Silence in Hanover Close Read online

  Aunt Vespasia had asked after Mrs. York’s health, then proceeded to commiserate with her about the distress and inconvenience of losing a maid in such circumstances. She had remarked that her own lady’s maid, Amelia Gibson, who had served her most satisfactorily, was now, in Aunt Vespasia’s declining years and semiretirement from Society, really more than she required, and was consequently looking for a new position. She was a girl of reliable family, long known to Vespasia, who had also been in the service of her great-niece, Lady Ashworth, whose accompanying testimonial would bear witness. Vespasia hoped that Mrs. York might find Amelia of satisfactory skill and disposition. Vespasia would vouch for her character.

  Mrs. York thanked her for her courtesy and agreed to see Amelia if she presented herself forthwith.

  Emily clutched her reticule with the letters and three pounds, fifteen shillings in silver and copper (maids would not have gold sovereigns or guineas) and lugged the unaccustomed weight of a box containing a change of dress, aprons, caps and her underwear, a Bible and some writing paper, pen and ink, as she descended the area steps, her heart knocking in her ribs, her mouth dry. She tried to rehearse what she was going to say. There was still time to change her mind. She could turn round and simply go away and write a letter making some excuse: she had been taken ill, her mother had died—anything!

  But her feet kept going, and just as she was about to weigh up this lunatic decision in the last moment left, the back door opened. A scullery maid who looked to be about fourteen came out with a bowl full of peelings to throw in the waste bin.

  “You be come fer poor Dulcie’s position?” she said cheerfully, eyeing Emily’s shabby coat and the box in her hand. “Come on in then, you’ll freeze out ’ere in the yard. Give yer a cup o’ tea afore yer see the mistress, make yer feel better. Yer look ’alf starved in the cold, yer do. ’Ere, give that there box ter Albert, ’e’ll carry it for yer, if yer staying.”

  Emily was grateful, and terrified now that the decision to come had been made. She wanted to thank the girl, but her voice simply refused to obey. Mutely she followed the scullery maid up the steps into the back kitchen, past the vegetables, the hanging corpses of two chickens and a brace of game birds complete with feathers, and into the main kitchen. Her hands were numb in her cotton gloves and the sudden warmth engulfed her, bringing tears to her eyes and making her sniff after the stinging cold on the walk from the omnibus stop.

  “Mrs. Melrose, this is someone applyin’ ter be the new lady’s maid, and she’s fair perished, poor thing.”

  The cook, a narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped woman with a face like a cottage loaf, looked up from the pastry she was rolling and regarded Emily with businesslike sympathy.

  “Well, come in, girl, put that box down in the corner. Out of the way! Don’t want folk falling over it. If you stay, we can ’ave it taken upstairs for you. What’s your name? Don’t stand there, girl! Cat got your tongue?” She dusted the flour off her bare arms, flipped the pastry the other way on the board, and began again with the rolling pin, still looking at Emily.

  “Amelia Gibson, ma’am,” Emily said falteringly, realizing she did not know exactly how deferential a lady’s maid should be to a cook. It was something she had forgotten to ask.

  “Some folk call lady’s maids by their surnames,” the cook remarked. “But we don’t in this ’ouse. Anyway, you’re too young for that. I’m Mrs. Melrose, the cook. That’s Prim, the scullery maid, as let you in, and Mary, the kitchen maid there.” She pointed with a floury finger at a girl in a stuff dress and mob cap who was whisking eggs in a bowl. “You’ll find out the rest of the ’ousehold if you need to know. Sit down at the table there and Mary’ll get you a cup o’ tea while we tell the mistress you’re ’ere. Get on with your work, Prim, you got no time to stand around, girl! Albert!” she called shrilly. “Where is that boy? Albert!”

  A moment later a round-eyed youth of about fifteen appeared, his hair standing on end where it grew away from his forehead in a cowlick, a double crown at the back giving him a quiff like a cockatoo.

  “Yes, Mrs. Melrose?” he said, swallowing quickly. He had obviously been eating on the sly.

