Dulcie out of the window to her death.
Already she had learned more about the characters of the two women than she could have in a month of social visiting. It was Loretta, not Veronica, who slept in shell pink satin sheets with pillowcases embroidered in self-colored silks. Either Veronica was happy with linen, or she had not been offered anything else. It was Loretta who had the expensive oil of musk perfumes in crystal and Lalique bottles with silver filigree stoppers. Veronica was more beautiful by nature’s gift, with her slender height and grace and those haunting eyes; but it was Loretta who was the more elegantly feminine. She bothered with the details of care, the perfume in the handkerchief and in the petticoats to waft to the nostrils as she moved, or passed, the taffeta to rustle and whisper as she walked, the many pairs of boots and slippers to match every gown and be shown in a glimpse under her skirts. Had Veronica not thought of these things, or did their subtlety elude her? Was there some reason for this difference that Emily did not yet understand?
There was obviously a strong emotional bond between the two women, although its exact nature still eluded Emily. Loretta seemed protective, guarding the younger and seemingly weaker woman after the grief of her widowhood, yet at the same time her patience was thin and she was highly critical. And Veronica resented her mother-in-law while appearing to depend upon her a great deal.
When they changed for luncheon after the morning’s outing, Emily was busy taking care of wet coats and soiled skirts, humping them back and forth to be dried out, brushed off, sponged and pressed-and she had both to do since Edith was missing again. She overheard a sharp exchange as Veronica’s voice rose and Loretta’s remained calm and cold in what was seemingly a warning. Emily tried to overhear, but just as she was about to bend to the keyhole the upstairs maid came by and she was obliged to continue with her duties.
Luncheon in the servants hall was called dinner, and Emily was caught out in misnaming it and received a curious look from the cook.
“Think you’re upstairs, do you, my fine lady?” the housekeeper said tartly. “Well, there’ll be no giving yourself airs down here, and you’d best remember it! You’re just the same as the rest of the girls; in fact, you’re not as good until you prove yourself!”
“Oh, maybe some gentleman acquaintance of Miss Veronica’ll take a fancy to ’er an’ she’ll become a duchess!” Nora pulled a face. “ ’Ceptin’ you need to be a parlormaid to meet dukes, and you ’aven’t got the looks for it. You aren’t tall enough, for a start. An’ you ’aven’t got the colorin’ either. Peaked, you are!”
“I don’t suppose there are enough dukes to go around anyway,” Emily snapped back. “Since even parlormaids have to wait till all the ladies are suited!”
“Well, I’ve a sight more chance than you ’ave!” Nora retorted. “At least I know my job; I don’t ’ave to ’ave a tweeny show me ’ow to do it!”
“Duchess!” Edith giggled. “That’s a fine name for ’er. Walks with ’er ’ead in the air like she already got a tiara on an’ was afraid it might slip over ’er nose.” She made a mock curtsy. “Don’t wobble yer ’ead, Yer Grace!”
“That’s enough!” the butler said with a frown of disapproval. “She’s done most of your work this morning. You should be obliged to her! Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“Edith was busy with mending, and she’s not strong.” Mrs. Crawford gave Redditch a look of irritation which would have quelled anyone less than a butler. “You’ve no call to pick on her.”
“Edith is bone idle and wouldn’t be kept if she wasn’t the best seamstress in the city,” Redditch replied quickly, but his reproach was robbed of some of its bite by the slightly wary air with which he immediately followed it.
“I’ll thank you to attend to your own responsibilities, Mr. Redditch. The maidservants are mine and I’ll look after them my own way, which suits Mrs. York well enough.”
“Well, it doesn’t suit me, Mrs. Crawford, to see girls lowering themselves to make mock of each other, and if I hear it again someone’ll have their notice.”
“We’ll see who has their notice, Mr. Redditch,” Mrs. Crawford said darkly. “You mark my words, it’ll be them as can best be replaced.”
