Death Sits Down to Dinner (12 page)

The walls of the two salons were done in fresh greengage silk damask, and Mrs. Jackson decided to arrange white roses around the piano and then send to Iyntwood for some bronze chrysanthemums and the creamy-yellow Crown Princess Victoria, a particularly beautiful Bourbon rose, from the hothouse if there were none to be had in the city. Feeling she had made tremendous headway with her plans, she turned to the butler. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Jenkins, you have been most helpful.” And off she went to enjoy a nice cup of tea in the little office and to ask Martha to enlighten her on the peculiarities of Miss Kingsley’s servants’ hall. Edna Pettigrew was right, the servant problem in London was a nightmare. She was quite looking forward to an evening with her old friend when she returned to Montfort House, so that they could be outraged together on the shortcomings of London servants.

Chapter Ten

When Mrs. Jackson was called for the following morning, she found her ladyship dressed and busy at her writing desk. Mrs. Jackson had thought long and hard about Lady Montfort’s request to find out as much as she could about the goings-on at Chester Square and felt she was already part of a fait accompli, which caused a twinge of resentment. She decided it would be best if she spoke to her ladyship of her reluctance to involve herself in Miss Kingsley’s business right off the bat, so that they might avoid any misunderstanding going forward. But speaking out to Lady Montfort was difficult since the housekeeper rarely revealed misgivings and had certainly never actively disagreed with her ladyship.

So her opening words were rather stilted and to her own ears sounded uncouth and unwilling, making the rest of what she had to say come out awkwardly too: “I know you appreciate it when I speak plainly, m’lady.”

And Lady Montfort said she did, and turned in her chair to give her full attention.

Mrs. Jackson consciously relaxed her hands at her sides and took several slow, measured breaths, and since looking at her directly was not the proper way to address her ladyship, she fixed her eyes on a point a little above Lady Montfort’s head. And then with a final, steadying breath she said, “I have every desire to be of help to Miss Kingsley after what happened in her house, but I think it would be best if I were to concentrate my efforts on the charity evening only.” She paused for this to sink in and was rewarded with a sympathetic nod of understanding from Lady Montfort, which had the effect of making her feel ungracious. She managed the last piece with a calm voice: “I do not feel it is my place to involve myself in making discoveries about the murder at Chester Square.”

There I sound like a scullery maid with a grudge.

“Yes, I see, Jackson,” Lady Montfort said. “Completely understandable, thank you for being so candid. Have you by any chance met with Miss Gaskell yet?”

Mrs. Jackson said she had not, but that she hoped to meet Miss Kingsley’s companion this morning. Miss Gaskell, although still far from well, was thought to be a little improved and certainly not contagious.
What a relief, of course she understands! So much better to have things out in the open.

Lady Montfort nodded again and said nothing, and Mrs. Jackson somehow knew, with a sinking heart, that this part of their conversation was far from over. Having said her piece made her feel less of a paid spy in Miss Kingsley’s house, but she sensed the matter was not quite resolved between them.

“Very well, Jackson. I will be here when you get back from Chester Square this evening; I plan to have a quiet evening in for a change. Will you look in on me before you retire? I have some ideas for the hunt ball at Iyntwood that I want to run by you.”

And with that their little talk ended.

*   *   *

As Mrs. Jackson was driven through the snowy streets to Chester Square she still felt disconcerted by her situation and was a little unsure how to proceed. Like many people of her background who worked diligently to attain a higher position than the one into which they were born, she guarded her status as an upper servant to a family of consequence carefully and, because she knew what it was like not to have them, set great store in the importance of dignity and self-respect. She felt almost trapped; something was looming on her horizon and Lady Montfort knew what it was. When the chauffeur drew up by the area steps that led down from the street to the servants’ entrance to Miss Kingsley’s house, Mrs. Jackson hoped that she would be able to meet with Miss Gaskell soon, so that she could get things moving on the charity evening. And most of all she prayed that Mr. Jenkins would remember who she was today.

As she was taking off her hat in the stuffy little between-stairs office, Martha arrived to inform her that Miss Gaskell was much improved and would be pleased if Mrs. Jackson would step up to her room when she had the time.

