turned and shouted, ‘Say goodbye Izzy Batterfield, bonjour Mademoiselle Isabella!’ And with a final ripple of laughter, a theatrical flounce of her skirt, she was gone. Before I could respond. Explain that I was a lady’s maid. Not a housemaid at all.
I knocked on the door, still ajar. There was no answer and I took myself inside. It had the unmistakeable smell of silver polish (though not Stubbins & Co.) and potatoes, but there was something else, something underlying it, which, though not unpleasant, rendered everything unfamiliar.
The man was at the table, a skinny woman standing behind, hands draped over his shoulders, gnarled hands, skin red and torn around the fingernails. They turned to me as one. The woman had a large black mole beneath her left eye.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘I-’
‘Good, is it?’ said the man. ‘I’ve just lost my third housemaid in as many weeks. We’ve a party scheduled for two hours hence, Mrs Tibbit’s so behind she’s got a cow’s tail, and you want me to believe it’s a good afternoon?’
‘There now,’ said the woman, pursing her lips. ‘She was a tarty one, that Izzy. Career as a fortune teller, indeed. If she’s got the gift, I’m the Queen of Sheba. She’ll meet her end at the hands of an unhappy customer. You see if I’m wrong!’
There was something in the way she said it, a cruel smile that played about her lips, a glimmer of repressed glee in her voice, that made me shudder. I was overcome by a desire to turn and leave the way I’d come, but I remembered Mr Hamilton’s advice that I was to start as I meant to continue. I cleared my throat and said, with all the poise I could muster, ‘My name is Grace Reeves.’
They looked at me with shared confusion.
‘The Mistress’s lady’s maid?’
The woman drew herself to full height, narrowed her eyes and said, ‘The Mistress never mentioned a new lady’s maid.’
I was taken aback. ‘Did she not?’ I stammered despite myself. ‘I… I’m certain she wrote with instructions from Paris. I posted the letter myself.’
‘Paris?’ They looked at one another.
Then Mr Boyle seemed to remember something. He nodded several times quickly and shook the woman’s hands from his shoulders.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We were expecting you. I’m Mr Boyle, butler here at number seventeen, and this is Mrs Tibbit.’
I nodded, still confused. ‘Glad to make your acquaintances.’ Both continued to stare at me in a way that made me wonder if they were one as simple as the other. ‘I’m rather tired from the journey,’ I said, annunciating slowly. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to call a housemaid to show me to my room?’
Mrs Tibbit sniffed, so that the skin around her mole quivered then drew taut. ‘There are no more housemaids,’ she said. ‘Not yet. The Mistress… that is, Miss Deborah, hasn’t been able to find one as will stay put.’
‘Aye,’ Mr Boyle said, lips tight, white as his face. ‘And we’ve a party scheduled this evening. It’ll have to be all hands on deck. Miss Deborah won’t stand for imperfection.’
Miss Deborah? Who was Miss Deborah, and why did they continue to refer to her as mistress? I frowned. ‘
‘No,’ Mrs Tibbit said, ‘she wouldn’t, would she? It’s a surprise, to welcome Mr and Mrs Luxton home from their honeymoon. Miss Deborah’s been planning it for weeks.’
The party was in full swing by the time Teddy and Hannah’s car arrived. Mr Boyle had given instruction that I was to meet them at the door and show them to the ballroom. It would usually be the butler’s duty, he said, but Miss Deborah had given him orders that necessitated his presence elsewhere.
I opened the door and they stepped inside, Teddy beaming, Hannah weary, as might be expected after a visit with Simion and Estella. ‘I’d kill for a warm bath,’ she said.
‘Not so soon, darling,’ said Teddy. He handed me his coat and gave Hannah a rushed kiss on the cheek. She flinched slightly, as she always did. ‘I’ve a little surprise first,’ he said, hurrying away, smiling and rubbing his hands together. Hannah watched him go then lifted her gaze to take in the entrance hall: its freshly painted yellow walls, the rather ugly modern chandelier that hung above the stairs, the potted palm trees bent over beneath strings of fairy lights. ‘Grace,’ she said, eyebrow cocked, ‘what on earth is going on?’
I shrugged apologetically, was about to explain when Teddy reappeared and took her arm. ‘This way, darling,’ he said, steering her in the direction of the ballroom.
The door opened and Hannah’s eyes widened when she saw it was full of people she didn’t know. Then a burst of light, and as my gaze swept up toward the glowing chandelier I sensed movement on the staircase behind. There were appreciative gasps; halfway down the stairs stood a slim woman with dark hair curled about her tight, bony face. It was not a pretty face, but there was something striking about it; an illusion of beauty I would learn to recognise as a mark of the newly wealthy. She was tall and thin and standing in a way I had not yet seen: shoulders hunched forward so that her silk dress seemed almost to fall from her shoulders, drip down her curved spine. The posture was at once masterful and effortless, nonchalant and contrived. Draped across her arms was a pale fur I took at first for a warmer, until it yapped and I realised she held a tiny fluffy dog, as white as Mrs Townsend’s best apron.
I didn’t recognise the woman but I knew at once who she must be. She paused momentarily before gliding down the final stairs and across the floor, the sea of guests parting as if by choreography.
‘Dobby!’ Teddy said when she was near, a broad smile dimpling his easy, handsome face. He took her hands, leaned forward to kiss a proffered cheek.
The woman stretched her lips into a smile. ‘Welcome home, Tiddles.’ Her words were breezy, her New York accent flat and loud. She had a way of speaking that eschewed intonation. It was a leveller, making the ordinary seem extraordinary and vice versa. ‘I’ve had the place decorated, like you asked. Hope you don’t mind, but I invited some of London’s finest to help enjoy it.’ She waved her long fingers at a well- dressed woman whose eye she caught over Hannah’s shoulder.
‘Are you surprised, darling?’ Teddy said, turning to Hannah. ‘It was meant to be a surprise. Dobby and I cooked it up between us.’
‘Surprised,’ said Hannah, her eyes briefly finding mine. ‘That doesn’t begin to describe it.’
Deborah smiled, that wolfish smile, so particularly hers, and laid a hand on Hannah’s wrist. A long, pale hand that gave the impression of wax gone cold. ‘We meet at last,’ she said. ‘I just know we’re going to be the best of pals.’
Nineteen-twenty started badly; Teddy had lost the election. It was not his fault, the timing was wrong. The situation was misread, mishandled. It was the fault of the working classes and their nasty little newspaper presses. Filthy campaigns waged against their betters. They were trumped up after the war; they expected too much. They would become like the Irish if they were not careful, or the Russians. Never matter. There would be another opportunity; they’d find him a safer seat. This time next year, Simion promised, if he dropped the foolish ideas that confused conservative voters, Teddy would be in Parliament.
Estella thought Hannah should have a baby; it would be good for Teddy. Good for his constituents to see him as a family man. They were married, she was fond of saying, and sooner or later in every marriage there was the expectation of children.
Teddy went to work with his father. Everybody agreed it was for the best. After the election defeat, he had taken on the look of someone who’d survived a trauma, a shock; like Alfred used to look, back in the days straight after the war.
Men like Teddy were not used to losing but it wasn’t the Luxton way to mope; Teddy’s parents began spending a lot of time at number seventeen, where Simion told frequent stories about
