Silence in Hanover Close

5

WHEN CHARLOTTE LEFT to go back home, Emily was wide awake, an endless day stretching ahead and nothing planned. She tried to go back to sleep again—quarter to six was far too early—but her mind was restless.

At first she contemplated Charlotte’s evening with the Danvers. Who was the mysterious woman in the cerise gown? Probably just an old love of Julian’s he had been indiscreet enough to entertain under his father’s roof.

No, that would not do. No man with half an ounce of intelligence would do such a thing, and by Charlotte’s account Julian Danver was quite a presence. She had spoken of him with some admiration and said she completely understood why Veronica York should wish to marry him. And Charlotte could never abide a fool, even though she imagined she was tolerant.

There was another answer: either Julian, or Garrard, was a traitor, and the woman in cerise was the spy who had turned the man’s loyalty. It was simply coincidence that she had not been seen since Robert York’s death—she had been more careful, that was all.

No, that was silly too. If the woman in cerise had had nothing to do with Robert York’s death, why bother to think about her at all? She was just what she seemed, a paramour being indiscreet. Perhaps Julian had tired of her—or Garrard, at a stretch of the imagination—and she had become desperate and foolish enough to pursue him to his house.

Or again, maybe Harriet was leading a double life—possibly even keeping an assignation with Felix. And in such flamboyant clothes, so different from her usual attire that Aunt Adeline had failed to recognize her. In the middle of the night, when Aunt Adeline had presumably woken from sleep, that seemed more than likely. She sounded like a quaint old lady, at the best.

Would Emily herself grow into a quaint, lonely old lady, visiting relatives too often and so bored she lived other people’s lives vicariously, misunderstanding everyone and seeing things that were not there?

With this wretched thought Emily decided to get up, even though it was still only five minutes to seven. If the servants were startled, let them be. It would do them good.

She rang for her maid and had to wait several minutes for her to come. Then she had a bath and dressed carefully, as if she were to entertain someone of great importance—it was good for her morale—and went downstairs. Of course, her lady’s maid had warned the rest of the house, so she took no one by surprise. Whatever they felt, there was nothing in their faces but bland good-mornings. Carrying in the poached eggs, Wainwright looked like a church warden with a collection plate, and he put it down in front of her with the same reverence. She would have loved to startle him enough to make him drop it!

When she had finished breakfast and had taken three cups of tea she went to the kitchen. She thoroughly irritated the cook by interfering with the week’s menus, and then tried the patience of her own maid by checking on the mending and ironing of her gowns. When she finally realized how unfair she was being, she went into her boudoir, closed the door, and began to write a letter to Great-aunt Vespasia, simply because she would have liked to talk to her. She was on the fourth page of her letter when the footman knocked and came in to tell her that her mother, Mrs. Ellison, was in the morning room.

“Oh, ask her in here,” she answered. “It’s much brighter.” She covered the letter and with mixed feelings prepared to welcome her mother.

Caroline came in a moment later, dressed in a fashionable wine-colored barathea trimmed with black fur and a rakish hat which made her look more elegant than Emily could remember. There was a flush in her cheeks, doubtless the bitter weather, and she was full of good spirits.

“How are you, my dear?” She kissed Emily delicately and sat in one of the most comfortable chairs. “You look peaked,” she observed with maternal candor. “I hope you are eating well. You must look after your health, for Edward’s sake and your own. Of course, this first year is terribly difficult, I know, but another six months and it will be past. You must prepare for the future. By midsummer it will be acceptable for you to start mixing in a few suitable gatherings.”

Emily’s heart sank. The word suitable was like a damnation. She could imagine those gatherings: coteries of black-clad widows sitting round like crows on a fence, making pious-sounding, meaningless remarks, or else tutting over the latest giddiness of Society, picking it over endlessly because it was the only way they could participate in its life.

“I think I’ll take up good works,” she said aloud.

“Very commendable,” Caroline agreed with a little nod. “As long as you do it in moderation. You might speak to your vicar about it, or if you prefer, I will speak to mine. I am sure there are committees of ladies who would welcome your contributions in time, when it is appropriate for you to begin going out of your home to such meetings.”

Sitting on committees of women was the last thing Emily had in mind. She was thinking of the sort of work Great-aunt Vespasia did—visiting workhouses and campaigning for better conditions and agitating for changes in the employment laws for children, trying to increase the number and scope of “ragged schools” for pauper children, perhaps even fighting for the political franchise for women. Now that she had the money, there might be quite a lot she could do, Emily decided. “You don’t look dressed for good works,” she said critically. “In fact, I’ve never seen you look so well.”

