The House at Tyneford (9 page)

M
rs. Ellsworth ushered me through the green baize door and into the main part of the house. That door was the dividing line between our domain and theirs, as inviolate as any national boundary. She walked me around the west drawing room, pointing out an alarming array of precious china bells and antique netsuke that I was not to break. A collection of stern-faced ancestors glared down upon me from shadowed walls, the curtains tightly closed to preserve the Chinese silk wallpaper and a Turner seascape of the rocks in Mupe Bay. The painted sea crashed noiselessly against the glistening rocks, as storm clouds swirled. Mrs. Ellsworth informed me in a voice heavy with pride that this was the most precious painting in the house, insured for more than a thousand guineas. She paused by the vast stone-carved fireplace, inset once again with the family crest and twining ivy. The yellow sandstone was blackened at the back with soot and smoke, and the ashes of an old fire fluttered in the grate.

“Each mornin’ you’re to clean out the fireplaces in the main sitting room, the dining room and the mornin’ room. If ladies are visiting in cold weather then you are to go quietly into their rooms and put a match to their fire. Fire must be laid the night before, mind.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ellsworth.”

I stifled a yawn. I had never been so bored. The list of tasks stretched endlessly before me, and I knew with quiet certainty that I would never remember half of them and a fierce scolding was inevitable.

“Did you understand how to use the beeswax on the floor?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ellsworth.”

“An’ you saw how to polish them ornaments without breakages?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ellsworth.”

“You can come back and finish cleaning in here later. Mr. Wrexham likes to show new housemaids how to light a fire properly.”

I hurried after Mrs. Ellsworth out into the panelled hall and into a cheerful dining room laid for breakfast. My first lesson had been upon the importance of walking fast: a maid is never idle, and dawdling is idle. For the next twelve months, I must proceed everywhere at a jog, as though upon urgent business of state, even if I were merely returning an eggcup to the pantry. I learned that a stroll was a privilege of the wealthy. When I thought about it, I had never seen Hildegard amble; she hurried everywhere with the same expediency as Mrs. Ellsworth, and even in our quiet hours chattering together in the kitchen, her hands were never still—her knitting needles click-clicked, she darned the tears in my clothes, she dusted sugar over buns plucked from the oven.

In the morning room, a silver coffeepot rested on a hot plate, releasing a delicious aroma, and my mouth watered—since my arrival in England I’d had nothing but thick black tea, which I found quite revolting. These curtains were open and the bright sunlight streamed through the tall casement windows. Outside lay a terrace with stone balustrades woven with tangled vines. Low terra-cotta pots brimming with scarlet geraniums were set at regular intervals beside white-painted tables and chairs, while beyond the terrace, smooth lawns sloped down toward the sea. It was so beautiful that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Harrumph. Another dawdler,” said a voice.

I looked around and saw a white-haired man, with the deportment and authority of a conductor, standing beside Mrs. Ellsworth. I suppressed a giggle; I’d never actually heard a man say “harrumph” in real life before. It was a word I’d only ever read in storybooks, while trying to improve my English.

“Elise, meet Mr. Wrexham. Mr. Rivers’ butler, valet and the head of staff here at Tyneford.”

I hesitated, far more awkward before this austere old man than I had been the previous night when confronted with Mr. Rivers himself. Was I supposed to shake his hand? To curtsy?

“Most pleased and delighted in the . . . shaping of your . . . acquaintance, sir,” I said, keeping my hands firmly at my sides.

He stared at me with narrowed eyes. “Is the girl attempting humour?”

“No, I don’t believe so, Mr. Wrexham. I think her grasp of the English language is a trifle peculiar.”

“Well. Give her some improving books. This won’t do. She must be able to wait on English ladies and gentlemen without causing confusion or
embarrassment
.” He pronounced this last word as though it was a capital offence.

“Yes, very good, Mr. Wrexham,” said Mrs. Ellsworth.

The next quarter of an hour was spent with Mr. Wrexham schooling me in how to lay and light a fire. I worked my way through most of a box of matches, several sheets of newspaper and all of his patience, but by the time the morning room door opened and Mr. Rivers entered, a hearty blaze roared in the hearth. He bade a good morning to the senior servants and, ignoring me entirely, seated himself at the table with his morning paper.

“Will you be needing anything further, Mr. Rivers?” inquired Mrs. Ellsworth.

“No, thank you.”

“Well, this is the new house parlour maid, Elise,” she said.

“Very good. Nice to meet you, Elsie,” said Mr. Rivers, not looking up from his paper.

I felt irritation prickle along the back of my neck. Elsie, indeed. I wanted to grab the top of his wretched paper and crumple it. I’d never been so rudely ignored in all my life. Mrs. Ellsworth ushered me outside and thrust a box of cleaning utensils into my arms.

“Now. You can go and clean the sitting room properly. When you’ve done that, you can start on the bedrooms. Make sure you make them beds up properly, like I showed you.”

I started to walk away at a brisk pace, until she called me back and issued a further slew of instructions in a low voice.

“Elise. Remember, you must not be visible from the outside. When cleaning the windows, you must duck down and walk away if you ever glimpse any ladies or gentlemen outside on the lawn or terrace. If Mr. Rivers enters, you apologise, collect your cleaning things and leave. You must be invisible. You understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ellsworth. I am to be invisible.”

