A Death in the Family (10 page)

Richenda nodded. I reminded myself internally that she didn’t need to thank me. This was my job. Besides tidying her things and going through her things were two similar actions.

Miss Richenda slurped at her tea. There is no other word to describe it. The sight was quite revolting, but it seemed to refresh her. Her eyes snapped open. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

‘Right here, miss.’

‘No, no, yesterday. I have no maid with me. I was rather expecting you to wait on me.’

‘I’m sorry, miss. Mrs Wilson had a lot for me to do.’

Miss Richenda screwed up her face. ‘Ooooh, that wretched woman! She would do anything to spite me!’

She lapsed into contemplative silence.

‘I would not want to speak ill of any member of staff,’ I said quickly. She looked up. I had her attention. ‘But I think even Mrs Wilson’s closest friend would say she is not the easiest lady to work for.’ Miss Richenda’s eyes searched my face. I lowered my eyes. ‘Such exacting standards,’ I murmured. Had I gone too far?

Miss Richenda scoffed. ‘Exacting standards? She likes to think she runs this house.’

I thought frantically, but there was really nothing I could reply to this without contradicting her. My confusion must have shown on my face.

‘Yes. Yes. I know she technically runs this house, but I mean actually runs it. Dearest Step-Mama gives her the daily orders and she follows them.’

‘She seems very competent,’ I said mildly. ‘She writes all the orders down in a little book.’

‘Oh yes, she will do things by the letter because then if anyone goes running to my father she can quote chapter and verse back at you. Damn impertinence, I call it. I give servants directions. I mean, you’ve got a brain, haven’t you?’

I nodded.

‘Well then, if I said, “Tidy this room”, you would go through my things and put them all back in the proper places, would you not?’

I nodded again.

‘Well, if I tried giving Mrs Wilson an order like that she’d go through every single item checking where each thing should go. It would take so bally long I might as well do the job myself.’

I murmured something about being thorough again.

‘Rubbish. The woman hates her job. But she won’t leave my father.’

I had the sense we were edging into dangerous territory. I stayed hopefully silent. Miss Richenda flung out of bed. ‘I expect you’re wondering what I mean by that, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, miss,’ I admitted. I am very bad at lying. I always imagine Father standing beside me shaking his head.

Miss Richenda gave one of her loud barks of laughter. ‘Don’t mince words, do you? Hand me that robe! I’ll need you to run me a bath. None of that awful pink stuff in it that dearest Step-Mama insisted on filling the house with. Stinks something awful.’

‘Certainly, miss. At once.’ I made my way slowly enough towards her bathroom to give her as much opportunity as possible to let another indiscretion drop. She did not disappoint.

‘Knew my father when he was a young man,’ she said as I opened the bathroom door. ‘He’s very fond of her. No accounting for taste.’ She hesitated then added in a run, ‘All the men in my family are a sight too damn fond of the servants, if you ask me.’

I came back into the room. ‘Miss, I don’t want to speak out of turn, but seeing as you have mentioned it I’m wondering if I might not be happier in another situation. Would you be willing to give me a letter of reference?’

To be honest I did not know if I wanted to go or I wanted to stay. There were arguments in both directions, but I did not think it would harm either option to have Miss Richenda think I respected her more than anyone else.

‘Tsk, tsk! Euphemia, a clever girl like you knows the time of day. We can’t be another maid down. Who will press my dress? Merry made a cack-handed mess of it yesterday. You leave it to me. I’ll have a word and sort this out. Men need to be put in their place. I can do that for you.’

‘Thank you, miss.’ The fierce expression on her face almost made me feel sorry for Mr Richard. Almost.

I ran her bath. ‘Perfect, Euphemia. Now, if you could pick up things a bit in here. And when you have done that you might like to take a good look through my wardrobe. It needs a bit of sorting. Press dresses. Rearrange shoes. That sort of thing.’

This turned out to be an understatement. By the time Miss Richenda had finished her long soak in the tub I had achieved the impossible and made the room even more of a mess. When I opened the wardrobe I could almost swear clothing had leapt across the room it was so tightly packed in.

Miss Richenda was now as fresh as a daisy and I was mired down deep in clothes that should have been sent for cleaning rather than stuffed back in the wardrobe. It wasn’t my place to ask how this could have happened, but I did feel she owed me. ‘Miss? Do you mind if I ask you a question?’

