“Edith was busy with mending, and she’s not strong.” Mrs. Crawford gave Redditch a look of irritation which would have quelled anyone less than a butler. “You’ve no call to pick on her.”
“Edith is bone idle and wouldn’t be kept if she wasn’t the best seamstress in the city,” Redditch replied quickly, but his reproach was robbed of some of its bite by the slightly wary air with which he immediately followed it.
“I’ll thank you to attend to your own responsibilities, Mr. Redditch. The maidservants are mine and I’ll look after them my own way, which suits Mrs. York well enough.”
“Well, it doesn’t suit me, Mrs. Crawford, to see girls lowering themselves to make mock of each other, and if I hear it again someone’ll have their notice.”
“We’ll see who has their notice, Mr. Redditch,” Mrs. Crawford said darkly. “You mark my words, it’ll be them as can best be replaced.”
That seemed to be the end of the matter for the time being, but Emily, glancing at their faces, knew that battle lines had been drawn and the exchange would not be forgotten. She had made enemies of both Edith and Nora, and the housekeeper would be happy to catch her in any shortcoming from now on. If she wanted to survive, she would have to cultivate the butler’s regard till her position became a matter of his pride as well.
The afternoon was dreadful. Emily had superintended her own maid often enough and had imagined she knew her duties, but watching someone use a flatiron on lace ruffling was a very different thing from doing it oneself, and it was much more difficult than she had thought. The only good thing about it was that she did not scorch anything, so it was possible for Joan to rescue her, and the outcome was a debt to Joan. Emily had no break all afternoon, not even for a cup of tea, and finally rushed upstairs at half past five, exhausted, her head throbbing, back aching and feet pinched in the unfamiliar boots, barely in time to help Veronica change for the dinner party.
After receiving several callers for tea Veronica seemed tired also, and more nervous than Emily could understand. She was not the hostess; the responsibility for the dinner’s success rested with her mother-in-law, so all she had to do was be charming. Nevertheless she changed her mind three times about which gown to wear, was dissatisfied with her hair, and when Emily had taken it all down and put it back up again she still did not feel confident. She stood in front of the cheval glass and frowned at her reflection.
Emily was exhausted, her mind crowded with thoughts of how selfish this woman was. She had done nothing whatsoever all day except visit, eat, and chatter, while Emily had worked like a Trojan, missed afternoon tea, and been picked on and jeered at, and all Veronica could think of was to tell Emily to take her hair down yet again and do it a third time.
“It becomes you very well the first way, ma’am.” Emily only barely controlled the tone of her voice.
Veronica picked up the perfume bottle and it slipped through her fingers, splashing perfume down the front of her skirt.
Emily could have wept. Now the whole thing had to be changed—there was no possible alternative. And on top of that she did not know how to get rid of the stain and would have to ask Edith, who would crow over her ignorance, almost certainly letting Mrs. Crawford know about it, and probably the rest of the staff. She did not trust herself to speak. It was only when she was in the dressing room fetching a fourth gown that she realized that she herself often gave no more thought to her own maid’s feelings than Veronica was doing now.
Back in the bedroom with the fresh gown she saw Veronica sitting on the bed in her petticoats and chemise, her head low, her hair fallen forward. She looked very slight, her shoulders almost childlike, and painfully vulnerable. This was an acutely private moment. Did anyone else ever see her like this, without the glamor and the confidence? Emily wanted to put her arms round her, she looked so bitterly alone; she, too, understood widowhood in the shadow of murder. But she knew that would be impossible. There was a gulf between them, at least from Veronica’s side.
“Don’t you feel very well, ma’am?” she said gently. “I can get you a tisane, if you like? As lovely as you are, no one will mind if you are a minute or two late. Come down after the other ladies and cause a bit of a flutter!”
Veronica looked up, and Emily was surprised to see the gratitude in her face. She smiled faintly. “Thank you, Amelia. Yes, I would like a tisane. I can drink it while you’re doing my hair.”
It took five minutes for Emily to sort through the ingredients available and select a soothing camomile, and another three for the kettle to boil, after which she had to carry the herb tea back upstairs. She met Mrs. Crawford in the hall.
“What are you doing down here, Amelia?”
“An errand for Mrs. York,” Emily replied tartly, and whisking her skirts around the corner of the stairpost she went up without looking back. She heard Mrs. Crawford snort and the muttered words, “We’ll see about you, miss!” but she could not take time to worry over it now.
Veronica greeted her with pleasure, and sipped the tisane as if it were indeed a life restorer. She made no demur when Emily put her hair up as she had the first time and helped her on with the fourth gown, black taffeta stitched with beads. It was very dramatic, and on a less beautiful woman it would have been overwhelming.
“You look marvelous, ma’am,” Emily said sincerely. “There won’t be a man in the room has eyes for anyone else.”
Veronica blushed, the first color in her cheeks Emily had seen all day.
“Thank you, Amelia. Don’t flatter me or you’ll make me immodest.”
“A little confidence doesn’t do any harm.” Emily picked up the stained gown to take it away. She would have to attend to the stain immediately. Perhaps Joan would help her.
She had just got through the dressing room door and was turning to close it when she heard the bedroom door open and saw Loretta come in. She was wearing dove gray and silver and looked very feminine.
“Good gracious!” Her eyebrows rose when she saw Veronica. “Do you really think that’s suitable? It is most important you impress the French ambassador favorably, my dear, especially in front of the Danvers.”
Veronica drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Emily could see her hand clench in the folds of her skirt.
“Yes, I think it’s perfectly suitable,” she said unsteadily. “Mr. Garrard Danver is an admirer of elegant clothes; he does not care for the ordinary.”
Loretta’s face colored deeply, then the blood drained away. “As you wish.” Her voice was tight. “But I don’t know why you are so late. You came up in plenty of time. Is your new maid no good?”
