“Twenty,” Nora replied. “We don’t do very big parties here, but we have some important people.” She sounded a little defensive. She looked at Emily coldly, prepared to counter any slight, should it be offered.
“We used to ’ave more,” Mary said, looking up from the mending she was doing. “Afore Mr. Robert was killed.”
“That’ll do, Mary!” the cook said quickly. “We don’t want to talk o’ things like that. You’ll be givin’ them girls bad dreams again!”
Emily deliberately misunderstood. “I love parties. I love to see the ladies all dressed up.”
“Not parties!” the housekeeper said crossly. “Talking about death. You can’t be expected to know, Amelia, but Mr. Robert died terrible. I’ll caution you to hold your tongue about it. You go tattling all over the place and upsetting people and you’ll have no position in this house, and no character to take with you! Now you go upstairs and put out Miss Veronica’s things for the night an’ make sure you got your tray set for the morning. You can come down here again for cocoa at half past nine.”
Emily sat motionless, her temper rising. Her eyes met the housekeeper’s and she saw the start of surprise in them. Maids do not question their orders, least of all new maids. It was her first mistake.
“Yes, Mrs. Crawford,” she said demurely, her voice thick with anger, both at herself and at being subjected to discipline.
“Uppity, that girl,” Mrs. Crawford said as Emily was almost out of the door. “You mark my words, Mrs. Melrose: uppity! Can see it in her eyes and the way she walks. Got airs, that one. She’ll come to no good—I can always tell.”
Emily’s first night in Hanover Close was wretched. The bed was hard and the blankets thin. She was used to a fire, and a feather quilt, and thick velvet curtains over the windows. These curtains were plain cloth and she could hear the sleet lashing against the glass until sometime in the shivering darkness when it froze and turned to snow. Then there was silence, thick, strange, and penetratingly cold. She hunched up her knees but she could not get warm enough to sleep. Finally she got up, the air so bitter that the touch of her gown against her skin made her wince. She swung her arms sharply but was too tense to succeed in warming herself. Instead she put her towel on top of the bed, and then the mat from the floor over that, and climbed back in.
This time she slept, but it seemed only moments before there was a sharp rap on the door and the tweeny’s pale little face came round it.
“Time to get up, Miss Amelia.”
For a moment Emily could not think where on earth she was. It was cold and the room was stark. She saw iron bedposts and a heap of gray blankets and the floor mat over her. The curtains were still closed. Then with a rush of misery it all came back to her, the whole absurd situation she had got herself into.
Fanny was staring at her. “You cold, miss?”
“I’m freezing,” Emily admitted.
“I’ll tell Joan; she’ll find you another blanket. You’d better get up. It’s near seven o’clock, and you’ll ’ave ter get yerself ready, then make Miss Veronica’s tea and fetch it up, and draw ’er bath. She usually likes to be up by eight. An’ if nobody told yer, Edith’ll prob’ly sleep in an’ you’ll ’ave ter make Mrs. York’s tea, too, and draw ’er bath maybe.”
Emily threw the bedclothes off and plunged out, her body shaking. The floor without the mat was like dry ice. “Does Edith often skive off?” she asked with chattering teeth. She pulled open the curtains to let in the light.
“Oh yes,” Fanny answered matter-of-factly. “Dulcie always did ’alf ’er work, as I ’spec’ you will too, if you stay. It’s worf it. Anyway, if Miss Veronica likes you she’ll prob’ly take you wif ’er when she marries Mr. Danver, an’ then you’ll be all right.” She smiled and her eyes moved up to look at the gray sky through the window. “Maybe you’ll get ter meet someone real nice—’andsome, an’ kind—what ’as ’is own shop, maybe, and fall in love. ...” She let the thought hang in the air, beautiful and bright as a bubble, too precious to touch.
Emily felt tears prickling her eyes. She turned away, but she was too cold to stop dressing, nor was there time.
“Is Miss Veronica going to get married? How exciting. What’s he like, Mr. Danver? I expect he’s well-to- do?”
Fanny let the dream go and came back to reality. “Lor’ miss, I dunno! Nora says ’e is, but then she would! Got eyes for the gentlemen, she ’as. My ma used ter say all parlormaids ’as. Fancies theirselves rotten.”
“What was Mr. Robert like?” Emily put on her apron and reached for a brush to untangle her hair and pin it up.
“I dunno, miss. ’E died afore I come ’ere.”
Of course—she was only twelve, she would have been nine when Robert York was murdered. Stupid question.
Fanny was not to be deterred. “Mary says ’e was ever so good-looking, and a real gentleman. Never tried it on, like some gentlemen do, and lovely spoken. ’E liked nice rings, dressed a treat, but not showy like. In fac’ she says ’e was the best gentleman she ever saw. She thought the world of ’im. O’ course I fink she ’eard it all from the front servants like, ’er being scullery maid then. Devoted to Miss Veronica, ’e was; an’ she to ’im.” She sighed and looked down at her plain gray stuff dress. “Terrible sad, ’im bein’ killed like that. Fair broke ’er ’eart. She wept suffink wicked, poor soul. I reckon as ’ooever done it should be topped, but nobody never caught ’im.” She sniffed fiercely. “I’d like to find someone as’d love me like that,” she said, then sniffed again. She was a realist and half of her knew it would always be a fantasy, but it was precious. In the long day of practicalities, she needed to let go for a moment and permit the mind to take wing. Even the remotest chance was infinitely cherished.
Emily thought of George with a vividness she had learned to avoid for months now. A year ago her life had seemed so safe, and here she was, shaking with cold in an attic at seven in the morning, dressed in plain blue stuff and listening to a twelve-year-old tweeny pour out her dreams.
“Yes,” she said honestly, “it would be the best thing imaginable. But don’t run off with thinking that it only happens to ladies. Some of them cry themselves to sleep too; you don’t see all that happens. And some people you’d never think of can find happiness. Don’t give up, Fanny. You mustn’t give up.”
Fanny wiped her nose on a rag from her apron pocket. “You’re a caution, miss. Don’t let Mrs. Crawford ’ear you say that. She don’t approve o’ girls wif ideas. Says it’s bad for ’em: unsettles ’em, like. She says ’appiness comes
