‘I said, it’s wonderful to welcome you to our household, Mrs Lancaster. Did you have a good journey? You must be tired.’
I realised I hadn’t responded, only stared at her like a wide-eyed goldfish.
‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Mrs Wiggs. The journey was… bearable, thank you. I’m not too tired, but thank you for asking. Thomas assures me we will be great friends. I very much hope so. He tells me you are indispensable.’
What can I say? I panicked. I went for flattery in the absence of authority. I could cringe at my babbling.
‘Of course, madam, if that’s what you wish.’
‘Are there any other servants I should meet?’ I asked. I was sure there had to be other members of staff – weren’t they meant to trot out and greet me in a line?
Thomas smiled a close-lipped smile I didn’t recognise and looked to Mrs Wiggs.
‘We have a cook and a scullery maid, Sarah,’ she said. ‘Also a gardener, and the odd charlady as and when. But, Mrs Lancaster, please, if you need anything, just come to me and I’ll take care of everything.’
‘See, Chapman, no need for you to think of a thing,’ said Thomas.
By this time he had unpeeled my fingers from his arm and found his place beside her, smiling like a portrait and looking about the house as if reorienting himself with its contents. It was as if the conversation we’d had in the cab had not happened and he was oblivious to my need for reassurance. Mrs Wiggs didn’t take her eyes off me.
I would learn that Mrs Wiggs had, like a nun, spent her life in servitude to the Lancasters and that she took her devotion quite as seriously. She had amber eyes with glints of orange and dull hair that bore remnants of when it had been fair, always scraped back into a bun. I could not tell how old she was – no grey around her temples, and her skin was smooth – but she must have been in her forties. Not that I dared ask. I was terrified of her. I was certain she could see right down into the pit of my stomach and would uncover everything I had kept secret. She had this petrifying stare, like an owl, big round eyes with heavy lids, and I was a mouse watched by this bird tethered only by loyalty to her master. Mrs Wiggs was always observing, taking notes and already forming hard opinions.
*
Those first days were polite but passionate. We danced around each other, and Mrs Wiggs watched from a comfortable distance. We played mummies and daddies in our own house, giggling at the grown-up absurdity of it all, lacking a blueprint for how to be a real man and wife. Then, as if the whole thing had been made of thin glass that was always destined to shatter, we had our first disagreement, if you can call it that. It all unravelled from there, I think. By this one misunderstanding, which I can only describe as an embarrassing encounter in the dark, we poisoned the bones of our marriage, and after that the whole beast had to be abandoned. Or that’s how it felt. It was probably poisoned before that point, but that was the starter pistol for its undoing.
We had been in the house less than a week. I was waiting for him to come home, staring at the clock, and rushed to greet him at the door. Mrs Wiggs followed close behind. We had dinner, as had already become usual, and moved upstairs. Our little habit of brandy and drops had continued away from Mrs Wiggs’ prying eyes. Thomas liked to relax after work and I joined him. Things developed as you might have expected them to between newlyweds, but then he tried to take them in a bizarre direction and I protested. I was confused, nothing more. I really wasn’t sure what he was after, but I hadn’t been trying to humiliate him. When I understood what he was asking me to do, I was horrified and said I didn’t want to. I told him it wasn’t natural, and this offended him. He asked me what I meant by that, and I said I hadn’t intended anything and was sorry, but he pushed me down on the bed, stood up, got dressed, and told me I was demanding and selfish and spoiled.
He stormed out of the bedroom and I paced around it, confused, embarrassed and worrying. I waited for him to come back. I was sure once his embarrassment had worn off he would return. Then I heard the slamming of the front door; it bounced on its hinges and shook the whole house.
He didn’t come back until the early hours. I know because I waited up and eventually gave up and went to bed around one. The front of the house creaked like old knees whenever the front door opened, and our bedroom was above it. It must have been around four: the sky was still inky, the streets quiet save for the odd cartman or flowergirl on their way to work. I lay waiting for him to come, but he never did. His footsteps passed the bedroom and he must have seen the candlelight from under the door and known I was awake, but he continued along the landing and up the small staircase to the attic. For a man who professed to crave me, he did a good job of not yielding to his addiction. It was my first week in our home.
3
At breakfast the next morning we ignored each other. I was waiting for him to ask me what the matter was, which of course he didn’t, which of course drove
