Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [64]
“Duchess!” Edith giggled. “That’s a fine name for ’er. Walks with ’er ’ead in the air like she already got a tiara on an’ was afraid it might slip over ’er nose.” She made a mock curtsy. “Don’t wobble yer ’ead, Yer Grace!”
“That’s enough!” the butler said with a frown of disapproval. “She’s done most of your work this morning. You should be obliged to her! Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“Edith was busy with mending, and she’s not strong.” Mrs. Crawford gave Redditch a look of irritation which would have quelled anyone less than a butler. “You’ve no call to pick on her.”
“Edith is bone idle and wouldn’t be kept if she wasn’t the best seamstress in the city,” Redditch replied quickly, but his reproach was robbed of some of its bite by the slightly wary air with which he immediately followed it.
“I’ll thank you to attend to your own responsibilities, Mr. Redditch. The maidservants are mine and I’ll look after them my own way, which suits Mrs. York well enough.”
“Well, it doesn’t suit me, Mrs. Crawford, to see girls lowering themselves to make mock of each other, and if I hear it again someone’ll have their notice.”
“We’ll see who has their notice, Mr. Redditch,” Mrs. Crawford said darkly. “You mark my words, it’ll be them as can best be replaced.”
That seemed to be the end of the matter for the time being, but Emily, glancing at their faces, knew that battle lines had been drawn and the exchange would not be forgotten. She had made enemies of both Edith and Nora, and the housekeeper would be happy to catch her in any shortcoming from now on. If she wanted to survive, she would have to cultivate the butler’s regard till her position became a matter of his pride as well.
The afternoon was dreadful. Emily had superintended her own maid often enough and had imagined she knew her duties, but watching someone use a flatiron on lace ruffling was a very different thing from doing it oneself, and it was much more difficult than she had thought. The only good thing about it was that she did not scorch anything, so it was possible for Joan to rescue her, and the outcome was a debt to Joan. Emily had no break all afternoon, not even for a cup of tea, and finally rushed upstairs at half past five, exhausted, her head throbbing, back aching and feet pinched in the unfamiliar boots, barely in time to help Veronica change for the dinner party.
After receiving several callers for tea Veronica seemed tired also, and more nervous than Emily could understand. She was not the hostess; the responsibility for the dinner’s success rested with her mother-in-law, so all she had to do was be charming. Nevertheless she changed her mind three times about which gown to wear, was dissatisfied with her hair, and when Emily had taken it all down and put it back up again she still did not feel confident. She stood in front of the cheval glass and frowned at her reflection.
Emily was exhausted, her mind crowded with thoughts of how selfish this woman was. She had done nothing whatsoever all day except visit, eat, and chatter, while Emily had worked like a Trojan, missed afternoon tea, and been picked on and jeered at, and all Veronica could think of was to tell Emily to take her hair down yet again and do it a third time.
“It becomes you very well the first way, ma’am.” Emily only barely controlled the tone of her voice.
Veronica picked up the perfume bottle and it slipped through her fingers, splashing perfume down the front of her skirt.
Emily could have wept. Now the whole thing had to be changed—there was no possible alternative. And on top of that she did not know how to get rid of the stain and would have to ask Edith, who would crow over her ignorance, almost certainly letting Mrs. Crawford know about it, and probably the rest of the staff. She did not trust herself to speak. It was only when she was in the dressing room fetching a fourth gown that she realized that she herself often gave no more thought to her own maid’s feelings than Veronica was doing now.
Back in the bedroom with the