Her Ladyship's Girl (11 page)

‘I’m Mrs Hathaway, the housekeeper. Please, sit down.’

We sat and the maids served us with a lunch of tomato and cheddar soup, followed by pork cutlets dressed with fennel, dill and cucumber and accompanied with a spoonful or two of diced potatoes,
along with yellow watermelon for pudding. Not much was said during lunch and I found I wasn’t all that hungry after the big fried breakfast – I wasn’t used to eating like this and
my stomach would take time adjusting to it. But I did my best, as I was always taught to waste not and, consequently, to want not, and I believed that lie. The two other women settled back with
cups of tea when the dishes were cleared away.

Mrs Hathaway was just about to say something to me, when the door opened and a tall man came into the parlour. He was about forty-five or fifty, dressed in a tailcoat and striped trousers like
Jacob’s. He wore a white shirt and black tie under his waistcoat and his hair was blackish grey and sleeked back by a pomade, which was an emulsion of water and mineral oil and stabilised
with beeswax. He looked a bit like Bela Lugosi and Miss Mason almost swooned when he came in. She and Mrs Hathaway rose from their seats to greet him.

‘Mr Biggs . . . we weren’t expecting you till later. We’ve already had lunch.’

‘Not to worry, Mrs Hathaway, I’ve already dined.’

He looked down at me with an ominous glare. I thought I’d better stand too, so I did.

‘This is Miss Moyle, the new lady’s maid.’

He looked me up and down for a moment, as if he was judging a heifer at a cattle fair.

‘How old are you, my dear.’

‘I’m eighteen.’

‘Rather young . . .’

He mumbled this last remark to himself and shot a raised-eyebrow glance at the other women. Mr Biggs then poured himself a cup of tea and we all sat down again.

The other three spoke amongst themselves about household matters and largely ignored me for a while, until I eventually interrupted them.

‘Excuse me . . .’

They all stopped talking and turned to look at me.

‘What am I supposed to be doing?’

Mrs Hathaway spoke first, in an offhand, sarcastic way.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Not really . . . I mean, I know what my duties will be, but I expected some sort of agenda . . .’

Mr Biggs swallowed the last of his tea and stood up.

‘Mrs Bouchard is away today, so you should take the opportunity to settle in. I’m sure she will instruct you tomorrow.’

The others stood too and it looked like lunchtime was over. I returned to my room and read for the rest of the day, interrupted only by Heather bringing me a supper of mackerel fillets with
lemon and coriander, a mixture of mashed carrot and potato and some roast figs with honey – along with another pot of tea. I left most of it and fell into a fretful sleep later in the
evening, when it was dark and forsaken outside in the groomed garden below my window.

I
was already up and dressed when Heather brought my breakfast at 8:00 a.m. next morning. She was more subdued today, and there was no sniggering
behind her hand. At about 8:30 a.m., Jacob came and knocked on the door.

‘Madam Bouchard will see you in half an hour.’

He was about to leave, but I jumped up and grabbed his arm. He looked startled, like he’d just been bitten by an uncivilised dog and he pulled himself away from me.

‘Jacob, please . . . wait.’

‘What is it?’

‘I want to know about Mrs Bouchard.’

‘Then you should ask her.’

‘I’m asking you. Please, Jacob . . .’

My big eyes and girlish guile must have softened his heart. He came back into the room and closed the door.

‘You mustn’t say I said anything.’

‘Upon my apostate soul.’

His voice was a low whisper, as if someone might be listening, and he told me what he knew about Madam Bouchard, as he called her. Her maiden name was Brandon and she held the title of
‘Lady’. Her family went all the way back to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who married Mary Tudor, one of the daughters of Henry VII. They had several children, one of whom, called
Frances, married Henry Grey, who was also Duke of Suffolk, and their daughter was Jane Grey, who was queen of England for nine days, before being executed by Bloody Mary when she was sixteen. But
Madam Bouchard’s ancestors were from the more obscure branch of the family tree of one of Charles Brandon’s illegitimate children and couldn’t claim any entitlement to the throne.
The Madam herself had a younger brother who would inherit her father’s title and also the country estate in Warwickshire. He had a separate house in London and he rarely visited Chester
Square.