Caroline was startled. “There is no need to dress like a dowd or to look wretched in order to do good works, Emily. I know this has been tragic for you, but you must not allow yourself to become eccentric, my dear.”

Emily could feel her temper boil up inside her, mixed with frustration and despair. Imprisoning walls seemed to be closing in around her. It was as if someone were padlocking a gate and she could hear her mother’s calm, reasonable voice like the swish of closing curtains shutting out everything that was spontaneous, bright, and exhilarating.

“Why not?” she demanded. “Why shouldn’t I become eccentric?”

“Don’t be foolish, Emily.” Caroline’s tone was still gentle, but overly patient, as if she were speaking to a sickly child who would not eat her rice pudding. “In due course you will want to marry again. You are far too young to remain a widow, and you are extremely eligible. If you behave circumspectly during the next two or three years you may quite easily marry at least as well as you did before and be most comfortable and happy. But this next short time is crucial. It could make or mar everything.”

Emily raised her eyebrows high. “You mean if I do something immodest or unseemly, no duke will have me, and if I am seen to be eccentric I may not even manage a baronet!”

“You are in a very trying mood this morning,” Caroline said, struggling to remain patient. “You know the rules of Society quite as well as I do. Really, Emily, you used to be the most sensible of the three of you, but you seem to be getting more like Charlotte every time I see you. Perhaps I should have counseled you against spending Christmas with her, but I thought it would be nice for Edward to have some other children to play with. And to be quite frank, I know Charlotte must have been grateful for all the financial assistance you were able to give her—discreetly.”

“Charlotte is perfectly happy!” Emily said far more waspishly than she had wished to. She was being unfair, and she knew it even as she was unable to prevent herself from going on. “And I enjoyed Christmas with her and Thomas— in fact, I loved it.”

Caroline’s face eased into a smile and she quickly put her hand over Emily’s. “I’m sure you did, my dear. Your affection for each other is one of the nicest things in my life.”

Emily felt a ridiculous prickle of tears and was furious with herself. She did not wish to distress her mother, and yet with the best will in the world Caroline was devising a future for her which so utterly misunderstood what she wanted, it was unbearable.

“Mama, I refuse to sit on parish committees, so on no account speak either to your vicar or mine; you will only embarrass yourself, because I shall not turn up. If I do any good work it will be something real, perhaps with Great-aunt Vespasia. But I won’t sit around pontificating on other people’s morals, handing out saving tracts and homemade broth from a great height!”

Caroline sighed, gritting her teeth. “Emily, at times you are most childish. You really cannot behave like Lady Cumming-Gould. She has quite a name in Society. People tolerate her because she is very old, and because they still retain a certain respect for her late husband. And at her age it doesn’t matter a great deal what she does; it can always be discounted as senility.”

“I never met anyone in my life less senile than Great-aunt Vespasia!” Emily defended her furiously, not only in her affection for Vespasia but for the wit and pity she represented. “She has more good judgment about what really matters in her little finger than most of the rest of Society in all its fatuous heads put together!”

“But no one would marry her, my dear!” Caroline said, exasperated.

“She’s nearly eighty, for goodness’ sake!” Emily shouted.

Caroline would not be diverted by reason. “Exactly the point I am trying to make. You are barely thirty. Consider your position with some sense. You are a pretty woman, but you are not a great beauty, as Vespasia was; nor are you born of a great family. You have no alliances to offer, no connections with power.” She looked at Emily seriously. “But you do have a considerable amount of money. If you marry beneath yourself you will lay yourself open to fortune hunters and men of the most dubious sort, who may well court you out of greed and the desire to gain entry to Society on the strength of your past connections with the Ashworths. It is a sad thing to have to say, but you are not a child; you know that as well as I do.”

“Of course I know!” Emily turned away. Jack Radley’s face came vividly to mind. He was charming and seemed so frank, with those marvelous eyes fringed with long lashes. Was he a superb liar, capable of skilled and sustained deceit? All his future might depend on it: if he wooed and won her he could stop worrying about money for the rest of his life. For the first time since his childhood he would be secure; he could dress as he liked, buy horses and carriages, gamble, go to the races, invite people to dinner instead of incessantly seeking invitations in order to dine well. He would no longer have to curry favor, he could afford at last to like and dislike as he chose. The thought was intensely ugly, and it hurt more deeply than she would have believed even a few weeks ago. Emily took a deep, rather shaky breath. “Of course I know!” she said again loudly. “But I have no intention of marrying a bore simply to be sure his motives are not financial.”

“Now you are being ridiculous.” Caroline’s patience was wearing positively threadbare. “You will make a reasonable accommodation, as we all do.”

