Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [27]
“I know that,” Gracie said with dignity, then instantly regretted it. She might need Ada’s help later on. It almost choked her to apologize. “Not that I in’t grateful ter be told,” she added. “I wouldn’t want ter do it wrong.”
“Yer wouldn’t, an’ all,” Ada agreed heartily. “Mrs. Newsome’d ’ave yer! An’ don’t dawdle around. We in’t got all day. They won’t all be stayin’ in their rooms till luncheon today. We got catchin’ up ter do.”
Gracie bent obediently and set about lifting stains, sweeping up ash, polishing wood and marble, while Ada spread the damp tea leaves all over the rugs to absorb the dust, and then swept them all up again.
Gracie looked at the fireplace. It was tidy enough because there were no fires necessary in sitting rooms at this time of year, but the marble did not look clean. Should she say so, or would it be viewed as criticism of Ada’s skills?
“Wot yer staring at?” Ada demanded. “Won’t do itself!”
“Is that good enough?” Gracie gestured toward the marble.
“It’ll ’ave ter be,” Ada replied. “Takes a day or two to do it proper. Got ter leave the paste on. Can’t ’ave that when we got guests.”
“Wot d’yer do it with?” Gracie asked.
Ada sighed impatiently. “Soap lees, turpentine, pipe clay, and bullock’s gall. Don’t yer know nothing, then?”
“I do it with soda, pumice stone, an’ chalk mixed wi’ water,” Gracie replied. “Comes up straightaway.”
“Ain’t you the smart one!” Ada was clearly annoyed. “An’ if it stains it worse, oo’s gonna get the blame, eh? This is Buckingham Palace, miss. We do things the right way ’ere. Don’t you touch that fireplace ’ceptin’ wi’ wot I tell yer. D’you ’ear me?”
Gracie swallowed. “Yes.”
“Yer do all the light mantels, an’ make sure yer do ’em proper,” Ada said, pointing to the glass over the gaslamps. “I want ’em like crystal, right? No marks, no smears, no scratches. An’ if you break one yer’ll pay for it out o’ yer wages…fer the next year!” She stood with her arms folded, watching until Gracie picked up the cloth again and began to work.
Gracie knew she had made an enemy. It was a bad start. Her mind raced as to what on earth Mr. Narraway thought she could do to help Pitt. She knew very well that over a length of time servants learned a lot about their masters, or mistresses. You saw faults and weaknesses, you learned to know what people were frightened of, what they avoided because they could not face it, and what made them laugh. You certainly knew who they liked and who they did not. It was easy with women. How a woman dressed and how long she took to do it, how many times she changed her mind, told you all kinds of things.
But was that any use?
A servant could watch people in unguarded moments. Having a servant in the room was regarded as being alone. But how long would she have to spend coming and going, fetching things, cleaning and tidying up, before she saw or heard anything that mattered?
It was a horrid realization, being as unimportant as a piece of furniture. It meant people didn’t care in the slightest what you thought of them. She imagined what Samuel would say! Charlotte Pitt had never treated her like that.
But one of these wealthy and important men was a lunatic who mutilated women and left them bleeding to death in cupboards. She felt shivery and a little sick at the thought. Like a picture flashing before her mind came the memory of finding that terrible body in Mitre Square. She had never been so frightened in her life. That was ripped open too, like the other Whitechapel victims. Why did anybody do something like that?
“’Urry up!” Ada said peremptorily. “We gotta be out of ’ere before anyone wants ter use it, an’ we ain’t nowhere near finished yet. Get them dirty dusters up, an’ them glasses. Make sure there in’t no rings left on the tabletops, or Mrs. Newsome’ll ’ave yer skin.”
“There’s a scratch on the top over there,” Gracie pointed out, indicating an elegant Sheraton table.
“Yeah. Done it the other night when their tarts was ’ere.” Ada’s voice was sharp with disapproval. “Dunno why they can’t just