Jacob didn’t want to go on, but I knew there was more to it and I stood inside the door and wouldn’t move out of his way until he told me. More recently, Mr Brandon senior was
involved in military intelligence during the Great War. He was attached to MI3d, which apparently handled Scandinavia. Mr Brandon junior was too young to be involved in the war, and he didn’t
really do anything these days, but follow his adventurer father round the world on his trips to out of the way places. The Brandons kept their cards close to their chests and that’s all Jacob
knew about them. Madam Brandon, as he called her, was the black sheep of the family. She’d married an Algerian called Emile Bouchard against her family’s wishes and they disowned her
for that and she went to live in the city of Oran with her husband.

Bouchard was of French ancestry, even though he was born in North Africa. He was killed in a bar-brawl with some Algerian nationals two years earlier. Madam Bouchard’s family relented
after this and allowed the prodigal daughter to return home and bought her the house in Chester Square and gave her access to society again. She had no children and was the only one living here,
apart from the servants and occasional guests.

‘That’s all I can tell you, Miss Moyle. Now can you please get out of my way.’

‘Of course. Thank you, Jacob.’

He hurried out the door and, half an hour later, came back again and escorted me along the corridor to the master bedroom. He knocked on the door.

‘Come in.’

Jacob indicated for me to enter the room, which I did. Mrs Bouchard was sitting up in bed, eating breakfast from a tray that was set on a little trestle across her lap. Jacob didn’t come
into the room, but closed the door behind me. Mrs Bouchard pointed to a chair beside the bed, but didn’t speak until she’d swallowed what was in her mouth.

‘So sorry I wasn’t here yesterday, Anwyn. Shall I call you Anwyn? I think so, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, Madam.’

‘And you must call me Miranda.’

I didn’t think I’d be able to call her that. Nobody ever called the toffs by their Christian names, or any other name except their title.

‘Are you sure, Madam?’

‘Of course. You do know who Miranda was, don’t you?’

‘From Shakespeare’s
The Tempest
, I think .’

‘Yes, the motherless magician’s daughter. Quite analogous to myself, really.’

She finished eating and indicated for me to remove the trestle, which I did and just stood there holding it, not knowing what to do next.

‘Just put it on that table.’

She reached for a packet of cigarettes and lit one. I placed an ashtray close to her on the bed.

‘You’re a very literate young lady, Anwyn. Do you know what the name Bouchard means?’

‘No, Madam . . . sorry, Miranda.’

‘It means big mouth. So, let’s talk, shall we?’

Over the next hour or so, Miranda Bouchard smoked half a dozen cigarettes and outlined what my duties would be. I’d have to help her dress and undress, although she said she was no invalid
and wouldn’t require to be treated as one. I wouldn’t need to bring her breakfast, as one of the parlourmaids would do that, but she wanted me to eat with her in the dining room for
lunch and dinner, except when she was entertaining guests.

I was too inexperienced to select her wardrobe and jewellery, but I knew a fair bit about fashion and she was prepared to listen to my advice, if I wanted to give it. And I’d be expected
to learn this aspect of the job, through observation, as I went along. She had a hair stylist who came down from Carlisle Street for the big jobs, but I’d be required to tend to her hair on a
day-today basis and maybe learn enough to take over from the stylist in time. I’d also be required to apply and remove make-up and perform manicures and pedicures. I’d have to clean and
tidy the master bedroom, her dressing room and her bathroom, as these places were where she kept her most intimate possessions and she didn’t want the other servants handling them. Well,
cleaning and tidying a few rooms would be no bother to someone like me who’d spent the last year or so scrubbing and shining and sprucing.

