A Death in the Family (2 page)

I had some idea of what this request had cost her. ‘Does Bishop Pagget not require a full inventory?’

My mother had the grace to blush as she replied, ‘We will adjust it accordingly.’ I had no problem of depriving the old Port-and-Bluster (as my father had called him), but I was surprised at my mother’s decision. It must have showed in my face.

‘Really, Euphemia, you are usually more than ready to flout convention!’

Now was the time to tell her. I could not find the words. Instead, I stepped aside and revealed my bag, standing behind me, and packed full of all I could not bear to leave. My mother’s hand stole to her mouth. ‘You haven’t,’ she gasped.

‘I am sorry, Mother. I have taken a position at Stapleford Hall.’ I half-expected a dramatic declaration that I was no longer her daughter. Her reaction took me by complete surprise.

My mother embraced me. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered so softly I could not be sure of the words. Then she stepped back and said, much in her normal manner, ‘I hope it is at least a senior maid. It would be ridiculous for you to give up all your chances to earn no more than I shall be paying a girl that does.’

‘I will be a maid with upstairs responsibilities.’

My mother made a most unladylike noise. ‘Stapleford Hall. Aping the great houses.’

‘I think that’s why they have taken me. I have no references. But I am intelligent and I have hope my employer will notice this. I intend to rise to the position of housekeeper quite swiftly.’

Mother sighed. ‘You are very naive, Euphemia. Fortunately I shall not be far away when you find yourself evicted from the house. The cottage is in Little Crosshore. You will always have a place with Little Joe and I,’ Mother said grandly, although at this point we both knew that it would be nigh-on impossible for her to maintain the rent on a property as she had described without help from my wages. I didn’t think she would make the most popular of music teachers.

‘I will return home to visit whenever my employer allows.’

‘Whenever your employer allows? Never did I think to hear a daughter of mine utter such words.’

Mother was growing dramatic. I judged it time to make a smart exit. I assured her Stapleford Hall had arranged for a carrier to pick me up at the square – triggering yet more lamentations ‘… a common carrier’. I kissed Joe goodbye and promised him his soldiers. Then I stepped out into the bright morning of 8 January 1910, and prepared to leave behind me not only my old life, but my name. The air was sharp as lemon on my skin and the wind whipped a tear into my eyes, but more than any other emotion, I am ashamed to say, the one that was uppermost in my heart as I left my childhood home behind, was excitement – excitement at this new beginning.

My excitement was slightly dampened both literally and figuratively by the storm that opened over me that day. It took the carrier longer than he expected to get the old cart down increasingly muddy lanes, but as the afternoon approached evening we finally entered the long tree-lined drive that was the obligatory foreshadowing of all the new great houses. I was dropped halfway along as the carrier was turning off to the estate farm. However, the trees gave some shelter from the storm and, although I now had to lug my own bags along, at least water was no longer running down the back of my neck and spouting out through my sleeves as it had been for much of the day.

The sight of Stapleford Hall was all that I had hoped for. It was a large house built along the lines of the great houses, but more compact, modern and with warm, buttery light blazing from all three floors. My welcome, if it could be called such, was not so inspiring.

‘Euphemia St John! Hardly a name for a serving girl. Born on the wrong side of the blanket, were you? I won’t have any airs and graces on my staff.’

The woman in front of me was tall, thin and had a face like a half-starved crow; an effect compounded by the weight of sheer and unusually shiny dark hair wound tightly round her head. Her lips were the veriest sliver of pink against a pale, angular face that was augmented by a pair of small black eyes. She was the very last person I would have chosen to help make my house a home. I dripped forlornly onto the unbeaten library carpet, tried not to be too distracted by the vast array of books, and hoped the fact I had began to shiver from cold would go in my favour. I had already noticed the desk lamp badly needed polishing and this gave me hope.

‘Well, girl, do you have a tongue in your head?’

‘You could call me Amelia, miss. It’s my second name.’ I hadn’t been foolish enough to change my Christian name. I was a girl without references and one who did not know her own name might shortly find herself being investigated by the local constabulary.

‘
Mrs
Wilson. All housekeepers and cooks are addressed as Mrs. You would know that if you’d ever been a maid before as your letter claimed.’

‘Yes, Mrs Wilson.’ I hung my head. ‘You are right.’