“Charlotte didn’t!”

“I think the less said about Charlotte the better!” Caroline said in exasperation. “And if you imagine for one instant that you could marry someone like a policeman, or any other sort of tradesman or artisan, and be happy, then you really have taken leave of your wits! Charlotte is extremely fortunate that it hasn’t turned out to be worse than it has. Oh, certainly Thomas is a pleasant enough man, and he has treated her as well as he is able, but she has no security. If something should happen to him tomorrow she will be left with nothing at all, and two small children to raise by herself.” She sighed. “No, my dear, do not delude yourself into thinking that Charlotte has everything her own way. It would not suit you to be cutting down last year’s dresses to do this year, and cooking in your own kitchen, with Sunday’s meat having to last you through till Thursday. And don’t forget you would have no wealthy sister to help you as she has! Have your daydreams, by all means, but remember that is all they are. And when you have woken up from them, behave yourself like a widow of charm and dignity, with a considerable fortune and a social position that is very much worth your while to maintain undamaged by eccentric behavior. Give tongues no cause to whisper.”

Emily was too crushed to argue.

“Yes, Mama,” she said wearily. The whole realm of answers and explanations was too tangled in her mind, too alien to Caroline, and too little understood even by herself for her to begin to unravel and present them.

“Good.” Caroline smiled at her. “Now perhaps you will offer me a dish of tea—it is extremely cold outside. And in a few months I shall speak to the vicar. There are committees for various things that would do very nicely as suitable places for you to begin to associate again.”

“Yes, Mama,” Emily said again hollowly, and reached for the bell rope.

The rest of the day was thoroughly miserable. Outside, the wind blew showers of sleet against the windows, and it was so dark all the gas lamps were burning even at midday. Emily finished her letter to Great-aunt Vespasia, and then tore it up. It was too full of self-pity, and she did not want Aunt Vespasia to see that side of her. It was understandable, perhaps, but it was not attractive, and she cared very much what Vespasia thought of her.

When Edward finished his lessons they had afternoon tea together, and then the long evening stretched to an early bed.

The following day was utterly different. It began with the morning mail, which contained a letter from Charlotte posted late the previous evening and marked “Most Urgent.” She tore it open and read:

Dear Emily,

Something very sad has happened, and if we are right, then it is also evil and dangerous. I think the woman in cerise is the key to it all. Thomas knew of her too, from the lady’s maid at the Yorks’. Of course he didn’t tell me about her at the time, because then he did not know we had any interest. She saw Cerise—I shall call her that—at the York house in the middle of the night. When I told him what Aunt Addie said you can imagine his reaction!

But the dreadful thing is that when he went into the station at Bow Street before going back to question the maid at Hanover Close again, he heard that she had been killed the day before! Apparently she fell out of an upstairs window. Thomas is very upset. Of course, it could have been an accident and nothing to do with his inquiries or the fact that she told him about Cerise, but on the other hand someone may have overheard her. And this is the interesting thing: all the Danvers were in the house when Thomas was there, so anyone might have been in the hall at the time she and Thomas were in the library talking.

What we need to do is find out who was there when she fell. Thomas can’t do it because there is no reason to suspect it wasn’t an ordinary domestic accident. People do sometimes fall out of windows, and one cannot start casting suspicions on a family like the Yorks. And if the whole investigation of Veronica should come out, then there would be the most dreadful scandal and goodness knows who would be hurt. Julian Danver would probably be ruined, and Veronica most certainly would.

You must tell Jack when next he calls.

If there is anything else, I shall tell you as soon as I hear it.

Your loving sister, Charlotte

Emily held the paper with tingling fingers. Her hands were numb and already her mind was racing. The woman in cerise! And the lady’s maid who had seen her in the York house in the middle of the night was now dead.

But they would never get beneath the smooth, supremely disciplined surface of the Yorks’ facade by going for the odd afternoon tea, or walking round the Winter Exhibition and exchanging a few slight confidences on fashion or gossip. Pitt had disturbed something much deeper than an old burglary, or the question of Veronica’s suitability to become the wife of Julian Danver. This was something of such passion and horror that even three years later it could erupt without warning into violence—and now, it seemed quite possible, murder.

They must get closer, much closer—in fact, they must get inside the Yorks’ home.

But how?

An idea occurred to her, but it was preposterous! It would never work. To start with, she would not be able to carry it off; she was sure to be found out immediately. They would know.

