My position at Hanover Square was by no means my first, although it was a significant step up. No one could wish to be associated with a finer master than Sir Arthur Windrop. Newly knighted and newly married, he was making a stir in society with his beautiful young wife. Her credentials were not equal to his, but the newspapers were surprisingly forgiving. Lady Rose possessed grace, and an air of fashion that instantly smoothed over any embarrassment of birth.
I did not receive a kind welcome when I arrived at the redbrick mansion with its black iron railings. Our housekeeper, Mrs Glover, did not permit me to rest after my arrival like Mrs Quinn, nor did she bring me warm wine. Indeed, she scarcely allowed me to remove my shawl. She was a poker of a woman, tightly laced into a dress of deep brown with ruffles at the sleeves. Black mittens covered her hands and upon her head rested a cap of exquisite lacework.
‘Ah, Stevens,’ she said – I went by my real name in those days – ‘Good. You will join me in my room for tea at nine o’clock tonight.’
She did not trouble to tell me where her room might be. This was a difficulty of no small importance, for the servants’ quarters at that residence were bigger than the entire ground floor of Morvoren House, what with the scullery, larder, boot room, butler’s pantry and servants’ hall.
Mrs Glover had neither the leisure nor inclination to show me about herself. Instead, she steered me towards a woman with a profusion of curls at her forehead, arrayed in a dress suited to mourning. The fabric was expensive, fine-napped, trimmed in ribbon. It must have been a cast-off from her mistress.
‘Stevens, this is Burns. Burns is the personal maid of Mrs Windrop, Sir Arthur’s widowed mother. Burns has been taking care of Lady Rose since her marriage. She will inform you of your duties.’
Burns raised one eyebrow and I could tell she thought me a very inferior type of person. I seemed to shrink and thicken by her side. My sole aim had been to appear neat. Burns was something else, she was smart.
‘Lady Rose did insist on selecting her own maid,’ she sighed with a shake of her head.
I spent that morning trotting after Burns, thrown from wig to wall as the saying goes, watching her actions. Rarely did she deign to explain or speak to me beyond a scold: I had set out the items on the dressing table incorrectly; I should not touch that without first washing my hands; I did not need to be taking an inventory of my mistress’s gowns quite so soon – did I plan to steal something?
A spiteful harridan that woman was, yet on the first day I stood in awe of her. Burns, the butler, the footmen: they all seemed to exude the wealth of the household they belonged to. I feared I had made a terrible mistake in coming here.
Mid-afternoon, there was a distinct clop amidst the cacophony of hooves that rang in the square outside. All heads shot up from their work and feet began to move.
‘What is it?’ I asked Burns.
‘Are you deaf? It’s the master’s carriage. They are back from the china showroom.’
Nerves squirmed in my belly as I followed Burns’s quick step to the entrance hall. I had only met Lady Rose briefly, following my interview with Mrs Glover; Sir Arthur I had not seen at all.
When the footman opened the door, my mistress stepped in with the dust and light of the street. She was even prettier than I recalled. Pink tinged her cheeks as she laughed, echoing the feathers and flowers in her poke bonnet. Her style of beauty would not please all; with her large, dark eyes and voluptuous lips, it was rather full-blown. But her figure was soft and curving, her hair fashionably dark, and she possessed what my Guide to the Toilette called a ‘carnation’ complexion, where neither the rose nor the lily predominates.
She turned to her husband, who followed close behind, and tapped him lightly on the arm with her shut fan.
Sir Arthur’s appearance was more stately: tall with well-shaped calves. His face was square and handsome. His expression tended towards gravity.
Burns moved forwards officiously, ready to divest Lady Rose of her outside things.
‘No, not you,’ she chided, holding up her fan. ‘My Stevens should be here. Where is Stevens?’
With burning cheeks, I crept out from behind the pillar and dropped into my best curtsey. Lady Rose bestowed a smile upon me. It was the first I had received all day.
‘There she is! Charming.’ She addressed her husband as I took her bonnet, gloves and jacket, ‘Did I not tell you she was charming, Artie?’
‘Indeed, I hope you will be happy in our household, Stevens,’ Sir Arthur replied with a benevolent air.
I kept my chin down towards the floor, not only to avoid Burns’s glare, but to conceal my fierce blushes. My own mother had never described me as ‘charming’. With a plain, somewhat fleshy face and mousy hair, I was exactly what a lady’s maid ought to be: unremarkable, designed to blend into the background.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I managed to say.
Lady Rose strode towards the stairs. ‘Come, Stevens, we dallied longer than we intended to; we were so pleasantly detained at the warehouse. You must dress me for dinner.’
I followed, cradling her spencer jacket like a newborn. It was a little dusty from the streets, but that would brush out.
Lady Rose’s suite of rooms was on the second floor of the house. A lighter, airier space I never did see. Without Burns breathing down my neck this time, I was able to appreciate the little decorative touches. All was arrayed in pale lemon, except for the furniture, which was painted white. A dome spread over one wall, draping silk-fringed curtains either side of a Grecian couch bed. Vases full of fresh flowers were dotted here and there.
‘Do you like it?’ she asked. ‘My husband had it all fitted out for me. Is he not a dear? I have never met a man with such exquisite taste.’
‘It is very elegant, indeed, my lady.’
I placed the bonnet on its stand and the gloves on their stretchers. Having cast my eyes over Lady Rose’s gowns, I knew which to recommend for dinner. But before I could list the merits of crimson silk, she seized both of my hands in her own.
