“No, ma’am,” Ada whispered.
The rest of the meal was concluded in silence. Finally they were told they might leave. Gracie excused herself, aware that both Mr.
Tyndale and Mrs. Newsome were watching her, although for entirely different reasons.
It was Ada’s task to look after her, tell her what to do and show her where to begin. Either she was fortunate or Mr. Tyndale had seen to it that she was employed in the guests’ area of the wing rather than the kitchens or the laundry. First they collected all the appropriate brooms, brushes, pans, dusters, and polish they would need, then went up the stairs to begin.
“We gotta clean the sitting room and the bedrooms,” Ada told her. “ ’Course, we gotta be sure as the guests in’t in there, nor their maids neither.”
“Do they all have their own maids?” Gracie asked.
Ada gave her a withering look. “ ’Course they do! Where d’yer come from then?”
Gracie wished she had bitten her tongue before she spoke. She changed the subject very quickly. They were in the long upstairs corridor. She looked around in awe, not quite sure what she expected. It was spacious, with a higher ceiling than anywhere she had been before, and all decorated with elaborate gilded plaster, but other than that it was not unusual. There were no crowns in the plaster molding, no footmen in their dark livery and white gloves waiting for orders; in fact, no one else at all. It was completely silent. One of the doors was narrower than the others.
“Is that the cupboard there?” she asked in a whisper.
Ada gave a convulsive shudder. “Yeah. We can’t go inter it, thanks be ter Gawd. I’d faint at the thought, I would. But it means we gotta bring all the linen up fresh from the laundry every day, which is all more work.” She looked Gracie up and down. “You in’t never seen nothing like the work there is ’ere. We gotta do the sittin’ room first, before any o’ them gets up an’ wants it.”
She started walking again. “Come on, then! The gentlemen was in it last night an’ we never got to finish it ’cos o’ bein’ asked questions all day by that police. Scruffy lookin’ object ’e is, an’ all. Must
’ave a wife wi’ two left ’ands, by the look of ’is shirt collar. Still, I s’pose ’e were clean enough, an’ that’s more’n ’e might a’ bin.”
Gracie resented the slur on Pitt’s shirts bitterly, but she could hardly say so. She had ironed them herself, and they had been perfect when he put them on.
They were in the sitting room now and Ada looked around critically. “Smells summink awful, don’t it? It’s them cigars Mr. Dunkeld ’as. I dunno ’ow ’is wife stands it. ’E must taste like dirt.”
“I don’t s’pose she’s got no choice,” Gracie replied. Pitt did not smoke and she was aware of the heavy, stale odor here. It was a beautiful room, floored with ancient wood worn rich and dark with time and polish. Rows of huge, gold-framed portraits and still-life paintings hung on the walls. There was a magnificent fireplace with an ornate, carved, and inlaid marble mantel and a considerable number of heavy sofas and armchairs. There were small wooden tables here and there for convenience, and their polished tops were as bright as satin, except for the odd one soiled by wet glasses or ash. There was also ash in several places on the carpet, and at least one stain as if something dark like wine had been spilled.
Ada noted Gracie’s stare. “You should’ve seen it the night o’ their
‘party,’ ” she said with a curl of her lip. “In’t nothing now.” She drew in a sharp breath. “Well, don’t stand there gawpin’ at it! Get on wi’
cleanin’ it up.”
“Wot is it?” Gracie asked, looking at the stain, her imagination racing. Wine? Blood?
“That in’t none o’ your business!” Ada snapped. “You work ’ere, Miss Pious. Yer gotta learn ter keep yer opinions ter yerself an’ don’
ask no questions. There’s two sets o’ rules in life: one for them, an’ one for us, an’ don’t you never forget it. Don’t matter wot you think. Understand?”
Gracie drew herself up stiffly. Already she did not like Ada, but that was unimportant. She was here to help Pitt, and Mr. Narraway.