Miss Richenda was powdering her face. Until that moment I had not realised optimism was one of her defining characteristics. Nothing short of paint would be able to cover those freckles.

I shook away the uncharitable thoughts. The lady continued to dab.

‘Miss?’

‘Yes, what is it, Euphemia?’

‘I met this strange man in the garden …’

‘How unwise.’

‘I think he was a pressman, miss. He mentioned something about this being a house of death and destruction.’

‘Sounds more like a tinker trying to sell lucky heather to me.’

‘You’ve no idea what he meant, miss?’

Richenda turned to show me a face of clown-like white. ‘Really, girl, you shouldn’t waste your time talking to hawkers. Now, tell me, is this too much powder, do you think?’

‘No, not at all, miss,’ I said steadily.

Once she had left I made a thorough search of the room. This isn’t as nefarious as it sounds. It was actually necessary to go through all her possessions to uncover the furniture hidden underneath. That little pocketbook, of which I had been cherishing much hope, provided to me no more than a list of items she required – stockings, face powder – and lists of popular songs. It was, I thought unkindly, as empty as her head.

My stomach was reminding me I had been here almost all the morning when the door opened and Merry bounced in. ‘There you are! Mrs Wilson’s in a right lather. You not telling her where you were. The master wants to see you right now.’

I looked down helplessly at my crumpled uniform.

‘Right now, missy. Chop, chop! What ’ave you been up to?’

Merry’s bright eyes sparkled with mischief. It was good to see her forgetting her woes, but I could not but feel the situation was unfortunate.

I was not even slightly surprised to see Mrs Wilson waiting for me in the library. Personally, I was less than keen to return to this room, but the housekeeper appeared not to share my qualms. The master of the house was seated at a desk. A rug had been thrown over the area where Miss Richenda and I had dragged the body.

Lord Stapleford eased his chair back as I entered, catching the edge of it on the new rug. ‘Damn and blast this thing, Wilson. Will you have it removed?’

‘The Mistress requested it,’ she said in a pale voice.

‘Does the Mistress use this room? Wretched woman barely knows how to read!’ stormed the master of the house in a most ungentlemanly manner.

I dropped a small bobbing curtsy. As I hoped the movement distracted him.

‘What do you want, girl?’ he barked.

‘You sent for me, sir,’ I said politely.

‘Did I? Why the hell did I do that?’

‘It was about the garden incident, sir.’ A thin smile spread across the pallid features. Mrs Wilson, I reflected, had the kind of face that looked better in death. I do not mean I have murderous intentions towards her, rather that having been present at a number of wakes – usually helping with tea for the mourners – I had had the opportunity to see an unusual number of deaths in my time. This memory brought two things to mind. Firstly, why are the bereaved always so thirsty – a question for which I still have no answer. Secondly, no one had made any mention of Cousin Georgie’s funeral.

‘The odd-tasting cabbage?’ asked Lord Stapleford.

‘The incident with the
man
.’

How the woman managed to get such an unpleasant mixture of suggestion and malice into one three-letter word is a skill I wish I never succumb to learning.

‘Mentioned by Miss Richenda?’ she added.

‘Ah, yes. You came across a pressman in the garden?’

‘A fine story,’ snorted Mrs Wilson. ‘This is the new girl, sir. On a fortnight’s trial. I’m afraid she is not proving suitable.’

‘Indeed,’ said Lord Stapleford. ‘Why not?’

‘She shows distressing signs of ideas above her station, sir.’

‘Hmm,’ the master puffed into his moustache considering the situation. Then he said, ‘What happened with the pressman, girl?’

‘I do not know he was a gentleman of the press, sir. It is only what I surmise.’

Lord Stapleford’s bushy eyebrows rose and I mentally cursed my inability to talk as befitted my new station.

‘He was asking the gardener’s boy questions about your comings and goings. When I appeared on the scene the boy took the opportunity to leave. I suggested to the man he might be well advised to do likewise. He attempted to ask me some questions, but I rebuffed him.’

‘Did you indeed?’ barked Lord Stapleford. ‘Did he say anything else to you?’

‘He made a comment about the family fortune being founded on death and destruction.’ Lord Stapleford’s expression darkened, so I added quickly, ‘I have no idea what he was referring to and so I told him and sent him on his way.’

‘How exactly did you do this?’ asked my master.

‘I threatened to scream very loudly, drawing the attention of the police officer I claimed was still in the house, if he did not vacate the premises.’

