latest from Paris: a gift from Teddy. Silver satin with fine ribbon straps. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not those. I’ll wear the black.’
‘But ma’am, these are your favourites.’
‘The black are more comfortable,’ she said, leaning forward to pull her stockings on.
‘But with your dress, it’s a shame-’
‘I said black, for God’s sake; don’t make me say it again, Grace.’
I drew breath. Returned the silver and found the black.
Hannah apologised immediately. ‘I’m nervous. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right, ma’am,’ I said. ‘Natural to be excited.’
I unrolled the curlers and her hair sat in blonde waves around her shoulders. I parted it on the side and brushed it across her forehead, catching the hair with a diamond clasp.
Hannah leaned forward to attach pearl drop earrings, winced then cursed as she caught her fingertip in the clip.
‘You’re rushing, ma’am,’ I said gently. ‘You must go carefully with those.’
She handed them to me. ‘I’m all thumbs today.’
I was draping ropes of pale pearls around her neck when the evening’s first car arrived, crunching the gravel on the driveway below. I straightened the pearls so they fell between her shoulderblades, rested in the small of her back.
‘There now,’ I said. ‘You’re ready.’
‘I hope so, Grace.’ She raised her eyebrows, scanned her reflection. ‘Hope there’s nothing I’ve overlooked.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so, ma’am.’
She used her fingertips to brush rapidly the edges of her brows, stroking them into line. She straightened one of her pearl strands, lowered it a little, raised it again, exhaled noisily.
Suddenly, the squeal of a clarinet.
Hannah gasped, clapped a hand to her chest. ‘My!’
‘Must be exciting, ma’am,’ I said cautiously. ‘All your plans finally coming to fruition.’
Her eyes met mine sharply. She seemed as if about to speak, yet she didn’t. She pressed her red-stained lips together. ‘I have something for you, Grace. A gift.’
I was perplexed. ‘It’s not my birthday, ma’am.’
She smiled, quickly pulled open the small drawer of her dressing table. She turned back to me, fingers closed. She held it by the chain high above my hand, let it collapse into my palm.
‘But, ma’am,’ I said. ‘It’s your locket.’
‘Was. Was my locket. Now it’s yours.’
I couldn’t return it fast enough. Unexpected gifts made me nervous. ‘Oh no, ma’am. No thank you.’
She pushed my hand away firmly. ‘I insist. To say thank you for all you’ve done for me.’
Did I detect the note of finality even then?
‘I only do my duty, ma’am,’ I said quickly.
‘Take the locket, Grace,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Before I could argue further, Teddy was at the door. Tall and slick in his black suit; comb marks channelling his oiled hair, nerves furrowing his broad brow.
I closed my hand around the locket.
‘Ready?’ he said to Hannah, fretting with his moustache ends. ‘That friend of Deborah’s is downstairs, Cecil what’s-his-name, the photographer. He wants to take family shots before too many guests arrive.’ He knocked the doorframe twice with his open palm and continued down the hall saying, ‘Where on earth is Emmeline?’
Hannah smoothed her dress over her waist. I noticed her hands were shaking. She smiled anxiously. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck, ma’am.’
She surprised me then, coming to me, kissing my cheek. ‘And good luck to you, Grace.’
She squeezed my hands and hurried after Teddy, leaving me holding the locket.
I watched for a while from the upstairs window. Gentlemen and ladies-in green, yellow, pink-arriving on the terrace, sweeping down the stone stairs onto the lawn. Jazz music floating on the air; Chinese lanterns flickering in the breeze; Mr Hamilton’s hired waiters balancing huge silver trays of sparkling champagne flutes on raised hands, weaving through the growing crowds; Emmeline, shimmering in pink, leading a laughing fellow to the dance floor to perform the shimmy-shake.
I turned the locket over and over in my hands, glanced at it every so often. Did I notice then the faint rattle from within? Or was I too preoccupied, wondering at Hannah’s nerves? I hadn’t seen her that way for a long time, not since the early days in London, after she saw the spiritualist.
‘There you are.’ Myra was at the door, cheeks flushed, out of breath. ‘One of Mrs Townsend’s women has collapsed with exhaustion and there’s no one to dust the strudels.’
It was midnight before I finally climbed the stairs to bed. The party was still raging on the terrace below, but Mrs Townsend had sent me away as soon as she could spare me. It seemed Hannah’s twitchiness was contagious, and a busy kitchen was no place for fumbling.
I climbed the stairs slowly, feet throbbing: years as a lady’s maid had caused them to soften. An evening in the kitchen was all it took to blister. Mrs Townsend had given me a little parcel of bicarbonate soda and I intended to soak them in a warm bath.
There was no escaping the music that night: it permeated the air, impregnating the stone walls of the house. It had grown more raucous as the evening wore on, matching the spirits of the party-goers. I could feel the frenzied drumbeat in my stomach even as I reached the attic. To this day, jazz turns my blood to ice.
At the top landing I considered going straight to set the bath running but decided to fetch my nightgown and toiletries first.
A pool of the day’s hot air hit my face when I opened my bedroom door. I pulled the electric switch and hobbled to the window, swinging the sash open.
I stood for a moment, savouring the burst of cool, breathing its faint aroma of cigarette smoke and perfume. I exhaled slowly. Time for a long, warm bath, then the sleep of the dead. I collected my soap from the dressing table beside me then limped toward the bed for my nightgown.
It was then I saw the letters. Two of them. Propped against my pillow.
One addressed to me; one with Emmeline’s name on front.
The handwriting was Hannah’s.
I had a presentiment then. A rare moment of unconscious clarity.
I knew instantly that the answer to her odd behaviour lay within.
I dropped my nightgown and picked up the envelope marked
It was written in shorthand.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the piece of paper, as if, through sheer force of will, its message would become clear.