  The cook snorted. “Go up and tell Mr. Redditch as the new girl’s ’ere after Dulcie’s place. Go on wi’ you! And if I catch you in them cakes again I’ll take a broom to yer!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Melrose,” he said, and disappeared with alacrity.

  Emily accepted her cup of tea and sipped it, giving herself hiccups and then feeling ridiculous when Mary laughed at her and the cook scowled. She tried holding her breath and had only just conquered them when the trim, pretty parlormaid came to say that Mrs. York would see her in the boudoir. She led the way and Emily followed. All along the passage, past the butler’s pantry, through the green baize door and into the main house she kept rehearsing in her mind what she must say, how she must behave. Eyes candid but modest, speak only when spoken to, never interrupt, never contradict, never express an opinion. No one cared or wanted to know what maids thought, it was impertinence. Never ask anyone to do anything for you, do it yourself. Call the butler sir, or by his name. Address the housekeeper and the cook by name. And remember to speak with the right accent! Always be available, night or day. Never have headaches or stomachaches—you were there to do a job, and short of serious illness there were no excuses. The vapors were for ladies, not for servants.

  Nora, the parlormaid, knocked on the door, opened it, and announced, “The girl to see you, ma’am, about being Miss Veronica’s maid.”

  The boudoir was ivory and pink with touches of deeper rose, very feminine indeed. There was no time to look for character or quality now.

  Mrs. Loretta York sat in an armchair. She was a small woman, a little plump around the shoulders, an inch or two thicker at the waist than she probably wished, but otherwise the beauty she had been in her youth was excellently preserved. Emily knew instantly that there was steel under the woman’s soft, white skin, and for all the lace handkerchiefs, the waft of perfume, and her thick, soft hair, there was nothing remotely vague in her wide eyes.

  “Ma’am.” Emily bobbled a very small curtsy.

  “Where do you come from, Amelia?” Loretta inquired.

  Emily had already decided the safest thing would be to copy her own maid’s background—that way she would be certain not to contradict herself. “King’s Langley, ma’am, in Hertfordshire.”

  “I see. What does your father do?”

  “He’s a cooper, ma’am. Makes barrels and the like. My mam used to be a dairymaid for Lord Ashworth, as was the old gentleman, before he passed on.” She knew not to say died; it was too blunt a word for a servant to use on such a delicate subject. One did not speak of death.

  “And you have worked for Lady Ashworth and Lady Cumming-Gould. Do you have your references?”

  “Yes ma’am.” She took them out of her reticule, fingers stiff with nervousness, and passed them over. She looked at the floor while Loretta first read them and then refolded them and passed them back. Both letters were written on crested paper, she had taken care to see to that.

  “Well, these seem to be satisfactory,” Loretta observed. “Why did you leave Lady Ashworth’s service?”

  She had thought of that. “My mam passed on,” she said, catching her breath and swallowing hard. Please heaven the hiccups did not return! It would be disastrous if Loretta thought she had been tippling at the cooking sherry. “I had to go back home to care for my younger sisters, until we could find places for them. And of course Lady Ashworth, being a lady of Society, had to find someone to take me place: but she said she’d speak well for me. And then Lady Cumming-Gould took me on.”

  “I see.” The chill eyes regarded her unemotionally. It was odd to be looked at as if one were a property to be purchased or passed by, without regard to manners or feelings. It was not peculiar to Loretta York; anyone else would have been similar. And yet she would be employed to care for her on the most intimate terms, bru
sh her hair, launder, iron and mend her clothes, even her underwear, wake her in the morning, dress her for dinners and balls, wait on her if she were ill. No one else knew a woman as intimately as her maid. Her husband certainly did not.

  “Well Amelia, I presume you can sew and iron and care for a wardrobe properly, or Lady Ashworth would not recommend you. She has a reputation for being in the height of fashion, without vulgarity, although I cannot recall meeting her myself.”

  Emily felt a rush of blood into her face, then an immediate chill as fear washed through her. The chance of recognition had brushed close sooner than she had anticipated. The peril had come and gone in one awful moment, and when it had passed she opened her mouth to thank Loretta for the compliment, realizing with a start that a reply would have betrayed her into the very pitfall she had just avoided. In her new station no comment was expected of her.