‘Ha! Ha!’ barked Lord Stapleford. ‘You’ve got a rare one here, Jenny!’

The world shifted slightly as I learnt Mrs Wilson had a Christian name and so, despite appearances, a cleric must have attempted to drive out the devil at her baptism. You will forgive me if I suggest said priest must have been young and inexperienced.

‘Well done, my girl! Well done!’ He rummaged in his trouser pocket. ‘Come here. I’ve something for you.’

It was with some trepidation I approached. Lord Stapleford handed me a half-sovereign.

‘Thank you, sir,’ I stammered. It was an extraordinary amount of money.

‘Now, don’t you go mentioning this to any of the staff. Don’t want them thinking I’m going soft.’

‘No, sir,’ I said and curtsied.

‘Oh, and no reason to mention to anyone what that man said. Only upset me wife and daughter. Least said and all that. Understand, girl?’

‘Of course, sir.’ I was now burning with curiosity.

‘Excellent! Excellent! Don’t think this is a case of ideas above her station, Jenny. Strikes me the girl has unusual intelligence. Long as you don’t find her in me son’s bed, she’ll do. Do you good to have a sensible pair of hands to help you rather than those yokel blockheads you normally employ.’

Mrs Wilson gave me a look of pure bile. ‘As you say, sir. Perhaps Euphemia should leave us now?’

‘What? What? You still here, girl? Off about your work. No dillydallying in my house,’ and he gave me what I can guess he meant as a roguish wink. Fortunately, breakfast had been some time earlier.

I made my way back to the kitchen, my head in a whirl. A whole half-sovereign! I knew a bribe when I was given one. There were more secrets in this household than nails in a coffin. An unfortunate simile, but as I stepped out into the bright, warm realm of Mrs Deighton I could not shake a deep-seated fear that there was more evil to come.

I should have somehow sealed the half-sovereign to the paper. I should have begged a stamp from Mrs Deighton. I should never have accepted the money in the first place. But as my father would often say, hindsight is the clearest vision of all.

I had not had the forethought to pack paper and ink with me. I was lamenting this fact in the kitchen when Merry amazed me.

‘I have a leaf or two you could borrow if you have to write to your ma.’

I garbled a thank you and promised to replace whatever I used. Merry flushed. ‘I can write, you know,’ she said lifting her chin high.

‘Of course,’ I muttered embarrassed she had read my thoughts.

‘Writes something lovely, she does,’ chimed in Mrs Deighton. ‘Makes checking the stores that much easier.’

‘I’ll get it for you,’ said Merry.

‘Oh dear,’ said the cook. ‘Now, I’ve offended her. I was ever so pleased to help her when she decided she wanted to better herself. But she’s so sensitive about it. I keep telling her she’s good enough for any nice young bloke, but I don’t know …’ Mrs Deighton trailed off. ‘I’d been worried she’d got herself entangled in something. You’ve got to be careful in this house, dearie. Have a word with her, Euphemia. She likes you and Merry, for all her smiles, doesn’t take to everyone.’

‘I’ll go after her. I’d rather write my letter upstairs anyway.’

‘If you’re quick about it you’ll have time to run down to the post office in the village. I’ll tell Mrs W I’ve sent you for some extra currants. Not much of a lie as someone’s been picking at ’em. I reckon Holdsworth has a secret sweet tooth.’ We both laughed at the thought of the butler covertly nibbling dried fruit. ‘Here’s a couple of pennies. Now, you be quick. You’ll only have time to pen a line or two, but your mother will be pleased to know you’re safe.’

I took the pennies and scampered up the stairs. Merry met me halfway along the attic corridor. ‘Here,’ she said handing me a couple of tissue-thin sheets, a small bottle of muddy ink and a rough pen. ‘Will this do?’

‘It’s lovely,’ I lied.

‘Do you want an envelope too?’

I nodded. ‘I’ll replace them.’

Merry shrugged. ‘You get writing and I’ll bring you one.’

I went into my room and sat looking at the paper in dismay. It had been my intention to send the half-sovereign to Mother, but the paper was too thin to support my sealing it on and I suspected the envelope would be of similar quality. Worse yet Merry had liberally sprinkled the pages with lavender water. On the positive side the watermarks were few, but unfortunately the paper reeked. What on earth Mother would make of this I hardly dare imagine. I was certain she would ascribe to the belief that only ‘women of a certain sort’ used perfumed paper. I was sniffing the paper when Merry came in behind me.