‘Oh, Stevens, I am so glad that you are come!’ Her voice dropped an octave, losing some of its polish. ‘Another day with that odious Burns would make me scream. She is my mother-in-law’s creature, you know.’ Releasing me, she dropped onto the stool before the dressing table. One hand swept across the surface, knocking the combs and brushes askew. ‘There! I did that every time she left the room to frustrate her. She was so particular about the arrangement – it must be the very mirror of Mrs Windrop’s! As if I should follow the patterns set by a stuffy old lady.’
I did not hazard a smile. She was winning, girlish, not at all like my previous employers, but half of me feared this was a test. ‘I did attempt to lay out the silver-backed set a little differently, my lady. I thought the hand-mirror should be easier to reach on the right, and that the pin tray could go just there . . .’
Lady Rose propped one elbow on the table and began to twirl the short curls at her forehead. ‘Oh, you may do as you wish with it, Stevens. For my part, I only want these rooms to be a place of refuge. Artie is so very dear, but as for the rest of them, they are quite insufferable.’ She smiled back at me in the glass, artless as a child.
It was reckless of Lady Rose to talk so candidly in my hearing. She could have no conception, beyond our previous short meeting, that I was not every bit as stuffy as the others.
For an occupation, I moved behind the stool and began to unpin her hair. It came down in gentle waves to the small of her back. There was a good weight to it; I should be able to coax it into all manner of styles. Picking up the brush, I continued, ‘If you have not a preference for a dinner dress, my lady, I should recommend the crimson with flounces. As for your hair, may I—’
‘I am going to bathe first,’ she cut in. ‘The streets were hatefully dusty today. You will find the hip bath just next door. But yes, the crimson will look very well. My emeralds will set it off.’
‘Will your hair have time to dry before dinner if we wash it?’ I asked anxiously.
‘No, you are right. Brush it out and pin it up, I will try not to get it wet.’
By the time I had gone to the kitchen, filled pails with steaming water and carried them upstairs to the dressing room, my fingers were slick. They refused to cooperate with the buttons on Lady Rose’s diaphanous muslin dress. The material adhered to her skin where she had perspired, but there was no odour to it – or if there were, it was lost in the fug of steam and the orange blossom mixed in the bath.
‘Oh, this gown is always a torment,’ she sighed, placing her hands on her hips. ‘It is the style, you know. I have heard of ladies being sewn into and cut out of them!’ She laughed and the movement produced an arch in her back. The buttons finally slipped free.
‘Well,’ I said in relief, ‘we shall not need to take the scissors to this fine muslin.’
White and sprigged, it retained the warmth of her. I laid it carefully on the chaise longue. It looked like a girl fallen into a swoon.
Somehow the stays were easier; the laces yielded to my touch without protest. Lady Rose stood before me in only her shift, and she would wear that to bathe.
‘Come and help me in,’ she ordered.
Leaning on my arm, she descended into the water. Her shift bloomed then clung to her legs like a winding sheet as she sat down. When I turned to hand her the wash-ball, two hints of palest pink had appeared where the material stretched over her breasts.
They appeared full and round. About her stomach also, an intimation of ripeness. Might these be the early signs of breeding?
I had served a lady, Mrs Farley, through pregnancy before. There would be gowns to let out and a variety of orders to place. My mind reeled as it considered the responsibilities that would fall upon me.
‘Will you refill my snuffbox while I dine, Stevens? It is in my reticule, upon the bed.’ She paddled her hands in the water, unconscious of my scrutiny.
‘Yes, my lady.’
There was no labour in beautifying Lady Rose; nature lent me a helping hand. But she announced herself delighted when she stood before the cheval mirror and admired the hair I had styled à la Sappho, with a green ribbon threaded through to complement her necklace.
I hoped aloud that Burns would see it.
‘I hope she will choke upon it,’ agreed Lady Rose.
The rooms seemed quiet and forlorn after she had left. They were mine now, to tidy and take pride in, but I felt ghostly in them; something passing through like the stain of breath upon a mirror.
Nothing stirred the bathwater, yet I saw ripples of light, playing upon the ceiling. My pail lay upon the floor. Gently, I picked it up and scooped it through the water. The warmth had faded. Nothing of Lady Rose’s body heat remained, only her scent. I held out my hand, inspected my wet fingertips.
I do not know how long I squatted there. I am not sure at what point I released the pail and let it sink. I only remember the relentless drip, drip as I cupped the water into my hands and let it trickle away.
Then I stood and removed my clothes.
Nobody could enter through the locked outer door. No footfalls or speech sounded in the corridors. Yet as I slipped one foot into the water, I had the strangest sensation of being watched.
Easing myself down, I closed my eyes and inhaled. Thought how it must feel to be Lady Rose: to have a person to dress you, to pour your baths. She was pleased with me. Called me ‘her’ Stevens. I thought of her eating, showing off her hair to Sir Arthur, asking how he liked it.
But when I opened my eyes, the enchantment melted away. My body, so inferior to that of Lady Rose, hunched beneath greying liquid. I could not understand how I had come to commit so profligate an action.
Rising quickly, I climbed out of the hip bath. My feet squeaked wet upon the floor. Drips trickled down my arms to form pools.
Bundling up the used towels, I scrubbed at my skin with a kind of desperation.
How much time had passed? Suppose I had missed my appointment with the housekeeper? Or if Lady Rose should return to her rooms and find me? I should be in disgrace on my very first day.
Puddles covered the floor, the towels lay in a tangle. My heart beat fast, panicked.
When I drew my clothes back on and tidied my hair, I did not appear to be cleansed by my ablutions.
I had never felt more mired in dirt.