I wouldn’t be required to mend clothes, as that was a specialised job, but I would be required to deliver and collect items to and from a seamstress in St Martin’s Lane. Miranda
Bouchard didn’t usually rise until 9:00 a.m. and I’d have to be ready when she did. She suggested I continue as I did that morning, with breakfast being served to me at 8:00 a.m. and
for me to come find her when I was finished. She couldn’t be as precise when it came to going back to bed in the evening – her hours were erratic and she might want me at any time. On
such occasions, if I wasn’t accompanying her, I should go to bed when I wanted and she’d wake me or have me woken if she needed me. I’d also have to tend to her if she was ill,
administering medicines prescribed by her doctor and, if necessary, sleeping in the master bedroom with her. But probably the most important of my duties would be to circulate with other
ladies’ maids whenever I came into contact with them and to extract as much information as possible about who would be wearing what and who was having a liaison with whom and all the other
little secrets of Mrs Bouchard’s social group.

In 1935, the heyday of the socialites was over. Estates were being sold off left, right and centre. I’d heard Mr Harding and Mr Ayres discussing it once at Hampstead and they said that
only a third of the families listed in Burke’s Peerage actually held land any more. Mr Harding wasn’t bothered about that because he was an industrialist, not an aristocrat. With the
decline of the aristocracy came the decline of what was called the social calendar. But the London season was still happening, though maybe not in such an extravagant way as before. And the picture
of the Mitford sisters in all the papers, posing with the Nazi stormtroopers at that Nuremberg rally, didn’t endear the toffs to the ordinary people who were suffering the effects of the
Great Slump. It all seemed so objectionable, these people swaggering and flaunting, while the rest of the country were tightening their belts. But the shrunken social scene meant there was even
more gossiping and backstabbing than before and everyone wanted to be one step ahead of everyone else.

‘It’s a very claustrophobic world, Anwyn, but one I have to live in.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good girl.’

She said I’d also be expected to travel with her. There would be Cheltenham in a few weeks’ time, and Ascot and Epsom in June, Henley Regatta in July and Cowes week in August.
I’d also be required to accompany her to spas and vapour treatments and restaurants and department stores and cinemas, unless she was accompanied by someone else. There would also be all the
London events, like the Chelsea Flower Show, tea parties in May, the Garter Service in June, the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition and the West End theatre scene. There would be the many balls and
champagne parties during the summer season – the May Ball at Grosvenor House, the Cavalry and Guards Club Ball and other private soirees, up to the end of the season in September. The house
in Chester Square would then be closed up and put into the hands of the caretakers, while we’d all travel up to Warwickshire to spend the winter on the Brandon family’s country
estate.

There was no ‘summoning’ bell in my room and I wondered how Mrs Bouchard would call me when she wanted me. She said she’d either come and get me herself or send someone for
me.

‘There are strict rules of behaviour that we’ll have to adhere to, Anwyn.’

‘I’m sure there are, Madam.’

‘Miranda.’

‘Yes, Miranda, sorry.’

I was going to find it difficult to get used to calling her by her Christian name.

‘They aren’t my rules, please understand that. They’re society’s rules.’

‘I understand.’

‘Things are changing, Anwyn, but some of these rules still can’t be challenged, especially by a woman.’

‘I suppose not.’

By now, the bedroom was full of cigarette smoke. She pulled back the bed sheets and revealed that she was wearing nothing but her underwear – no nightdress nor robe nor chemise of any kind
and I must have appeared a little startled.

‘I got used to sleeping naked in Algeria, so now I just can’t abide a lot of clothes on me in bed.’

‘Quite right.’

‘You don’t have to agree with everything I say, Anwyn.’

‘I know that. But you haven’t said anything I disagree with yet.’

She laughed a little and discarded the underwear and walked naked to the bathroom.

‘You’ll need to draw my bath for me after breakfast. But I’ll do it myself today. I like the water to be about thirty degrees . . . not too hot. And just clear water, no salts
or soap suds of any kind.’

‘Very well.’

‘You can use the other bathroom, you know where it is?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

I opened the windows to let out the smoke while she was bathing. I stripped the bed of its sheets and found replacements in a linen cupboard in the hall. I also found Beatrice and asked her to
bring me some paper and kindling and coal and, while I was waiting, I tidied up the bedroom and selected what was for washing and cleaning and which clothes could be put back into the huge
wardrobes. Miranda was in the bathroom for almost an hour and, when she came back out, the bedroom was tidied and the windows closed against the springtime chill and a lively little fire taking
hold in the grate.