  “You may begin immediately,” Loretta continued, “and if you prove satisfactory after a month, we shall make you permanent. You will attend my daughter-in-law. You will be paid eighteen pounds a year, and have one afternoon off every second week, if it is convenient, but you will be home again before nine. We have no girls out late. You may have a day off to go home and see your family every three months.”

  Emily stared at her. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said in a rush. She had been given the position. It was decided. She felt at once frightened and victorious.

  “Thank you, Amelia, that will be all. You may go.” Loretta’s voice brought her back to reality.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” she said again, letting the relief show in her face. After all, she really did want the place! She bobbed very briefly and turned to leave, feeling an overwhelming sense of freedom just at being out of the room and past the first obstacle.

  “Well?” The cook looked up from the apple pie she was finishing off with carefully cut pastry leaves.

  Emily smiled at her more broadly than she should have. “I got it!”

  “Then be about your unpacking,” the cook said pleasantly. “Don’t stand around ’ere, girl. You’re no use to me! ’Ousekeeper’s sitting room is second on the left. Mrs. Crawford should be in there this time o’ day. Go and see ’er and she’ll tell you where you’ll sleep—Dulcie’s room, I daresay—and she’ll have Joan, the laundry maid, show you where your iron is, and the like. I daresay someone’ll find Edith for you—that’s Mrs. Piers York’s maid. You’ll be for Miss Veronica.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Melrose.” Emily went to the corner to pick up her box.

  “Don’t you bother wi’ that! Albert’ll take it up. Liftin’ and carryin’s not your job, ’less you’re asked. On wi’ you!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Melrose.”

  She went to the housekeeper’s sitting room and knocked on the door. She was told sharply to come in.

  It was small, crowded with dark furniture, the smell of polish mixing with the thick, greenhouse odor of a potted lily on a jardinière in one corner. There were embroidered antimacassars on the backs of the chairs and along the sideboard, which was littered with photographs. Two hand-stitched samplers framed in wood hung on the walls. Emily felt overpowered even before she stepped inside.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Crawford, was short and thin, with the face of an irritable sparrow. Gray hair escaped a screwed-back hairstyle that was considerably out of date and crowned with white lace like froth.

  “Yes?” she said sharply. “Who are you?”

  Emily stood up straight. “The new lady’s maid, Mrs. Crawford. Mrs. Melrose said as you would tell me where I should sleep.”

  “Sleep! At four o’clock in the afternoon, girl? I’ll tell you where you can put your box! And I’ll show you to the laundry and Joan can give you your iron and table. I daresay Edith is sitting down; she’s not so well these days. You’ll have met Nora, the parlormaid, and there’s Libby the upstairs maid and Bertha the downstairs maid, and Fanny the tweeny, but a useless little article she is! And of course Mr. Redditch, the butler, but you’ll not have much to do with him, nor John the footman, who valets for Mr. York, and Albert the bootboy.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Crawford.”

  “And you’ll have met Mary the kitchen maid and Prim the scullery maid. Well, that’s all. Outside staff, grooms and the like, don’t need to concern you. And you’ll not have anything to do with anyone outside the house unless Mrs. York sends you on an errand. You’ll have Sunday mornings off to go to church. You’ll eat in the servants hall with the rest of us. I expect that dress’ll do you.” She looked at it without favor. “You’ve got caps and aprons, of course? I should think so. If Miss Veronica wants them changed she’ll tell you. I hope I don’t need to remind you, you’ll have no followers, no gentlemen callers of any sort, unless you’ve a father or brother, in which case if you ask permission, I daresay they’ll be allowed to see you, at convenient times.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Emily could feel the walls tightening round her as if she were a prisoner. No callers, no admirers, one half day off a fortnight! How was she going to keep in touch with Charlotte, and Jack?

  “Well, don’t stand there, girl!” Mrs. Crawford rose and smoothed her apron briskly, her keys jangling at her waist. She led the way out, moving like a little rodent, with busy, jerky steps. In the laundry she patted and touched things, showing Emily coppers for boiling linen, bins of soap, starch, ironing tables, flatirons, and airing rails, all the time clicking her tongue over the absence of Joan.

