Emily (7 page)

‘Fetch me a cup of tea and toast,’ Mrs Francis demanded. ‘You can do your chores later.’ She shivered. ‘I’m cold. Get someone to light the fire.’ Her face was pinched and her eyes looked tired. She still wore her bedgown and robe and a cap upon her head, from which dark hair strayed out.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Emily hurried downstairs in search of Janet. ‘Be quick,’ she said. ‘Make some tea and toast for Mrs Francis and we have to light ’fire straight away. She’s in ’sitting room!’

‘What’s this? What’s this? Madam’s up?’ Mrs Castle took charge. ‘You must take up ’tea and toast, Emily, if that’s what she said. Janet, go up now and light ’fire. Come on, quick as lightning or you’ll know what for!’

Emily set a tray as Jane toasted the bread. ‘Mr Francis must have disturbed her,’ she commented. ‘I’ve just seen him ride off.’

‘Have you now?’ Mrs Castle set a silver teapot down on the tray. ‘Well, never mind that, off you go and mind you don’t spill. And ask ’mistress if she would like you to pour,’ she called after Emily as she went up the kitchen stairs to the hall.

She didn’t know why she felt so nervous in front of Mrs Francis. She had felt no qualms or apprehension with Mr Francis, he had a quiet gentle manner, but there was a look about Mrs Francis which disturbed her. It’s because she is tired, I expect. She can’t have slept well. ‘Would you like me to pour the tea, ma’am, or shall I leave you?’
Janet had made the fire and quietly slipped away.

‘Pour,’ she said, scrutinizing Emily, ‘and when I have finished you can come upstairs and help me back to bed. I won’t want breakfast, so make sure that no-one disturbs me.’

‘Poor lady has a lot to put up with,’ Mrs Castle remarked when later a relieved Emily came back into the kitchen after helping Mrs Francis to bed and drawing the curtains tightly so that the early morning light didn’t disturb her. There were just the two of them in the kitchen. ‘Pop ’kettle on, Em, and we’ll have a cup o’ tea afore others come in for breakfast.’

‘Mrs Francis doesn’t seem very happy,’ Emily said, temporarily forgetting Mrs Castle’s former entreaty not to discuss her employers.

Mrs Castle appeared to have forgotten it too, for she nodded and said, ‘Aye, it’s not a happy family in spite of all its wealth and land.’

‘What was Mr Francis like when he was a young man?’ Emily asked as she poured boiling water on to the leaves. ‘He was handsome, I expect, but was he so quiet as he is now?’

‘No! He was as jolly a young fellow as you could find anywhere, allus laughing and joking and then – and then’, her voice tailed away as she remembered, ‘well, like I say, it doesn’t do to gossip. No good comes of it. But all I’ll say, Emily, and this is between you and me, they’ve had misfortune in this family and through no fault of anybody’s as far as we can tell. The hand of God must have been there.’ She looked pensive as she sipped her tea. ‘Or mebbe it was Devil’s work. Who knows?’

They heard the sound of a voice calling and Mrs Castle jumped to her feet. ‘Quick. Go upstairs! That’s Miss Deborah. Don’t let her disturb her mother. Find Mrs Brewer if you can, she’ll take care of her.’

Deborah Francis was standing at the bottom of the hall stairs in her bedgown and without her robe, her dark hair unbrushed and hanging about her shoulders. ‘Where’s Betty?’ she complained as Emily appeared. ‘I want Betty.’ She stamped her foot, which Emily thought a very childish thing to do, especially as Miss Deborah was no longer a child but must have been all of twenty-one or -two.

‘Betty, Miss Deborah?’ Emily didn’t know of a Betty.

‘Betty! Betty Brewer, silly. Who are you, anyway?’

Deborah Francis was often asleep when Emily had taken in the breakfast tray, quietly opening the curtains and then slipping out of the room again.

‘I’m here! I’m here!’ Mrs Brewer bustled down the stairs. ‘Whatever are you doing up so early, Miss Deborah? It’s not yet eight o’clock.’ She took hold of her mistress’s arm. ‘Come along, back upstairs and we’ll have a nice cup of tea, all tucked up in bed.’

‘Mama’s door is locked, Betty. I can’t get in,’ she said petulantly. ‘I knocked and knocked but she won’t answer.’

‘Hush now.’ Mrs Brewer soothed her as she led her upstairs. ‘Mama is not well this morning, we must let her have her rest. You can see her later.’

Deborah Francis turned half-way up the stairs. ‘Who is that girl, Betty? I don’t know her.’

‘Emily. She hasn’t been here for very long. You’ll soon get used to seeing her about.’

Emily looked upwards and gave her young mistress a slight smile. She seemed younger than her years. Almost childlike.