My hands bled. My nails split and the fingertips on each hand were raw and sliced with tiny cuts. My legs ached as if I’d been running for miles across the hills and I’d pulled every muscle in my shoulders and arms. All I wanted was to lie in a hot bath filled with Anna’s lavender salts and then disappear to my soft bed, with a cup of Hildegard’s special kirsch-laced hot chocolate. Instead I had to clean and scrub and polish and hurry between chores. The house was vast, many times the size of our sumptuous Viennese apartment, and entirely lacking in modern comforts—certainly none that would make the life of a maid a little easier. I found myself sighing like a lover over the memory of Hildegard’s smart new vacuuming machine. Mr. Wrexham caught me gazing out of the small arched window above the side porch, staring at the feathered clouds tumbling across the sky like a clutch of ducklings.

“Chop-chop, girl! If you’ve time to idle, I’ve a list of jobs for you.”

As he clapped his hands at me, I picked up my rag and bottle of vinegar, ran into the nearest bedroom and set to dusting the mirror and dressing table. A photograph of a pretty young woman in a drop-waist gown, the kind that had been the height of fashion in the twenties, rested on the table beside a tortoiseshell comb and a dish for earrings. I picked it up to dust the glass and looked at the face. She had a sweet smile, not quite straight, and she squinted shyly at the camera, as though reluctant to have her picture taken. The other things on the table were incongruous: a stash of gentlemen’s magazines, an old copy of the
Sporting Life
and a silver cigarette case. On second glance, I realised that the dish was filled not with earrings but cuff links. A brown leather armchair was positioned next to the window, and on the sill rested an ashtray. This was a gentleman’s room, not a lady’s. I heard the door open behind me, and whirled round expecting to see Mr. Rivers, but Mr. Wrexham had glided in, with the smooth grace belonging to the most proficient butlers.

“This is Mr. Christopher Rivers’ room.”

“Yes. Mr. Rivers.”

Mr. Wrexham frowned. “No, Mr. Christopher Rivers. Mr. Rivers’ son. He’s up at Cambridge presently. He returns in a few days. May shall clean the room then. You are not to come up here while Mr. Christopher is in residence.”

“Why?”

The question slipped out before I realised it. Mr. Wrexham reddened with displeasure, and I could see that he was debating whether to even answer me.

“Because Mr. Rivers is making a generous concession to your circumstance. Mr. Rivers does not think it proper that you should be in a young gentleman’s room when he is in the house.”

Mr. Wrexham reached out and took from me the photograph of the girl, which I hadn’t realised I was still clasping, and replaced it tenderly on the table.

“The late Mrs. Rivers. A fine lady,” he said quietly, half to himself.

I studied the gentle figure in the frame with her wispy pale hair and tried to imagine her married to the vigorous Mr. Rivers. I wondered why it was that all old photographs seemed sad.

The day disappeared in a whirl of dust and exhaustion. May and a gap-toothed girl from the village assisted in the drudgery. I glimpsed a manservant lugging buckets of coal, while a liveried footman carried trays into the library or study. I cleaned four guest bedrooms but none of them seemed to be in use, and they held the musty stench of neglect despite their daily airings. At five o’clock I descended the back stairs to the servants’ hall and tea. A long oak table had been set for supper, and Mr. Wrexham sat at one end and Mrs. Ellsworth at the other. This was the first time I had encountered all the servants together, and there were fewer of us than I had imagined. At ten to five, the two daily housemaids disappeared away to their own dinners in the village so that there were only eight live-in staff seated around the wooden table, cradling bowls of steaming stew and mash. Two low benches rested on either side of the table, with matching high-backed chairs for the butler and housekeeper. The dark panelled hall was thirty feet long, the table running nearly the length of the room, and easily could have seated a staff of forty. The hall echoed with our voices and I wondered when it had last been full. We would have been much more comfortable in the airy kitchen rather than sitting on the hard wooden benches in the gloom. A faded sampler nailed above our heads proclaimed the dreary motto WORK AND FAITH, while the wall was studded with little brass bells, each corresponding to a label: STUDY, DRAWING ROOM, MASTER BEDROOM and so forth. More modern electric service bells had been installed in the kitchen and servants’ corridor, and this antique system lent the hall a dismal air. I sat beside Henry the footman (his real name was Stan, but the footman at Tyneford was always called Henry), while Billy the gardener (wild hair unpruned, in contrast to the neat shrubs in his domain) sat shovelling food and speaking to no one. Jim, the kitchen boy, chattered to Peter, the general manservant. May, scullery maid, general busybody and personage most put out by my appearance at Tyneford, sat opposite and watched me with round, piggish eyes, and I felt that if it hadn’t been for the others, she would have snarled at me with her small, yellow teeth.

“I were supposed to be housemaid. Bin scullery drudge fer five year,” she said.

I said nothing and scrutinised the brown steaming contents of the bowl before me.

“You’re not ready for promotion. I can’t have you chirpin’ away to the ladies an’ gentlemen,” said Mrs. Ellsworth, drumming her fingers against the table, and I gained the distinct impression this was an argument that had been under way for some time.

“Enough,” commanded Mr. Wrexham, eyes narrow with outrage. “Elise was engaged under a direct order from Mr. Rivers. I will not have his orders questioned in this house. Is that quite clear?”

May bent her head and began to sob noiselessly into her dumplings. Mrs. Ellsworth moved to comfort her, but, on catching Mr. Wrexham’s furious gaze, thought better of it and reached for her napkin instead.