But her feet kept going, and just as she was about to weigh up this lunatic decision in the last moment left, the back door opened. A scullery maid who looked to be about fourteen came out with a bowl full of peelings to throw in the waste bin.
“You be come fer poor Dulcie’s position?” she said cheerfully, eyeing Emily’s shabby coat and the box in her hand. “Come on in then, you’ll freeze out ’ere in the yard. Give yer a cup o’ tea afore yer see the mistress, make yer feel better. Yer look ’alf starved in the cold, yer do. ’Ere, give that there box ter Albert, ’e’ll carry it for yer, if yer staying.”
Emily was grateful, and terrified now that the decision to come had been made. She wanted to thank the girl, but her voice simply refused to obey. Mutely she followed the scullery maid up the steps into the back kitchen, past the vegetables, the hanging corpses of two chickens and a brace of game birds complete with feathers, and into the main kitchen. Her hands were numb in her cotton gloves and the sudden warmth engulfed her, bringing tears to her eyes and making her sniff after the stinging cold on the walk from the omnibus stop.
“Mrs. Melrose, this is someone applyin’ ter be the new lady’s maid, and she’s fair perished, poor thing.”
The cook, a narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped woman with a face like a cottage loaf, looked up from the pastry she was rolling and regarded Emily with businesslike sympathy.
“Well, come in, girl, put that box down in the corner. Out of the way! Don’t want folk falling over it. If you stay, we can ’ave it taken upstairs for you. What’s your name? Don’t stand there, girl! Cat got your tongue?” She dusted the flour off her bare arms, flipped the pastry the other way on the board, and began again with the rolling pin, still looking at Emily.
“Amelia Gibson, ma’am,” Emily said falteringly, realizing she did not know exactly how deferential a lady’s maid should be to a cook. It was something she had forgotten to ask.
“Some folk call lady’s maids by their surnames,” the cook remarked. “But we don’t in this ’ouse. Anyway, you’re too young for that. I’m Mrs. Melrose, the cook. That’s Prim, the scullery maid, as let you in, and Mary, the kitchen maid there.” She pointed with a floury finger at a girl in a stuff dress and mob cap who was whisking eggs in a bowl. “You’ll find out the rest of the ’ousehold if you need to know. Sit down at the table there and Mary’ll get you a cup o’ tea while we tell the mistress you’re ’ere. Get on with your work, Prim, you got no time to stand around, girl! Albert!” she called shrilly. “Where is that boy? Albert!”
A moment later a round-eyed youth of about fifteen appeared, his hair standing on end where it grew away from his forehead in a cowlick, a double crown at the back giving him a quiff like a cockatoo.
“Yes, Mrs. Melrose?” he said, swallowing quickly. He had obviously been eating on the sly.
The cook snorted. “Go up and tell Mr. Redditch as the new girl’s ’ere after Dulcie’s place. Go on wi’ you! And if I catch you in them cakes again I’ll take a broom to yer!”
“Yes, Mrs. Melrose,” he said, and disappeared with alacrity.
Emily accepted her cup of tea and sipped it, giving herself hiccups and then feeling ridiculous when Mary laughed at her and the cook scowled. She tried holding her breath and had only just conquered them when the trim, pretty parlormaid came to say that Mrs. York would see her in the boudoir. She led the way and Emily followed. All along the passage, past the butler’s pantry, through the green baize door and into the main house she kept rehearsing in her mind what she must say, how she must behave. Eyes candid but modest, speak only when spoken to, never interrupt, never contradict, never express an opinion. No one cared or wanted to know what maids thought, it was impertinence. Never ask anyone to do anything for you, do it yourself. Call the butler sir, or by his name. Address the housekeeper and the cook by name. And remember to speak with the right accent! Always be available, night or day. Never have headaches or stomachaches—you were there to do a job, and short of serious illness there were no excuses. The vapors were for ladies, not for servants.
Nora, the parlormaid, knocked on the door, opened it, and announced, “The girl to see you, ma’am, about being Miss Veronica’s maid.”
The boudoir was ivory and pink with touches of deeper rose, very feminine indeed. There was no time to look for character or quality now.
Mrs. Loretta York sat in an armchair. She was a small woman, a little plump around the shoulders, an inch or two thicker at the waist than she probably wished, but otherwise the beauty she had been in her youth was excellently preserved. Emily knew instantly that there was steel under the woman’s soft, white skin, and for all the lace handkerchiefs, the waft of perfume, and her thick, soft hair, there was nothing remotely vague in her wide eyes.
“Ma’am.” Emily bobbled a very small curtsy.
“Where do you come from, Amelia?” Loretta inquired.
Emily had already decided the safest thing would be to copy her own maid’s background—that way she would be certain not to contradict herself. “King’s Langley, ma’am, in Hertfordshire.”
“I see. What does your father do?”
“He’s a cooper, ma’am. Makes barrels and the like. My mam used to be a dairymaid for Lord Ashworth, as was the old gentleman, before he passed on.” She knew not to say
“And you have worked for Lady Ashworth and Lady Cumming-Gould. Do you have your references?”
“Yes ma’am.” She took them out of her reticule, fingers stiff with nervousness, and passed them over. She looked at the floor while Loretta first read them and then refolded them and passed them back. Both letters were written on crested paper, she had taken care to see to that.
“Well, these seem to be satisfactory,” Loretta observed. “Why did you leave Lady Ashworth’s service?”
She had thought of that. “My mam passed on,” she said, catching her breath and swallowing hard. Please heaven the hiccups did not return! It would be disastrous if Loretta thought she had been tippling at the cooking sherry. “I had to go back home to care for my younger sisters, until we could find places for them. And of course Lady Ashworth, being a lady of Society, had to find someone to take me place: but she said she’d speak well for me. And then Lady Cumming-Gould took me on.”
“I see.” The chill eyes regarded her unemotionally. It was odd to be looked at as if one were a property to be purchased or passed by, without regard to manners or feelings. It was not peculiar to Loretta York; anyone else would have been similar. And yet she would be employed to care for her on the most intimate terms, brush her hair,