The crow woman sniffed loudly. ‘You will find, should I choose to employ you, that I am always right. Though why I should employ a liar – give me one good reason.’

‘I do know the way things should be done, Mrs Wilson. I might not have been a maid before but …’

The door opened behind us admitting two gentlemen, who were in the process of arguing. ‘All I’m saying is the old geezer was my uncle too,’ complained a big thick-set man with red hair and a voice thickened by the over-use of port.

‘He was my godfather, Dickie,’ replied the shorter man. Both men were in evening dress, but my eye was quick to see that the second man, though arguably less handsome than the man-Viking, had taken greater care over his tie and neatly oiled black locks.

‘It’s all very well, old boy,’ blustered the Viking, ‘but some of us have to damn well work for a living. All this health … hello, what’s this, Mrs Wilson? Why is there a dab of a girl dripping on my Pater’s carpet?’

I clenched my teeth, but kept my head down.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Richard. I was under the impression the family were all having cocktails. This girl was to have been the new maid.’

‘Was?’ enquired the shorter man.

‘It has become apparent she is not what she says she is. I doubt she has ever done a day’s work in her life.’

The shorter man approached me. ‘May I?’ he asked and lifted my hands. He had a light touch and extraordinarily long and delicate fingers. He traced gently around the edge of my index fingers and across my palms. ‘A young woman used to writing, riding and light work would be my guess.’

The Viking barked out a laugh. ‘Someone’s discarded fancy-piece, Mrs Wilson. Won’t do at all.’

My head jerked up at the insult. The shorter man met my gaze and released my hands. ‘I don’t believe so, Dickie.’

‘A by-blow then?’

‘Do you find yourself without protection?’ asked the man in front of me. His tone was cool and appraising, but I thought I detected sympathy in his eyes.

‘My father died …’ I stopped, suddenly overcome. I was cold. I was hungry. I had never felt more vulnerable. I wanted food. I wanted a bed and I wanted a big stick to beat the Viking for his insolence, but Mother and Little Joe were depending on me. I swallowed my pride. ‘There was no provision for me in his will.’

‘So who was this estimable father of yours, young lady?’ asked Dickie.

‘I would prefer not to say, sir.’

‘You’re right, Mrs Wilson. Can’t have a liar on the staff. Send the girl packing.’

‘As you wish, Mr Richard.’

‘Wait,’ said the other man. ‘Look at me, girl. Is it a matter of honour that you cannot disclose your father’s name?’

I met his gaze squarely, ‘Yes, sir.’ My conscience pricked me, but I held my head up. The shorter man turned away to the others. ‘In which case, Mrs Wilson, I do not think it unreasonable that the girl be given a trial. It is not as if we are overflowing with servants at present.’

Mrs Wilson bristled. ‘If you choose to be taken in, Mr Bertram, then there is nothing I can do. I’ll present the case to the Mistress in the morning. If you would excuse us. Come, girl.’ She opened a panel that I had taken to be real books and ushered me into a servants’ passageway. ‘You might have fooled Mr Bertram, my girl, but you haven’t fooled me,’ she hissed in my ear. ‘We’ll see what the Mistress has to say about you. She’s not one to be taken in.’

She pushed me hard in the small of the back and I stumbled into darkness. The door closed behind us with a well-oiled click. I stopped in my tracks as the light from the library vanished. Ahead of us a soft clamouring of metal upon metal could be heard. Mrs Wilson shoved me again. ‘Get moving, girl. Any real servant would have known not to turn up minutes before dinner needs to be served.’

I stumbled on not wishing to be trapped in the darkness any longer than was necessary with the harpy behind me. In only a few moments my eyes adjusted and I could see that, as in the proverbial saying, there was light at the end of the tunnel. As we grew nearer to the egress the soft noises became harsher and interspersed with the barking cries of an angry woman.

We emerged directly into the kitchen. My initial impression was of 30 or more people bustling around the room. I moved sharply aside before Mrs Wilson could shove me again and stepped on a large well-polished shoe. ‘That,’ said Mrs Wilson coldly, ‘is Mr Holdsworth, the butler.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ I said timidly. A tall, stern-faced, middle-aged man with a polished demeanour looked down at me. His expression was cold, but I could see from the lines on his face he was normally no stranger to smiling. I bobbed a small curtsy and did my best to look friendly, but all he said was, ‘Don’t let it happen again.’ His voice was strangely flat.

