I must be dead and have been carried up to heaven. The light! The sweet singing! But as my eyes get used to the glitter of the candles against the mirrors, and to the strange echo of all our voices, I know I am not dead. I am in the Great Hall. There beside Nurse is Cook, in her best cap and apron, there is Tom, the footman who often slips an apple into my hand because I remind him of his little sister back in Derby, and there Mr Drake, the butler. Mrs Baird, the housekeeper, looks nearly as grand as Miss Martha, her ladyship’s maid. But her ladyship and his lordship – yes, they might be angels, so beautiful do they look in their finery. His lordship stands beside her ladyship’s chair, all smiles. Young Master Augustus hands each of us a package, oh, so beautifully wrapped, some with ribbons – those are for the women and girls, of course. Everyone has their gift in order of rank, so I have to wait till the very last. The very, very last.
At last it is my turn. I mustn’t snatch, however much I might want to. I must walk the length of the row of maids, past the footmen, past Mrs Baird and past Mr Drake. Curtsy. Three paces forward. Curtsy. Take the parcel with not a hint of a snatch. Three paces backwards. Curtsy. A slow walk back to my place. Then, line by interminable line, we troop back to the servants’ hall.
Back to the places we have to sit at table.
We sit.
We are to undo the ribbons carefully. Mine is a lovely blue ribbon, just the colour of my mama’s eyes, as I remember them at least. Even though I know I won’t be allowed to wear it, I long to put it under my pillow each night, where I can stroke it.
The ribbons – pink, yellow, red, and my lovely blue – all have to be laid on the table. Mrs Baird walks behind us, taking up each in turn. No one says a word. We still have the paper to pull back, after all. There are no cries of joy. No cries at all.
My present is a pair of pinafores, one coarse for when I carry the chamber pots, the other tough cotton for everyday use.
At last a cry rings through the servants’ hall, as if a sick animal has been kicked.
The howl comes from me.