Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [26]
“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,