Emily was greatly relieved. “Oh thank you, ma’am.”
Veronica stood up and Emily helped her into the petticoats and then the gown, fastening it carefully. Veronica looked very striking indeed, but Emily was uncertain whether a compliment might be considered too familiar. She decided against it. After all, a maid’s opinion hardly mattered.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and almost before Veronica had said “Come in” it opened and Loretta York, elegant in lavender silk embroidered in black and silver, swished in, regarding Veronica up and down critically. She appeared not even to see Emily.
“You look pale. For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, my dear. We have a duty to do. The family deserves our best courtesy, as well as the guests. Your father-in-law will be expecting us. We do not wish him to think we crumble to pieces because of some domestic tragedy. He has enough to concern himself with. What happens at home is our affair, and we must protect him from any disturbances. A man has a right to a calm and well-ordered home.” She looked at Veronica’s hair carefully. “People do die. Death is the inevitable end of life, and you are not some tuppenny bourgeoise to fall into the vapors at the first affliction. Now pinch a little color into your face and come downstairs.”
Veronica’s body stiffened, the blue silk tightening as the line of her jaw hardened into a sharp angle.
“I have quite as much color as usual, Mother-in-law. I do not wish to look as if I have a fever.”
Loretta’s face froze. “I am thinking of your welfare, Veronica,” she said icily. “I always have your good in mind, which you will realize if you think back.” The words were reasonable, even kind, but her voice cut like a knife.
Veronica grew paler, and she spoke with difficulty. “I am aware of that, Mother-in-law.”
Emily was transfixed. The emotion was so strong she could feel it prickling her skin. And yet the issue was so slight!
“Sometimes I wonder if it slips your mind.” Loretta did not alter her fixed gaze. “I want your future happiness and security, my dear. Don’t ever forget that.”
Veronica swiveled, her throat jerking with the effort. “I never, never forget what you do for me,” she whispered.
“I will always be here, my dear,” Loretta promised—or, in the hot motionlessness of this room, was this a veiled threat? “Always.” Then, as Emily’s paralyzed figure caught the corner of her vision, “What are you staring at, girl?” she asked. Her voice stung like a sudden slap. “Be about your business!”
Emily leapt to attention and the dressing robe slid from her hands to the floor. She bent and picked it up clumsily, fingers stiff. “Yes ma’am!” She almost ran from the room, her face burning with frustration and embarrassment for having been caught eavesdropping. The words had been so ordinary, any mother and daughter- in-law might have exchanged them, but there had been no lightness or ease in the air; it was charged with multiple layers of meaning. And Emily felt with a crawling electricity under her skin that beneath it all was an immense hatred.
Emily took her first meal in Hanover Close in the servants’ hall, at a large table presided over by Redditch, the butler. He was in his mid-forties and just a trifle pompous, but his face had such an inoffensive air of slight surprise about it that she could not dislike him.
It was late by the time the meal had been served in the dining room, found satisfactory, and cleared away. The scullery was filled with dirty dishes. At the foot of the table sat the cook, who was still solicitous, since Emily was a newcomer, but there was no doubt that motherly concern would be quickly replaced by motherly discipline should Emily speak out of turn or fall short in her duty. Mrs. Crawford, the housekeeper, was dressed in black bombazine with an immaculate lace-trimmed cap, more elaborate than the one she had worn previously. She was very much on her dignity. She obviously considered herself the mistress in any other part of the house and only tolerated the cook’s supremacy here because Mrs. Melrose was so immediately concerned with preparing the meal. Throughout the conversation Mrs. Crawford made sharp little remarks, reminders of rank.
Edith, the other lady’s maid, apparently felt recovered enough to come to the table. She was in her mid-thirties, plump and sullen, her black hair still shiny but her country complexion dulled with two decades of London fog and soot and too little air. Whatever her indisposition, and although she seemed ill pleased with the food, she managed to eat all of it and came back for second helpings of the bread, cheese, and pickles, which was all there was offered, the main meal having been eaten at luncheon. Emily had the strong suspicion that Edith was more lazy than unwell, and she determined to find out why the disciplinarian Mrs. York tolerated her.
She spent what was left of the evening in the servants hall, listening to scraps of conversation and learning all she could, which was little enough, because they spoke mainly of their own affairs, domestic matters, the tradesmen and their shortcomings, and the general decline of the national character as exhibited by other people’s servants and the standards of households in general.
Edith sat next to the fire and sewed a chemise, and the mystery of her employment was solved—she was an exquisite needlewoman. Idle and ungracious she might be, but there was genius in her fingers. Her needle flashed in and out, drawing the gleaming silk behind it, and flowers took shape under her hand, delicate as gossamer and perfectly proportioned. Emily glanced at her work and saw the reverse was almost indistinguishable from the top. She realized that she might well be expected to pull Edith’s weight in fetching and carrying, and she would have to do it without complaint, or she would be replaced. Girls who would run errands were two a penny since the coming of machinery and the consequent disappearance of hundreds of home crafts; the traditional occupations for women no longer existed. Tens of thousands of them poured in from the country to take domestic service, most of them with nothing to offer but willingness and the need to survive. Girls who could stitch like Edith were worth their weight in gold. It was a lesson to be remembered.
Fanny, the tweeny, who was only twelve, was sent to bed at half past nine so she could be up at five to clean out the grates and polish the brasses. She went with a halfhearted complaint, made more from habit than any hope she would be reprieved, and Prim, the scullery maid, followed fifteen minutes later, for similar reasons, and with a similar complaint.
“On with you!” the housekeeper said sharply. “Quick sticks! Up them stairs, girl, or you’ll be late in the morning.”
“Yes, Mrs. Crawford. G’night. G’night, Mr. Redditch.”
“Good night,” came the automatic reply.
“I know there is a big dinner party tomorrow—will there be many guests?” Emily asked as casually as she could.