That seemed to be the end of the matter for the time being, but Emily, glancing at their faces, knew that battle lines had been drawn and the exchange would not be forgotten. She had made enemies of both Edith and Nora, and the housekeeper would be happy to catch her in any shortcoming from now on. If she wanted to survive, she would have to cultivate the butler’s regard till her position became a matter of his pride as well.
The afternoon was dreadful. Emily had superintended her own maid often enough and had imagined she knew her duties, but watching someone use a flatiron on lace ruffling was a very different thing from doing it oneself, and it was much more difficult than she had thought. The only good thing about it was that she did not scorch anything, so it was possible for Joan to rescue her, and the outcome was a debt to Joan. Emily had no break all afternoon, not even for a cup of tea, and finally rushed upstairs at half past five, exhausted, her head throbbing, back aching and feet pinched in the unfamiliar boots, barely in time to help Veronica change for the dinner party.
After receiving several callers for tea Veronica seemed tired also, and more nervous than Emily could understand. She was not the hostess; the responsibility for the dinner’s success rested with her mother-in-law, so all she had to do was be charming. Nevertheless she changed her mind three times about which gown to wear, was dissatisfied with her hair, and when Emily had taken it all down and put it back up again she still did not feel confident. She stood in front of the cheval glass and frowned at her reflection.
Emily was exhausted, her mind crowded with thoughts of how selfish this woman was. She had done nothing whatsoever all day except visit, eat, and chatter, while Emily had worked like a Trojan, missed afternoon tea, and been picked on and jeered at, and all Veronica could think of was to tell Emily to take her hair down yet again and do it a third time.
“It becomes you very well the first way, ma’am.” Emily only barely controlled the tone of her voice.
Veronica picked up the perfume bottle and it slipped through her fingers, splashing perfume down the front of her skirt.
Emily could have wept. Now the whole thing had to be changed-there was no possible alternative. And on top of that she did not know how to get rid of the stain and would have to ask Edith, who would crow over her ignorance, almost certainly letting Mrs. Crawford know about it, and probably the rest of the staff. She did not trust herself to speak. It was only when she was in the dressing room fetching a fourth gown that she realized that she herself often gave no more thought to her own maid’s feelings than Veronica was doing now.
Back in the bedroom with the fresh gown she saw Veronica sitting on the bed in her petticoats and chemise, her head low, her hair fallen forward. She looked very slight, her shoulders almost childlike, and painfully vulnerable. This was an acutely private moment. Did anyone else ever see her like this, without the glamor and the confidence? Emily wanted to put her arms round her, she looked so bitterly alone; she, too, understood widowhood in the shadow of murder. But she knew that would be impossible. There was a gulf between them, at least from Veronica’s side.
“Don’t you feel very well, ma’am?” she said gently. “I can get you a tisane, if you like? As lovely as you are, no one will mind if you are a minute or two late. Come down after the other ladies and cause a bit of a flutter!”
Veronica looked up, and Emily was surprised to see the gratitude in her face. She smiled faintly. “Thank you, Amelia. Yes, I would like a tisane. I can drink it while you’re doing my hair.”
It took five minutes for Emily to sort through the ingredients available and select a soothing camomile, and another three for the kettle to boil, after which she had to carry the herb tea back upstairs. She met Mrs. Crawford in the hall.
“What are you doing down here, Amelia?”
“An errand for Mrs. York,” Emily replied tartly, and whisking her skirts around the corner of the stairpost she went up without looking back. She heard Mrs. Crawford snort and the muttered words, “We’ll see about you, miss!” but she could not take time to worry over it now.
Veronica greeted her with pleasure, and sipped the tisane as if it were indeed a life restorer. She made no demur when Emily put her hair up as she had the first time and helped her on with the fourth gown, black taffeta stitched with beads. It was very dramatic, and on a less beautiful woman it would have been overwhelming.
“You look marvelous, ma’am,” Emily said sincerely. “There won’t be a man in the room has eyes for anyone else.”
Veronica blushed, the first color in her cheeks Emily had seen all day.
