“What was Mr. Robert like? The others must have talked.”
Mary’s brow puckered in thought. “Well, Dulcie said ’e was very partic’lar, never untidy like, an’ always polite— least, as polite as Quality ever is. But then old Mr. York is always polite, too, although ’e’s terrible untidy. Leaves ’is things all over the place, and forgets summink awful! I know ’e was out a lot. James as was footman then, ’e was always sayin’ Mr. Robert was out again, but that was Mr. Robert’s job. ’E was summink very important in the Foreign Service.”
“What happened to James?”
“Mrs. York got rid of ’im. Said as since Mr. Robert was dead there wasn’t no need. Sent ’im off the very next day, she did, on account of Lord somebody-or-other was lookin’ for a valet, and she spoke for ’im.”
“Mrs. Loretta?”
“Oh yes o’ course. Poor Miss Veronica weren’t in no state to do anything. Terrible grieved, she were; in an awful state, poor soul. Mr. Robert were ’er ’ole world. Adored ’im, she did. Not that Mrs. Loretta weren’t terrible upset, too, o’ course. White as a ghost, Dulcie said.” Mary leaned so close her hair tickled Emily’s cheek. “Dulcie told the she ’eard ’er crying summink wicked in the night, but she didn’t dare go in, ’cause she couldn’t do nuffink! People ’as to cry; it’s natural.”
“Of course it is.” Suddenly Emily felt like an intruder. What on earth was she doing here in some unfortunate woman’s house, deceiving everyone, pretending to be a maid? No wonder Pitt was furious! He probably despised her as well.
“Come on,” Mrs. Melrose interrupted briskly, breaking her train of thought. “Drink up your tea, Amelia. Mary’s got work to do, even if you ’aven’t! An’ I’d watch your tongue, if I were you, my girl. Don’t do to be too smart! Edith’s a lazy baggage, an’ you got away with it this time—but you made enemies! Now drink that up an’ get along with you!”
It was excellent advice and Emily thanked her for it meekly and obeyed with an alacrity that surprised them both.
The next two days were uncomfortable. Edith was nursing a resentment which she did not dare exercise, but it was the bitterer for that, and Emily knew she was only biding her time. Mrs. Crawford felt she had somehow been bested, and constantly found tiny faults with Emily, which provoked Redditch into criticizing the housekeeper until everyone was on edge. The laundry room became her only sanctuary, since once again Edith had contrived to get out of the ironing. She had bruised her wrist and the flatiron was too heavy for her. Mrs. Crawford let her get away with that, but she could not overrule Redditch on the matter of dinner, and two delicious midday meals went by without Edith’s presence. Mrs. Melrose seemed to have made a special effort. As was customary, the servants shared the fine wine in the family cellars. In the evening, after supper, they drank hot cocoa and played games in which Edith did not join.
Emily’s only immediate problem was how to fend off Redditch’s friendship without hurting his feelings and thus forfeiting his protection. She had never had to be so diplomatic in her life, and it was a considerable strain. She sought refuge in unnaturally diligent attendance upon Veronica. That was how she came to be in the boudoir in the middle of the afternoon when Nora announced that a Mr. Radley had called, and would Miss Veronica see him?
Emily suddenly felt flushed; the book she had been reading aloud slid off her lap onto the floor. All this had begun as an adventure, but she was not sure she wanted Jack to actually see her as a maid. Her hair was back in a style far less flattering than usual, and there was no color in her face—as a servant it was not allowed unless it was natural, of course—and because she was inside all the time, sleeping in that cold bed, up too early, there were shadows under her eyes, and she was sure she was thinner. Perhaps she did look like a tuppenny rabbit! Veronica was thin, but in her gorgeous clothes she merely looked delicate, not bloodless.
“Oh, yes please,” Veronica said with a smile. “How nice of him to call. Is Miss Barnaby with him, too?”
“No ma’am. Shall I bring him in here?” Nora glanced quickly at Emily, implying that she should leave.
“Yes, do. And have Mrs. Melrose prepare some tea and sandwiches, and cakes.”
“Yes ma’am,” Nora turned on her heel and went out, her skirts swishing round the door before she closed it. In her opinion lady’s maids had no business being where they could meet gentlemen callers. That was a parlormaid’s privilege.
Jack came in a moment later, smiling easily, graceful and full of life. He did not even glance at Emily, but his face lit with pleasure when he saw Veronica, and she held out her hand to him. Emily felt a shock of rejection, almost as if she had been slapped. It was idiotic. Had he spoken to her it would have spoilt everything, and she would have been angry with him. And yet she felt crushed inside because he had carried out his part perfectly. He had treated her like a servant, not a woman at all.
“How kind of you to see me,” he said warmly, as if it was more than just a social ritual. “I should have sent my card, but it was a spur-of-the-moment call. How are you? I heard you had a misfortune in the house. I do hope you are beginning to recover?”
Veronica clung to his hand. “Oh Jack, it really was dreadful. Poor Dulcie fell out of the window, and she was crushed on the stone beneath. I can’t think how it happened. No one saw anything!”
Jack! She had called him by his Christian name so naturally that it must be how she thought of him, even after all this time. Why had she not married him when they knew each other before? Money? Her parents? They might well have refused someone like Jack, who had no prospects. They had picked Robert York instead, an only son who had both money and ambition. But would she have preferred Jack? And infinitely more important, would he have preferred her?
They were talking as if Emily were not there; she could have been another cushion on the chair. Veronica was looking up at Jack, her cheeks flushed, looking happier than Emily had ever seen her. The light shone on that hair like black silk, and her eyes were wide. She was more than beautiful— there was individuality and passion in her face. Emily was caught in a turmoil of feelings that tightened her throat so she thought she might choke. As Amelia she liked Veronica, and pitied her because she realized she was desperately unhappy over something. It came to Emily with clarity, as she sat there like a fool watching Jack, that Veronica was wound up like an old-fashioned thumbscrew inside, hurting a little more each day. Was it still grief over Robert? Or was it fear? Was it because she knew something—or because she did not know, and her sense of uncertainty warped everything?
And at the same time, Emily was burningly jealous. And jealousy brought back the agony of watching George become infatuated with Sybilla, of knowing the man she loved preferred, in fact adored someone else. It was a pain like no other, and the fact that George had woken up from his affair before he died did not wash away her knowledge of what it was like to be rejected. There had been no time for the wound to heal fully.
