie, and Mrs Carlisle. We dine properly when my brother is home, which isn’t very often. He has a very important job that takes him out of town on a regular basis.’

Annie waited, not quite sure what to say.

‘Very well. You can start today. Marie will see you’re situated.’

The tall woman who sat next to Miss Carlisle during the interview stood up. She hadn’t spoken since she ushered Annie into the room, and Annie had all but forgotten she was even there. Now she noticed the crown of downy white frizz and the cadaverous frame. The woman’s clothes were rumpled, the hem of the skirt uneven. The white blouse she wore under the navy cardigan had a tiny stain on it. When Miss Marie smiled at Annie, a genuine smile that lighted her whole face, Annie liked her right away.

Unable to believe that she had gotten away with all the lies, Annie grabbed the valise she stole from her mother and hurried after the woman. She felt guilty about taking something so dear from her mum, but Annie couldn’t run away with her possessions in a paper bag. She vowed to repay her mother once she established herself. The bag now carried all of her worldly goods: a tattered copy of Through the Looking Glass, a picture of her grandparents, her good dress, her Sunday shoes, her nightgown and underclothes. She’d left her good winter coat at Harold Green’s house, but now at least she would have enough money to buy one before the summer weather turned.

The woman didn’t speak as Annie followed her to the back of the house and up a narrow staircase off the kitchen. Annie’s room was on the second floor, tucked into an out-of-the-way corner. The woman opened it, allowing Annie to step in first.

‘Welcome to the Carlisle house, Annie. I hope you’ll be happy here.’

The room was small and bright. A wooden bedstead was tucked in the corner, its crisp white linens frayed at the edges. On the opposite wall was a washstand, with a floral print pitcher and basin. Next to it lay a stack of flannels. The window was covered in muslin curtains embroidered in scarlet poppies and blue forget-me-nots.

For a moment Annie missed her real room, the room that she lived in before her father died and before her mum married Harold Green. That room was big, with well-worn rugs and large windows that flooded the room with light. At night, Annie would crawl into the high canopy bed that belonged to her gran, snuggle under the eiderdown, and fall asleep without a care in the world.

One corner of the room held her easel, a box full of paints, and a set of real mink brushes. She spent hours painting. When she wasn’t pretending to be an artist, she spent her free time playing in the garden with the children from the neighbourhood. She longed for the life that had been so cruelly taken away from her. When her dad died, the house they lived in had gone to her uncle. He had his own family to support, and although he offered Annie and her mum a room for as long as they wanted to stay there, Annie’s mum moved into a house that she couldn’t afford. To save themselves from poverty, Annie’s mum had married, and now here Annie was.

‘It’s all right, my dear. Things will be fine,’ Miss Marie said, as if she read Annie’s thoughts. ‘It’s been a little difficult since cook left. Her husband had a heart attack and she’s tending to him. The agency has been sending over replacements, but Isobel has yet to find one that’s satisfactory. With Benton – that’s Mr Carlisle – working so much, we’ve just been making do. You’ll be helping me in the kitchen until we can find a cook that Isobel likes. Come down when you’re settled, and I’ll give you something to eat. Miss Isobel is very particular about how she wants things done. I’ve much to show you.’

Getting the job was one thing, but doing the daily work to Miss Carlisle’s satisfaction was another thing entirely. Annie discovered that Miss Marie’s real job was to serve as Miss Isobel’s secretary. Annie wasn’t really sure what that meant, except that Miss Isobel bossed Miss Marie around and Miss Marie said, ‘Yes, Isobel,’ and did as she was told. Sometimes Miss Marie called Miss Isobel ‘Izzy’ when no one else was around, which surprised Annie.

Miss Isobel had high expectations indeed. Miss Marie explained the best way to use the lemon oil to polish the furniture, and how to use the soft cloth to wipe the oil off and buff the wood to a high gloss. She explained how to wind the clocks every three days, and which vases Miss Carlisle liked to use for which flowers. Marie taught Annie the proper way to set out the towels in the bathroom, how to make a bed, and how to tidy the bedrooms and close the curtains at night. Mr Carlisle liked a carafe of cold water in the morning, while Miss Isobel liked hers at night. The house ran like a well-tuned engine, and it was Annie’s job to see that things went as smoothly as possible, especially on the rare occasions when Mr Carlisle was home.

