Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [55]
The cook snorted. “Go up and tell Mr. Redditch as the new girl’s ’ere after Dulcie’s place. Go on wi’ you! And if I catch you in them cakes again I’ll take a broom to yer!”
“Yes, Mrs. Melrose,” he said, and disappeared with alacrity.
Emily accepted her cup of tea and sipped it, giving herself hiccups and then feeling ridiculous when Mary laughed at her and the cook scowled. She tried holding her breath and had only just conquered them when the trim, pretty parlormaid came to say that Mrs. York would see her in the boudoir. She led the way and Emily followed. All along the passage, past the butler’s pantry, through the green baize door and into the main house she kept rehearsing in her mind what she must say, how she must behave. Eyes candid but modest, speak only when spoken to, never interrupt, never contradict, never express an opinion. No one cared or wanted to know what maids thought, it was impertinence. Never ask anyone to do anything for you, do it yourself. Call the butler sir, or by his name. Address the housekeeper and the cook by name. And remember to speak with the right accent! Always be available, night or day. Never have headaches or stomachaches—you were there to do a job, and short of serious illness there were no excuses. The vapors were for ladies, not for servants.
Nora, the parlormaid, knocked on the door, opened it, and announced, “The girl to see you, ma’am, about being Miss Veronica’s maid.”
The boudoir was ivory and pink with touches of deeper rose, very feminine indeed. There was no time to look for character or quality now.
Mrs. Loretta York sat in an armchair. She was a small woman, a little plump around the shoulders, an inch or two thicker at the waist than she probably wished, but otherwise the beauty she had been in her youth was excellently preserved. Emily knew instantly that there was steel under the woman’s soft, white skin, and for all the lace handkerchiefs, the waft of perfume, and her thick, soft hair, there was nothing remotely vague in her wide eyes.
“Ma’am.” Emily bobbled a very small curtsy.
“Where do you come from, Amelia?” Loretta inquired.
Emily had already decided the safest thing would be to copy her own maid’s background—that way she would be certain not to contradict herself. “King’s Langley, ma’am, in Hertfordshire.”
“I see. What does your father do?”
“He’s a cooper, ma’am. Makes barrels and the like. My mam used to be a dairymaid for Lord Ashworth, as was the old gentleman, before he passed on.” She knew not to say died; it was too blunt a word for a servant to use on such a delicate subject. One did not speak of death.
“And you have worked for Lady Ashworth and Lady Cumming-Gould. Do you have your references?”
“Yes ma’am.” She took them out of her reticule, fingers stiff with nervousness, and passed them over. She looked at the floor while Loretta first read them and then refolded them and passed them back. Both letters were written on crested paper, she had taken care to see to that.
“Well, these seem to be satisfactory,” Loretta observed. “Why did you leave Lady Ashworth’s service?”
She had thought of that. “My mam passed on,” she said, catching her breath and swallowing hard. Please heaven the hiccups did not return! It would be disastrous if Loretta thought she had been tippling at the cooking sherry. “I had to go back home to care for my younger sisters, until we could find places for them. And of course Lady Ashworth, being a lady of Society, had to find someone to take me place: but she said she’d speak well for me. And then Lady Cumming-Gould took me on.”
“I see.” The chill eyes regarded her unemotionally. It was odd to be looked at as if one were a property to be purchased or passed by, without regard to manners or feelings. It was not peculiar to Loretta York; anyone else would have been similar. And yet she would be employed to care for her on the most intimate terms, brush her hair, launder, iron and mend her clothes, even her underwear, wake her in the morning,