‘She’s pretty, isn’t she, Betty? She’s very pretty.’ She stopped again on the stairs. ‘Is she prettier than me, do you think?’

‘Not at all.’ Mrs Brewer was appeasing as she ushered her onwards. ‘Nowhere near as pretty as you. Quite plain in fact.’

But Miss Deborah had taken a fancy to seeing Emily again. Mrs Brewer came into the kitchen later in the day and asked Emily to take tea into Miss Deborah in the sitting room, when normally Mrs Brewer would have taken it in herself. ‘She will have you bring it, Emily. She wants to take another look at you. Be patient with her, won’t you? Try not to aggravate her.’

Why would I aggravate her? Emily wondered. And why does she want to see me?

She wanted to see her in a good light. That is what she said. ‘You looked quite pretty this morning when I saw you, Emily,’ she said. ‘But I wondered if it was a trick of the light. Mama says that it can be. Stand by the window and turn around, please.’

Emily put the tray on a small table and obligingly turned slowly around, then she bobbed her knee and said, ‘Will that be all, Miss Deborah?’

‘No. Pour the tea and tell me who you are and where you are from.’

Emily poured the tea into a dainty china teacup
and handed it to her. ‘I’m Emily Hawkins, Miss Deborah, and I lived with my grandmother until she died.’ Near enough, she thought, no need to tell her all about Granny Edwards.

‘And where are your parents? Or are you an orphan?’ Deborah stared at her from wide-set blue eyes.

‘Yes, miss. I’m an orphan, I think.’

‘You only think? Why don’t you know?’

‘My father is dead and I don’t know where my mother or brother are.’

‘You have a brother?’ Deborah put down her cup and clapped her hands joyfully. ‘Just like me. I have a brother too.’ She put her head on one side and considered. ‘Only I think he might be dead!’

The door slowly opened and Mrs Francis appeared, her face was pale and her eyes had dark shadows beneath them. ‘What is all this chatter, Deborah? I’ve told you that you mustn’t gossip with the servants.’

Emily bobbed her knee. ‘I was just leaving, ma’am,’ and was relieved to see Mrs Brewer coming through the door.

‘Miss Deborah wanted to talk to Emily, ma’am,’ Mrs Brewer explained. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

Mrs Francis sank wearily into a chair. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t really. It is a distraction, I suppose.’

Mrs Brewer indicated that Emily should leave the room, and bobbing her knee she left.

‘Is she trustworthy, Mrs Brewer?’ Mrs Francis turned tired eyes towards the housekeeper. ‘Or will she tittle-tattle?’

‘She seems very reliable, ma’am, and she has no immediate family, so she has no-one to gossip with apart from the other servants, and they are all discreet.’

‘She has a brother, Mama, just like me,’ Deborah interrupted, then looked vague. ‘Or – I’m not sure if she said he was dead.’ She shrugged. ‘She’s an orphan, anyway.’

Mrs Francis gazed vacantly out of the window. ‘That’s all right then,’ she sighed.

All through the winter Emily was at the mercy of Miss Deborah’s every whim. It must be Emily who helped her dress, Emily who brought her tea, Emily who should walk with her in the snow-filled gardens and if Emily was unavailable, busy with other chores, then Miss Deborah had a vicious tantrum of screaming which sent the whole household into a spin.

‘We should be thankful I suppose that Emily is a patient, resourceful girl,’ Roger Francis remarked to his wife as he handed her into the carriage, as once more they had managed to allay a difficult bout of temper from their daughter over a visit to a neighbour.

‘There’s something about her that I can’t quite make out,’ Mrs Francis began, ‘but she’s patient with Deborah, I agree. She tires everyone else so, with her constant chatter and questions.’ Mrs Francis barely looked at her husband as he placed a rug around her. ‘I am at the end of my tether. I don’t know how much more I can stand.’

Mrs Francis hadn’t wanted Deborah to go with her on the visit, but in a fit of resentment Deborah had insisted and had started to shout and scream
when told that she couldn’t. Her father couldn’t calm her and neither could Mrs Brewer. Mrs Francis suggested that she be given a sedative, but Mr Francis demurred. Mrs Francis had stormed up to her room and in desperation Mrs Brewer had sent for Emily.

‘Miss Deborah! I wonder if you would play the piano again,’ Emily had dared to ask. ‘I heard you the other morning and it sounded so lovely. I’ve never heard it played before.’

‘Never heard the piano!’ Deborah stopped shouting. ‘What nonsense, Emily! Of course you have. Everyone plays.’

Deborah was a poor musician, but Emily didn’t know that. She simply thought that the sound coming from the instrument was magical. She shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard it, miss.’