“I don’t care ’ow it got there,” she said coldly. “I gotta know wot it is ter get it out proper. Is it wine, or coffee, or blood-or wot is it?”
“Oh.” Ada looked somewhat mollified. “That’s ’is nibs’ favorite chair, so it’ll be brandy, I ’spect. Soap an’ water’ll do most things, baking soda for smells, an’ tea leaves for general dust an’ stuff.”
“I know that,” Gracie said with dignity, then instantly regretted it. She might need Ada’s help later on. It almost choked her to apologize. “Not that I in’t grateful ter be told,” she added. “I wouldn’t want ter do it wrong.”
“Yer wouldn’t, an’ all,” Ada agreed heartily. “Mrs. Newsome’d
’ave yer! An’ don’t dawdle around. We in’t got all day. They won’t all be stayin’ in their rooms till luncheon today. We got catchin’ up ter do.”
Gracie bent obediently and set about lifting stains, sweeping up ash, polishing wood and marble, while Ada spread the damp tea leaves all over the rugs to absorb the dust, and then swept them all up again.
Gracie looked at the fireplace. It was tidy enough because there were no fires necessary in sitting rooms at this time of year, but the marble did not look clean. Should she say so, or would it be viewed as criticism of Ada’s skills?
“Wot yer staring at?” Ada demanded. “Won’t do itself!”
“Is that good enough?” Gracie gestured toward the marble.
“It’ll ’ave ter be,” Ada replied. “Takes a day or two to do it proper.
Got ter leave the paste on. Can’t ’ave that when we got guests.”
“Wot d’yer do it with?” Gracie asked.
Ada sighed impatiently. “Soap lees, turpentine, pipe clay, and bullock’s gall. Don’t yer know nothing, then?”
“I do it with soda, pumice stone, an’ chalk mixed wi’ water,” Gracie replied. “Comes up straightaway.”
“Ain’t you the smart one!” Ada was clearly annoyed. “An’ if it stains it worse, oo’s gonna get the blame, eh? This is Buckingham Palace, miss. We do things the right way ’ere. Don’t you touch that fireplace ’ceptin’ wi’ wot I tell yer. D’you ’ear me?”
Gracie swallowed. “Yes.”
“Yer do all the light mantels, an’ make sure yer do ’em proper,”
Ada said, pointing to the glass over the gaslamps. “I want ’em like crystal, right? No marks, no smears, no scratches. An’ if you break one yer’ll pay for it out o’ yer wages. . fer the next year!” She stood with her arms folded, watching until Gracie picked up the cloth again and began to work.
Gracie knew she had made an enemy. It was a bad start. Her mind raced as to what on earth Mr. Narraway thought she could do to help Pitt. She knew very well that over a length of time servants learned a lot about their masters, or mistresses. You saw faults and weaknesses, you learned to know what people were frightened of, what they avoided because they could not face it, and what made them laugh.
You certainly knew who they liked and who they did not. It was easy with women. How a woman dressed and how long she took to do it, how many times she changed her mind, told you all kinds of things.
But was that any use?
A servant could watch people in unguarded moments. Having a servant in the room was regarded as being alone. But how long would she have to spend coming and going, fetching things, cleaning and tidying up, before she saw or heard anything that mattered?
It was a horrid realization, being as unimportant as a piece of furniture. It meant people didn’t care in the slightest what you thought of them. She imagined what Samuel would say! Charlotte Pitt had never treated her like that.
But one of these wealthy and important men was a lunatic who mutilated women and left them bleeding to death in cupboards. She felt shivery and a little sick at the thought. Like a picture flashing before her mind came the memory of finding that terrible body in Mitre Square. She had never been so frightened in her life. That was ripped open too, like the other Whitechapel victims. Why did anybody do something like that?
“ ’Urry up!” Ada said peremptorily. “We gotta be out of ’ere before anyone wants ter use it, an’ we ain’t nowhere near finished yet. Get them dirty dusters up, an’ them glasses. Make sure there in’t no rings left on the
