Mary hastily threw the broom around thefloor, dusted only the areas which were visible and restocked the fire withoutfirst emptying or cleaning the grate. Quietly, she pulled open the doorand crept along the corridor to Edward’s bedroom. From the second bedroomshe could hear Clara softly singing to herself. Mary cautiously tuggedopen the bedroom door, as if she were unsure of what might lie behind it. However, Edward’s room was nigh on identical to all the other servants’bedrooms. Angular shafts of sunlight streamed in through the smallwindow, situated between two single beds. Mary looked at them, wonderingwhich one belonged to him. She spotted some postcards and pictures to thesides of both beds. Carefully casting her eyes over the images, Mary soonidentified which bed belonged to Edward. Dominating the pictures ofvarious female music hall stars, was a photograph taken at Caroline’s weddingof Mary, Edie and Caroline standing outside St Thomas’s, shortly after theceremony had taken place; it was one of her favourite photographs of the threeof them and was widely distributed among the family after the wedding. Mary looked long and hard at the picture, tracing her finger over the sepiaoutline of Edie’s face, wondering when her twin might forgive her. If shemight forgive her.
Mary sighed and slowly lowered her face tothe indentation in the pillow left by Edward’s head. She inhaled,gradually drawing Edward’s scent through her nose and into her waitinglungs. The same stirring feeling that she had felt yesterday reappearedin her stomach.
Though she knew that she shouldn’t, shecarefully opened his bedside table. Without disturbing the contents, shecould see a stack of letters. Mary recognised the handwriting:Edie’s. It appeared from the quantity of letters that she had taken quitea fancy to Edward a long time ago. Did Edie have a similar stack fromhim in her bedside table? Mary wondered. Edie had certainly been moreguarded and private in recent months. Was Edward the source of herdistraction?
The definite sound of a bedroom doorclosing to the adjoining room sent Mary to her feet, pulling and pushing thebroom back and forth rhythmically.
Edward’s door opened and Clara stood withan impressed smile on her face. ‘See, you’re getting the measure of italright. Keep going. Just another three to go before lunch.’
Mary half-heartedly smiled back andreturned to her haphazard sweeping.
By the time the girls had returned totheir specific places at the table in the servants’ hall at one o’clock, Marywas worn out. She looked at every individual seated on the opposite sideto her: not one of them looked as tired out as she felt. Even trying toconverse with Joan or Clara was nigh on impossible. She wasstruggling. Her eyes inadvertently locked onto Edward’s and he smiledreassuringly, as if he could sense her dispiritedness. She wondered ifshe had imagined that the moment yesterday was anything more than friendliness.
Something lightly touched Mary on theshoulder and she turned to see the disdainful face of Mr Risler. ‘How areyou getting on, my love?’ he asked, his dark brown eyes searching her facehungrily.
Mary nodded. ‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Good, good. You can always come toMr Risler if ever you need any help with anything—day or night,’ he said,placing a subtle emphasis and intonation on the word night. Hegave Mary’s shoulder a squeeze, probing his long bony fingers into her fleshbefore moving back to his chair at the head of the table.
For a good while after Mr Risler hadreturned to his chair, the spot of skin where he had touched on her shoulderwas crawling with repugnance. Unable to look up or talk, Mary was unwillingto eat much of the chicken, carrots and potatoes in front of her and spent muchof the mealtime moving them around the plate and piling them in such a fashionas to appear more had been eaten. She sipped her beer and prayed thatlunch would soon come to an end. Finally, it did.
‘Now what?’ Mary asked Clara, as they madetheir way from the servants’ hall.
‘Now we check all the fires are burningnicely, restock or relight as required and stock up candles ready fortonight. Then, from three until five we do needlework in the servants’hall.’
Having checked that each fire was lit andrestocked all the candles, Mary and Clara joined Eliza in the empty servants’hall at three o’clock sharp. On the table, Mrs Cuff had placed a mountainof linen, livery and clothing in need of repair. Mary’s heart sank; shehated needlework. She was useless at it and at home, it was always Edieor their mother who attended to the household haberdashery. Ediedelighted in their mother’s oft-repeated tale of how she had never met a girlincapable of sewing a hem until Mary had first tried a running stitch. ‘Practice makes perfect,’ her mother would say, night after night, as the threeof them attempted to repair torn clothing by candlelight in the sitting-room. In Mary’s case, practice did not make perfect. Practice made Mary despiseeven holding a needle and thread.
‘Are we supposed to get all of that donetoday?’ Mary asked incredulously.
‘As much of it as we can, yes. There’ll be another stack there tomorrow—equally as large,’ Eliza said,reaching for the first garment.
Mary took a white apron from the pile and,copying Eliza and Clara, ran it carefully through her fingers to identify therepair required.
‘Are we not allowed to talk while wework?’ Mary whispered after several minutes’ silence.
Eliza shook her head. ‘We mightbecome distracted from our duties.’
And so Mary worked with the two girls innear-silence for two, torturous hours. To Mary, a thousand minutes mighthave passed in those two hours. At ten minutes to five, Mrs Cuff enteredthe servants’ hall and began to inspect the neat pile of completed repairswhilst the girls stood, arms folded behind their backs, and watchedexpectantly. Only minor nods of the head gave Mary any indication of herapproval or otherwise. She picked up the white apron which Mary hadstarted with
