Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [60]
Edith, the other lady’s maid, apparently felt recovered enough to come to the table. She was in her mid-thirties, plump and sullen, her black hair still shiny but her country complexion dulled with two decades of London fog and soot and too little air. Whatever her indisposition, and although she seemed ill pleased with the food, she managed to eat all of it and came back for second helpings of the bread, cheese, and pickles, which was all there was offered, the main meal having been eaten at luncheon. Emily had the strong suspicion that Edith was more lazy than unwell, and she determined to find out why the disciplinarian Mrs. York tolerated her.
She spent what was left of the evening in the servants hall, listening to scraps of conversation and learning all she could, which was little enough, because they spoke mainly of their own affairs, domestic matters, the tradesmen and their shortcomings, and the general decline of the national character as exhibited by other people’s servants and the standards of households in general.
Edith sat next to the fire and sewed a chemise, and the mystery of her employment was solved—she was an exquisite needlewoman. Idle and ungracious she might be, but there was genius in her fingers. Her needle flashed in and out, drawing the gleaming silk behind it, and flowers took shape under her hand, delicate as gossamer and perfectly proportioned. Emily glanced at her work and saw the reverse was almost indistinguishable from the top. She realized that she might well be expected to pull Edith’s weight in fetching and carrying, and she would have to do it without complaint, or she would be replaced. Girls who would run errands were two a penny since the coming of machinery and the consequent disappearance of hundreds of home crafts; the traditional occupations for women no longer existed. Tens of thousands of them poured in from the country to take domestic service, most of them with nothing to offer but willingness and the need to survive. Girls who could stitch like Edith were worth their weight in gold. It was a lesson to be remembered.
Fanny, the tweeny, who was only twelve, was sent to bed at half past nine so she could be up at five to clean out the grates and polish the brasses. She went with a halfhearted complaint, made more from habit than any hope she would be reprieved, and Prim, the scullery maid, followed fifteen minutes later, for similar reasons, and with a similar complaint.
“On with you!” the housekeeper said sharply. “Quick sticks! Up them stairs, girl, or you’ll be late in the morning.”
“Yes, Mrs. Crawford. G’night. G’night, Mr. Redditch.”
“Good night,” came the automatic reply.
“I know there is a big dinner party tomorrow—will there be many guests?” Emily asked as casually as she could.
“Twenty,” Nora replied. “We don’t do very big parties here, but we have some important people.” She sounded a little defensive. She looked at Emily coldly, prepared to counter any slight, should it be offered.
“We used to ’ave more,” Mary said, looking up from the mending she was doing. “Afore Mr. Robert was killed.”
“That’ll do, Mary!” the cook said quickly. “We don’t want to talk o’ things like that. You’ll be givin’ them girls bad dreams again!”
Emily deliberately misunderstood. “I love parties. I love to see the ladies all dressed up.”
“Not parties!” the housekeeper said crossly. “Talking about death. You can’t be expected to know, Amelia, but Mr. Robert died terrible. I’ll caution you to hold your tongue about it. You go tattling all over the place and upsetting people and you’ll have no position in this house, and no character to take with you! Now you