  Upstairs Emily was shown Veronica York’s bedroom. It was cool green and white with touches of yellow, like a spring field, and her dressing room had cupboards full of clothes, all fashionable and of high quality—but nothing in pink, let alone cerise.

  Upstairs on the servants’ floor, she was led to a small room about one fifth the size of her own at home, bare but for an iron bedstead with a ticking-covered mattress, gray blankets, and a pillow; one small cupboard; and a table with a basin on it, no pitcher. Under the bed was a plain white china chamber pot. The ceiling sloped so that in only half of the room could she stand upright, and the dormered window had thin, unlined brown curtains. The linoleum on the floor was like ice to the touch; there was one small rag mat by the bedside. Her heart sank. It was clean and cold and infinitely grim compared with home. How many girls had stood in doorways like this with tears welling up inside them, knowing there was no possible escape, and this was the best they could hope for, not the worst?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Crawford,” she said huskily.

  “Albert’s put your box there; you unpack it, and when Miss Veronica rings”—she pointed to the bell Emily had not noticed before—“you’ll go down and attend to her dressing for dinner. She’s out now, or I’d have taken you to her.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Crawford.”

  And the next minute she was alone. It was ghastly. All she had was a box of clothes, a narrow bed as hard as a bench, three blankets to keep warm, no fire, no water except what she fetched for herself to put in that basin, and no light but for one candle in a chipped enamel holder; and she was at the beck and call of a woman she had never met. Jack was right: she must have lost her wits! If only he had forbidden her, if only Aunt Vespasia had begged her not to do it!

  But Jack was not worried about her loneliness, the bare floor, the cold bed, the chamber pot, the strip wash in one basin of water, or the obedience to a bell. He was afraid because someone had committed murder in this house— twice—and Emily was an intruder who had come to try and catch the murderer.

  She sat down on the bed, her legs shaking. The springs creaked. She was cold and her throat ached with the effort not to weep. “I am here to find a murderer,” she said to herself quietly. “Robert York was murdered—Dulcie was pushed out of a window because she saw the woman in cerise and told Thomas. There is something terrible in this house, and I am going to find out what it is. Thousands of girls, tens of thousands all over the country live like this. If they can do it, so can I. I am not a coward. I do not run away just because things a
re frightening, and certainly not because they are unpleasant. They are not going to beat me before I’ve even begun!”

  At half past five the bell rang, and after straightening her cap in front of the piece of mirror on the mantel shelf and retying her apron, Emily went down to meet Veronica York, carrying the candle.

  On the landing she knocked on the bedroom door and was told to go in. She did not glance at the room; she had seen it before, and curiosity would not do. And indeed, her real interest was in Veronica herself.

  “Yes ma’am?”

  Veronica was sitting on the dressing stool in a white robe tied at the waist, her black hair falling loose like satin ribbons down her back. Her face was pale but the bones were beautiful, her eyes large and dark as peat water. At the moment her fragile skin was a little blue around the slender nose and across her high cheeks, and she was definitely too thin for current fashion. She would need a bustle to plump out those narrow hips, and swathes to make her bosom look fuller. But Emily had to admit she was a beautiful woman, with the qualities of delicacy and character that haunt the mind far longer than mere regularity of feature. There was passion in her face, and intelligence.

  “I’m Amelia, ma’am. Mrs. York employed me this afternoon.”

  Suddenly Veronica smiled and all her color returned; it was like illumination in a gray room.

  “Yes, I know. I hope you’ll like it here, Amelia. Are you comfortable?”

  “Yes thank you, ma’am,” Emily lied bravely. What she had been given was all a maid could expect. “Will you be dressing for dinner, ma’am?”

  “Yes please. The blue gown; I think Edith put it in the first cupboard.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Emily went through to the dressing room and brought back a royal blue velvet and taffeta gown, cut low, with balloon sleeves. It took her a few moments to find the right petticoats and lay them out.

  “Yes, that’s right, thank you,” Veronica agreed.

  “Would you like your hair done before your gown, ma’am?” It was the way Emily herself dressed—it was so easy to drop a hair or a pin, a smudge of powder or a perfume stain.