Mrs Carlisle was a mystery to Annie. She smiled at Annie and spoke to her as though she were a friend rather than a servant. Only yesterday she offered to get Annie a cup of tea. Miss Marie was kind and gentle-natured, but Annie liked Mrs Carlisle the best. Mr Blackwell, a distant cousin with a tragic past, also lived in the house. Blackie was a sad old soul who had seen better days. He drank too much and often snuck Mr Carlisle’s good brandy of a morning, pouring it right into his tea when no one was looking. Annie had the impression he was scared to death of something or someone, but she was too busy to wonder what or who frightened him so. Annie didn’t see much of Mrs Carlisle or Mr Blackwell. The bulk of her work catered to the cares and demands of Miss Isobel Carlisle.

Annie had been nervous at first, afraid that some strange set of circumstances would allow her mother to find her. She scrubbed the front steps and polished the brass kick plate on the front door of the Carlisle home with one eye trained towards the square and the pavement, half expecting her mother and stepfather to come stomping up, demanding that she return home at once.

She didn’t want to think of the scene that would follow. Harold Green would act righteous and assert his influence as Annie’s stepfather, while her mother would nod in the background, afraid to disagree with the new husband who offered her financial security. They would insist Annie return home. A well-bred lady such as Miss Isobel Carlisle would have no choice but to give way to Annie’s parents. The thought of it brought Annie to her knees with fear.

But the days went by and Annie’s mother never appeared. As Annie settled in, her worries started to slip away. She took to her new job. She liked being busy. She polished and scrubbed and scoured and served until she fell into her tiny bed at night, exhausted from her efforts. She slaved her days away to forget the life she left behind, a happy life with her mum and dad and their lovely house.

After the first week, Miss Marie was so pleased with her work that she wrote up a list for Annie in the morning and left her to work on her own. Annie liked the idea that Miss Marie trusted her enough to let her work unsupervised. She did the tasks that she was assigned, and did other chores without being told to do so. Annie carried out her tasks while remaining appropriately in the background, unseen and unheard. None of this effort was lost on Miss Isobel or Miss Marie, who gave Annie a rise in salary after her third day.

By the end of her first week, the worry that her mother and Harold Green would find her started to fade. Annie’s mind was now free to notice things. And notice she did. With the artistic talent that had shown itself when Annie was a young child, she noticed the sunlight coming through the window in the entry hall, and the way the beams lit up the cut crystal vase that held the elaborate spray of roses. She noticed the long, dark shadows in Mr Carlisle’s office as she dusted, and the way the darkening shadows brought out the jewel tones in the thick rug that covered the floor.

She noticed the relationships between the members of the household. Miss Isobel bossed everyone around. She was especially bossy to Mrs Carlisle, who seemed to ignore Miss Isobel as though she weren’t there. Annie learned quickly to run the other way when it looked like the two women would meet.

On this particular day, Annie finished washing and putting up the breakfast dishes by eight a.m. She packed the wooden box that was kept in the cellar with a fresh bottle of lemon oil and a bundle of clean rags. She intended on polishing the wooden surfaces in Mr Carlisle’s office while he was at work. Annie opened the door and stepped into the room, surprised to find a camera in pieces along with a glass of brandy on Mr Carlisle’s desk.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, Annie,’ Mr Blackwell – who was down on his hands and knees, out of sight, behind Mr Carlisle’s desk – struggled to his feet. ‘I’ve dropped a tiny screw to my camera.’ He nodded to the camera that lay on the table with the back removed. Three tiny screws rested on Mr Carlisle’s desk.

‘Do you want me to help you look?’ Annie wondered if she should come back later.

‘No, no,’ Blackie said. ‘It’ll turn up. I can get a replacement at the shop. Carry on.’ He downed the last of the brandy, packed up his camera, and let himself out of the office.

Once Blackie left, Annie got busy. She worked for a good thirty minutes, dusting the wooden surfaces before she added a bit of lemon oil and polished until they gleamed. She was down on her knees, dusting the base of a side table when she found the tiny screw. She tucked it in her pocket, and moved on with her work. It wasn’t until she got to the sideboard behind Mr Carlisle’s desk that she noticed one of the drawers was left open. She pushed it shut and didn’t think any more about it.

Pleased with a job well done, Annie returned the box of cleaning supplies to the cellar and removed the apron that now smelled of lemon oil. She made her way upstairs, moving through the house with a deliberate soft-footed silence. She met Marie on the upstairs landing.

‘I’ve put a treat on your bed, Annie. You’ve been working so hard,’ Marie said. ‘You can take a few hours for yourself. I’ll call when we need to get started in the kitchen.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

Annie hurried to her room. On her bed lay a sketchpad and a box of pencils. She delighted in it, and spent the afternoon curled up on her tiny bed, sketching the trees outside, secure in the knowledge that things would be okay.