Emily felt Miss Deborah’s eyes staring into hers and wondered if she was going to have another fit of temper at her temerity. But she gave a sudden laugh. ‘Good gracious, girl.’ She unconsciously mimicked Mrs Francis’s voice. ‘Come over here and I will show you.’

Roger Francis was watching by the fireplace as his daughter sat at the piano and arranged her music and fussily told Emily where she should stand so that she could take particular notice. Emily glanced towards him and saw that he was watching, not his daughter, but her. He gave her what seemed to be a sad smile and then turned away.

‘Tell Mama I can’t go with her,’ Deborah called after him. ‘I can’t be bothered with ladies’ gossip today.’

Roger Francis watched from his library window as the carriage bearing his wife rolled away down the drive, leaving wheel marks on the fresh snow. He stood vaguely gazing into space and only half-listening to the discordant jangle of music coming from the drawing room, where his daughter entertained the maid Emily. He looked down at his desk at the pile of papers lying there and as if with a sudden, swift decision, crossed the room and pressed the bell by the fireplace.

‘Tell Brown to saddle up a horse,’ he told Janet. ‘I have to ride into Hull.’

By the early spring Emily was weary of her mistress’s demands. ‘I think I’d rather be scrubbing ’kitchen floor instead of you, Jane,’ she said as they climbed into bed. ‘There’s no wonder that Mrs Francis is always tired. Miss Deborah is exhausting.’

‘Hmph. I don’t think you’d like to swap,’ Jane said cynically. ‘You get excused all kinds of jobs just ’cos Miss Deborah wants you with her.’

‘I still do my other chores,’ Emily retaliated. ‘I still get up as early as you. Anyway, you wouldn’t like it being constantly badgered; do this, Emily, do that, Emily, come here, Emily. I’m prettier than you, Emily.’ She put her chin in her hands. ‘Thank goodness she doesn’t get up early, at least I can have some peace when I’m cleaning out the fire grates.’

The next morning she lit the library fire and laid the sticks ready in the drawing room for lighting later, and crossed the hall to the sitting room. She heard footsteps upstairs and, glancing up, saw Mr Francis crossing the landing. She hurried down the
kitchen stairs to tell Cook that Mr Francis was up and would probably want an early breakfast and then rushed back upstairs to the sitting room to clean and light the fire.

She drew the curtains and a smile lit her face, primroses were appearing just below the window and there was a haze of green on the trees in the meadows. Soon she would have a day off and she would go for a long walk, maybe even go as far as the river bank if she had time.

She bent to brush out the dead wood ash from the hearth, leaving a small amount to relight the new fire. She hummed to herself as she worked and didn’t hear the door open, but she stopped abruptly and looked over her shoulder as someone brushed against her and she felt her hair tumbling around her shoulders.

‘Miss Deborah!’ She rose to her feet in dismay. Her mistress was standing behind her, only half-dressed and triumphantly waving Emily’s hairclips in her hands.

‘Miss Deborah, I shall get into trouble, please give them back.’

Deborah snatched at Emily’s hair, which shone like silk and reached almost to her waist. ‘It’s like a curtain, Emily.’ She danced around her. ‘I shall insist that you always wear it like that.’ She stopped abruptly. Then she came a step nearer and gently touched Emily’s cheek. ‘You are lovely, Emily.’ Her mouth pouted. ‘Mrs Brewer says you’re not prettier than me but she’s lying. She’s lying.’ Her voice rose and she turned as the door opened and her father came into the room.

‘Papa! Look at Emily!’

Mr Francis did look at Emily, and Emily didn’t know what to do as Mr Francis gazed at her with her hair hanging loose about her shoulders. She saw an Adam’s apple move in his throat as he swallowed hard.

Deborah stroked Emily’s cheek again. ‘Look at Emily, Papa. Isn’t she lovely? Mrs Brewer says she isn’t, but she is. Isn’t she?’ Her voice was insistent.

‘I am looking at her, Deborah. Yes she is.’ His voice was soft. ‘She’s very lovely indeed. Mrs Brewer was wrong.’ He took a deep breath and, with his eyes still on Emily, said, ‘Now be a good girl, Deborah, and give Emily her hairpins back so that she can fasten up her hair.’

‘No! I won’t! She can buy some more. I shall wear these in my hair.’ She stuck the pins in her own dishevelled hair and screaming with laughter she ran out of the room and up the stairs.

‘I’m sorry, Emily. My daughter can be difficult sometimes,’ he began, but she said swiftly, ‘It’s all right sir, I can borrow some more and get mine back later.’ But her eyes were drawn to the open door and the stairs beyond and the figure of Mrs Francis in her nightclothes coming downstairs.