An hour later, when she was ushered into Miss Gaskell’s bedroom by Martha, she was completely unprepared for the sight of the young woman lying flat in her bed, in a darkened room. It seemed to her the patient was far from well.

She turned to the maid in the doorway. “Martha, are you sure Miss Gaskell is recovered enough to see me?”

“Yes, ma’am, she particularly said it would be best now rather than later.”

“Yes, please come in, Miss Jackson. I am much improved and if you will make yourself comfortable I will do all I can to help you with our task.” The voice that came from the bed was low and hoarse from coughing, not feeble exactly, but its owner sounded deeply cast down. Mrs. Jackson approached and took a seat in a chair placed conveniently close to the bedside. In the low light of an oil lamp burning on a table by the bed, Mrs. Jackson could just about make out a dark head lying quietly on the pillow.

“I am so sorry you have been burdened with my unfinished responsibilities, Miss Jackson. But Miss Kingsley assures me that the charity evening will benefit for the better from your organization.”

“I am doing my best, Miss Gaskell, but I doubt I can improve on your original plans.” How could Miss Kingsley have told this sick young woman that Mrs. Jackson would do a better job of what had been Miss Gaskell’s creation in past years? She was embarrassed at the insensitivity of the young woman’s employer and immediately resolved to include Miss Gaskell in all her plans, and to tread carefully in introducing any improvements for the evening.

She opened her notebook. “If I might ask a few questions to make sure the arrangements I have made are in keeping, hopefully toward the end of the week you will be well enough to refine what I have put in place.”

They worked quietly together for the next hour, until Mrs. Jackson was aware that the voice in the bed was tiring.

“Perhaps a sip of something warm to ease the throat, Miss Gaskell,” she suggested and got up from her chair to ring for the maid. After another fit of coughing that sounded tight and hard, Miss Gaskell struggled to sit up. She was bent almost double, and Mrs. Jackson was instantly at her side, supporting her upper body as she pulled in pillows and packed them up to provide a wall of support behind the young woman’s shoulders. Then she eased her back, saying how important it was not to lie flat when one coughed. Miss Gaskell drew a breath, and Mrs. Jackson held a glass of what looked like rather dusty water to her lips and told her to take small sips. As the maid came into the room, she said without turning her head, “Will you please put the juice of half a lemon and a full tablespoon of honey into a cup, pour in hot water, and stir thoroughly to dissolve. Then bring it up here quick as you can, please.”

She heard the door close and concentrated her attention on the invalid. Now that she was sitting up, Mrs. Jackson saw her more clearly. Miss Gaskell’s pale face was a perfect oval, made paler by her illness. She had deep circles under wide gray eyes that regarded her with the frank interest of the young. Miss Gaskell started to cough again and Mrs. Jackson took the cushion from her chair to place behind the pillows to support the young companion more fully in an upright position. As she pulled the pillows forward to push the cushion behind them, her hand brushed against something concealed there. Looking down, she saw it was a small portrait or photograph in an ornate but inexpensive frame.

When someone keeps a portrait under the pillows in one’s bed, it is usually for only one reason. A likeness concealed this way was not meant to be seen, and its owner would no doubt be embarrassed to have its place discovered. Mrs. Jackson, half bent over Miss Gaskell, had one moment to see that the figure in the photograph was a stolid, broad-chested individual with the sort of side-whiskers worn by the late Prince Albert.
No doubt it is a photograph of Miss Gaskell’s father,
she thought as she rearranged the pillows,
but why would his photograph not take pride of place on the table next to her bed?

The door opened and in came Martha with a tray bearing a large kitchen cup and saucer from which steamy puffs of citrus scented the chill air of the room.

“Well now, Miss Gaskell, hot honey and lemon, an excellent remedy for a sore throat. Thank you, Martha. Please bring a fresh cup every two hours.” Lifting the thick cup and saucer from the tray, she said, “It has lost some of its intense heat in the time it took to bring it up, but little sips please, and tell me if it is too tart.” She held the cup to Miss Gaskell’s lips.

Cautious sips until Miss Gaskell finished the cup.

“How is that now, a little better?” Mrs. Jackson put down the cup on its saucer.