The room was modern and brightly lit. There was a fine range with sparkling pots. The high windows had been opened to combat the sweltering heat of a country house kitchen in full engine mode as the family were about to sit down to dinner.

‘This is Mary,’ said the butler indicating a pretty young woman with freckles and brown curls. ‘We call her Merry, because of her sunny disposition.’ I glanced up at him to see if he was joking, but his face gave no sign of levity. Merry, on the other hand, bounced over to shake my hand, a delighted smile on her face. ‘Help at last,’ she giggled. ‘It will be so nice to have another girl to work with. I can’t really count Aggie. All she ever talks about is how to get the pots cleaner faster.’

‘The scullery maid,’ explained Mr Holdsworth. ‘And this is the magnificent Mrs Deighton, who is coming to the end of the dinner preparations. It would probably be better if you were elsewhere while this process is completed. Perhaps Merry could show her to her room, Mrs Wilson? The girl needs to get out of those wet things.’ He then whispered to me, ‘We’ve had our tea, but I’m sure Mrs Deighton could find you a little something after dinner. She’ll be much calmer then.’

‘We have not yet established whether Euphemia will be staying,’ snapped Mrs Wilson. ‘But you are quite correct, Mr Holdsworth. The girl is very wet. She dripped considerably on the library carpet. Merry, show her the way up and give her some rags. I want that excess moisture mopped before the gentlemen retire for whisky. If you can do that right, girl, I might consider putting in a word for you with the Mistress.’

I had the sense to nod and say, ‘Yes, Mrs Wilson. Thank you, Mrs Wilson.’ I’d rather have rammed her rags down her long rangy neck, but I suppressed the impulse and even managed a bobbed half-curtsy. ‘You don’t have to curtsy to me, girl,’ she snapped, but I could tell she was pleased. She had the same way about her as Bishop Pagget. I loathed her already.

Merry returned from a back room with a pile of rags, and with a wink gestured to follow her. ‘Mind you’re not seen,’ called Mrs Wilson as we entered the passageway.

‘Oh lor’,’ I muttered.

‘Take no notice of her,’ said Merry. ‘She’s a miserable, dry old stick, but half the time she’s got her lips wrapped round a bottle and she don’t bother us that much.’ She stopped by the library door. ‘Think you can find your way back?’ I nodded in the gloom. ‘Right, I’ll see you later then. Watch out for the gentlemen. You’re so wet through it’s like you’re wearing no clothes.’ She giggled again and gave me a half-pat, half-shove through the door.

In the gas-light of the library I realised Merry was quite correct. My clothes were clinging far too closely to my body. No wonder the gentlemen had said what they did. I got down on my hands and knees, determined to get the job over with as quickly as possible.

My hands were numb with cold and I quickly discovered the rags had been previously used for polishing and had enough oil left on them to make them almost impervious to water. I pushed and dabbed at the carpet doing what I could and longing for the stifling warmth of the kitchen. Finally, I thought I had done the best possible under the circumstances. However, when I stood up, I realised that where I had knelt I had left another wet patch. Cursing my own stupidity and Mrs Wilson’s malevolence I spread the driest of the rags on the floor at the edge of the new patch, knelt on that and applied myself to my impossible task. It was as much my fear I would be let go before being fed as my desire to prove myself that kept me going.

What seemed like a lifetime later I stood up and looked down at the carpet. I had only succeeded in making it all worse. There was now even the odd smear of polish on the pale pattern. I could have screamed with frustration.

A door opened somewhere below. The gentlemen must be on their way up! Between facing them in my current state and facing Mrs Wilson I chose to retreat. I opened the passage entrance and darted through. In the darkness I tripped over something and landed flat on my face. My hands touched something wet.

Fortunately I was too numb from cold to feel any pain. My eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, but my fingers found a man’s shoe. They travelled up to a trouser leg. ‘Excuse me,’ I whispered softly. But already I knew there was something solid and heavy about this form that was not right. I edged backward towards the door, my heart beating faster and faster. I pushed the panel and let the light from the library shine in through a crack. It took me several moments to understand what I was seeing.