Mother recovered somewhat, managed a thin smile. ‘She’s mistaken then, this Myra of yours. Frederick wouldn’t marry again. Not after Penelope.’
‘Myra doesn’t make mistakes.’
Mother crossed her arms. ‘On this, she’s wrong.’
Her certainty grated me, as if she would know better than I the goings on up at the house. ‘Even Mrs Townsend agrees,’ I said. ‘She says Lady Violet approves the match and that, though Mr Frederick mightn’t appear to mind what his mother says, he’s never gone against her when it counted.’
‘No,’ said Mother, her smile flickering then fading. ‘No, I don’t suppose he has.’ She turned to stare through the open window. The grey-stone wall of the house next door. ‘I never thought he would remarry.’
Her voice had lost all resolution and I felt badly. Ashamed of my desire to put her in her place. Mother had been fond of this Penelope, of Hannah and Emmeline’s mother. She must’ve been. What else explained her reluctance to see Mr Frederick replace his late wife? Her dejection when I insisted it was true? I put my hand on hers. ‘You’re right, Mother. I was speaking out of turn. We don’t know anything for sure.’
She didn’t answer.
I leaned close. ‘And certainly there’s none could accuse Mr Frederick of genuine feeling for Fanny. He looks more lovingly at his riding crop.’
My joke was an attempt to cajole her, and I was pleased when she turned to face me. I was surprised, too, for in that moment, as the afternoon sunlight brushed her cheek and teased green from her brown eyes, Mother almost looked pretty. It was a term I’d never thought would suit her. Clean and neat, perhaps, but never pretty.
I thought of Hannah’s words, her talk of Mother’s photograph, and I was even more resolved to see it for myself. To glimpse the type of person Mother might have been. The girl Hannah called pretty and Mrs Townsend remembered so fondly.
‘He was always a great one for riding,’ she said, setting her teacup on the window ledge. She surprised me then, took my hand between hers and rubbed at the chapped patches on my palm. ‘Tell me about your new duties. Looks of these, they’ve been keeping you awful busy up there.’
‘It’s not so bad,’ I said, moved by her rare affection. ‘There’s not much to recommend the cleaning and the laundering, but there’s other duties I don’t mind so much.’
‘Oh?’ She inclined her head.
‘Myra’s been so busy at the station that I’ve been doing a lot more of the upstairs work.’
‘You like that do you, my girl?’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Being upstairs in the grand house?’
I nodded.
‘And what do you like about it?’
Being amongst fine rooms with delicate porcelains and paintings and tapestries. Listening to Hannah and Emmeline joke and tease and dream. I remembered Mother’s earlier sentiment and suddenly knew a way to please her. ‘It makes me happy,’ I said. And I confessed something then that I hadn’t even owned myself. ‘One day I hope to become a proper lady’s maid.’
She looked at me, the tremors of a frown plucking at her brow. ‘There’s future enough as a lady’s maid, my girl,’ she said, voice strained thin. ‘But happiness… happiness grows at our own firesides,’ she said. ‘It is not to be picked in strangers’ gardens.’
I was still turning Mother’s comment over as I walked home to Riverton late that afternoon. She was telling me not to forget my place, of course; I’d received that lecture more than once before. She wanted me to remember that my happiness would only be found in the coals of the servants’ hall fireplace, not in the delicate pearls of a lady’s boudoir. But the Hartfords were not strangers. And if I took some happiness from working near them, listening to their conversations, minding their beautiful dresses, then what harm was there in that?
It struck me then that she was jealous. She envied me my place at the grand house. Clearly she had cared for Penelope, the girls’ mother, for what else could explain her reaction to my talk of Mr Frederick remarrying? And now, seeing me in the position she once enjoyed reminded her of the world she’d been forced to give away. And yet she hadn’t been forced, had she? Hannah said that Lady Violet had employed families before. And if Mother were jealous that I had taken her place, why had she been so insistent I go into service at Riverton?
I kicked angrily at a clump of dirt dislodged earlier by a horse’s hoof. It was impossible. I would never untangle the knots and secrets Mother had tied between us. And if she didn’t see fit to explain herself, offering only cryptic homilies about bad fortune and remembering one’s place, then how could I be expected to answer to her?
I exhaled deeply. I wouldn’t. Mother had left me little option but to make my own way and that was what I intended to do. And if that meant aspiring to climb another service rung, then so be it.
I emerged from the tree-lined drive, pausing for a moment to observe the house. The sun had shifted and Riverton was in shadow. A huge black beetle on the hill, hunkering down against the heat and its own sorrow. And yet, as I stood there, I was filled with a warm sense of certitude. For the first time in my life I felt solid; somewhere between the village and Riverton I had lost the sense that if I didn’t hold on tightly I would be blown away.
I entered the dark servants’ hall and headed down the dim corridor. My footsteps echoed on the cool stone floor. When I reached the kitchen, all was still. The lingering smell of beef stew clung to the walls, but there was no one else about. Behind me, in the dining room, the clock ticked loudly. I peered around the door. That room was also empty. One lone teacup sat on its saucer on the table, but its drinker was nowhere to be seen. I removed my hat, draped it over a hook on the wall and smoothed my skirt. I sighed and the noise lapped against the silent walls. I smiled slightly. I had never had the downstairs all to myself before.
I glanced at the clock. There was still a half-hour until I was expected back. I would have a cup of tea. The one at Mother’s house had left a bitter taste in my mouth.
The teapot on the kitchen bench was still warm, shrouded in its woollen cosy. I was laying out a teacup when Myra fairly flew around the corner, her eyes widening when she saw me.
‘It’s Jemima,’ she said. ‘The baby’s coming.’
‘But it’s not due till September,’ I said.
‘Well it doesn’t know that, does it,’ she said, throwing a small square towel at me. ‘Here, take that and a bowl of warm water upstairs. I can’t find any of the others, and someone has to call for the doctor.’
‘But I’m not in uniform-’
‘I don’t think mother or child is going to mind,’ said Myra, disappearing into Mr Hamilton’s pantry to use the telephone.
‘But what will I say?’ This I directed to the empty room, to myself, to the cloth in my hand. ‘What will I do?’
Myra’s head appeared around the door. ‘Well I don’t know, do I? You’ll think of something.’ She waved an arm in the air. ‘Just tell her everything’s all right. God willing, it will be.’
I draped the towel over my shoulder, filled a bowl with warm water, and started upstairs as Myra had said to. My hands were shaking a little and some of the water slopped over onto the corridor carpet runner leaving dark vermillion spots.
When I reached Jemima’s room I hesitated. From behind the solid door came a muffled groan. I took a deep breath, knocked and went inside.
The room was dark, with the exception of a single bold sliver where the curtains coyly parted. The ribbon of dusky light was flecked with listless dust. The four-poster maple bed was a shadowy mass in the centre of the room. Jemima lay very still, her breathing laboured.
I crept to the bed and crouched tentatively beside. I put the bowl on the