“Indeed it is, Miss Jackson, my throat feels so much better.”

“Honey has that effect, and it’s
Mrs.
Jackson, not Miss.” And then in response to the young woman’s fluster of apologies: “It’s an understandable mistake since there is no housekeeper in the house. Even if a housekeeper is unmarried, which I am, we are given the title out of respect. I think last thing tonight we will add a little scotch whiskey to your honey and lemon, it will help you sleep.”

She noticed that Miss Gaskell seemed to wear a habitual smile of apology. The hallmark of a class of young women who, lacking financial security or a family to take care of them, become useful only to elderly spinsters and widows. Poorly paid, severely patronized, and with few prospects of making a family of their own, a companion, like a governess, was perched precariously between upstairs and downstairs, their status ill-defined, their lives often lonely and narrow.

Miss Gaskell might not enjoy the fellowship of the servants’ hall, where everyone knew his place and proudly worked with skill as part of a whole, but neither was she considered to be on the same social footing as the family she worked for.

Mrs. Jackson remembered the sense of family she had experienced when she was a young girl new to service; the whispered confidences shared at night in their cramped attic bedrooms, a group of lower housemaids and kitchen maids united in their pretended fear of the upper servants, and the excitement of fleeting crushes on handsome young footmen. After the parish orphanage, the servants’ hall had been the first family life she had ever known.

As Mrs. Jackson took stock of Miss Gaskell it was easy to see that she had been and still was quite unwell. There was probably no one in the house who would look after her with the care that usually rallies most of us through our illnesses, she realized. Miss Gaskell had been fed at mealtimes if she rang for food, given a jug of water or a cup of tea when the maids could spare the time, but nothing had been done for her comfort. Her room was both stuffy and cold. It was a cheerless apartment without a fire, and dark and gloomy with heavy curtains hastily dragged across the window. She felt Miss Gaskell’s forehead, it was quite cool so luckily no fever, but her hands were awfully cold. Annoyed with everyone in the house, Mrs. Jackson got up and rang the bell. This time it was Eliza who came into the room.

“Eliza, please light a fire in the grate and draw back the curtains. Bring up a jug of hot water, a clean face flannel, and fresh towels. Oh, and be a good girl and fill up a hot water bottle, Miss Gaskell feels quite chill.” She turned in her chair to smile at the young maid; after all, who was she to direct the Chester Square servants’ efforts? She was reassured by a deferential little bob, before the young woman hurried about her business.

Mrs. Jackson picked up a hairbrush and carefully unbound, brushed, and plaited Miss Gaskell’s thick, dark-gold hair. By the time she was finished a fire was burning in the grate and a wintry sun was shining through the windowpanes. She washed Miss Gaskell’s face and hands with warm water. And then she sat back down and they regarded each other for a moment before Miss Gaskell said, “I am never laid low, Mrs. Jackson, I usually have boundless energy.” She laughed, showing even, perfect teeth, milk-white like a child’s. Her manner was modest and gentle, thought Mrs. Jackson as she considered her patient. She was obviously from some respectable family. Her room was well organized, with little homey touches, and there was a library in one corner. Mrs. Jackson noticed that she favored the novels of Jane Austen, and there were anthologies by Byron and Wordsworth.
A romantic young thing,
she thought,
I expect her favorite book is
Jane Eyre.

“I am not surprised you are feeling so poorly, Miss Gaskell. Lady Montfort told me you were sick before the party here the other night and that you were required to attend.” She kept her disapproval at bay.

“Yes, Mr. Churchill brought a guest at the last moment, but I was quite happy to make up the numbers.”

“And then you had to play the piano.” Mrs. Jackson couldn’t help her stern tone. Who on earth would make someone who was unwell attend a dinner party
and
play the piano?

“Yes, I am sorry.” Immediately she was contrite, and Mrs. Jackson was annoyed with herself for sounding judgmental and causing the young woman to apologize.

“Lady Montfort said you played beautifully,” she said.

“It was an honor for me to play; Lady Ryderwood has a wonderful voice. I was brought up in a house that enjoyed music, you see. My father was a concert pianist and my mother was a singer. That was of course long ago, but I was lucky enough to be taught to play the piano, and music means everything to me.”