How would they know? It would be difficult—of course, it would—she would have to behave entirely differently, alter her appearance, her face, her hair, even her hands and her voice. An Englishwoman’s background could be identified by her voice the moment she spoke; no servant had those rounded vowels, the precise consonants, even if the grammar had been meticulously copied. But Veronica York would be needing a new lady’s maid, someone who would be there all the time, in the unguarded moments, someone who would see everything, as only those who are invisible can. And domestic servants are invisible.

Knowing it was absurd, Emily went on planning how it might be done. She had had a lady’s maid all her life—first her mother’s, then her own—and she knew the duties by heart. Some she would certainly not be very good at; she had never really tried to iron, but surely she could learn? She was rather good at doing hair; she and Charlotte had played at doing each other’s before they had been allowed to wear their hair up. She was adequate with a needle; there could not be all that much difference between embroidering and mending.

The difficulty—and the danger—would be in altering her manner so that she passed for a servant. What was the worst that could happen if she were discovered?

She would be dismissed, of course, but that hardly mattered. They would think she was a well-bred girl who had fallen into some sort of disgrace that necessitated taking a menial position. They would almost certainly assume she had had an illegitimate child, that was the kind of disgrace women fell into. It would be a humiliation, but a brief one. If they ever met her again as Lady Ashworth they would be unlikely to recognize her, because it would never occur to them that it was she; if it did, she could brazen it out. She would look daggers at them and suggest they had lost their wits to make such an offensive and tasteless suggestion.

As a lady’s maid she would not meet any guests to the house; she would never be asked to wait at table, or answer the door. Perhaps the idea was not so absurd after all. They would never discover who had murdered Robert York if they continued as they were. They were playing at it, touching the fringes, knowing there was a terrible passion under the conventional surface, but only throwing around guesses as to what it was, and whom it had pushed into murder. Inside the York house she could learn infinitely more.

She shivered suddenly, thinking of the danger. Being dismissed as a fallen woman would be nothing, a brief embarrassment. But if by some horrendous mischance they did recognize her as Emily Ashworth, they would assume she had taken leave of her senses, that George’s death had robbed her of her sanity. The scandal would be appalling! But there was no reason why that should happen.

No, the real danger was from the person who had already killed Robert York, and possibly Dulcie, killed her simply because she had seen or heard something. Emily would have to be exquisitely careful! She must pretend to be stupid, and innocent, and she must always, always guard her tongue.

The alternative was to give up—to go on sitting here in black, either alone or talking polite rubbish to the few people who called on her, until Caroline arranged some wretched committees for her to be righteous on. She would get nothing but secondhand reports from Charlotte. She would not contribute anything at all herself. Even Jack would be bored with her soon.

By the time Jack called at midmorning she had made the decision. Thank goodness she had not sent that wretched letter to Aunt Vespasia. She was going to need her help. She would call on her that afternoon.

“I’m going to the Yorks’,” she announced as soon as Jack came in.

“I don’t think you can do that, Emily,” he said with a slight frown.

“Oh, not socially!” She waved her hand, dismissing the notion. “Their lady’s maid saw Aunt Addie’s woman in cerise at the Yorks’ house as well, in the middle of the night. She told Thomas—and now she’s dead!”

“The maid?”

“Yes, of course the maid!” Emily said impatiently. “The woman in cerise has vanished, and she must have something to do with treason, and almost certainly Robert York’s murder. We must find out all we can, and we shan’t do that by calling for tea now and then.”

“What else? We can hardly walk in and start interrogating them,” Jack pointed out.

“Even if we could, that wouldn’t do any good.” Emily was excited now. Whatever Jack said it was not going to put her off. For the first time since George’s death she was going to do something totally outrageous, which he would certainly have forbidden, and she was glad there was no one who could command her obedience. “We must be subtle,” she continued. “We must observe them when they have no idea, and little by little they may betray themselves.”

He was at a loss to understand, and with delight she dropped her bombshell.

“I am going to take the position of lady’s maid! I shall write one reference myself, and get another from Great-aunt Vespasia.”

He was stunned. “Good God! You can’t! Emily, you can’t go as a servant!”

“Why not?”

The first minute spark of humor lit in his eyes. “You wouldn’t know how, for a start,” he said.

“I would!” Her chin came up, and she knew she must look and sound ridiculous. “For goodness’ sake, Jack, I’ve had a very good lady’s maid for years. I know perfectly well what she does, and I can do it myself in a pinch. I certainly had to learn how when I was a girl.”

He started to laugh, and at any other time she would have thought it a delightful sound, full of joy and vitality. Now she heard derision in his laughter, and it was extremely provoking.

“I’m not saying it will be easy!” she said sharply. “I am not used to having people tell me what to do, and I shan’t like being at someone else’s beck and call, but I can do it! It will be something of a change from sitting here all day doing nothing at all!”

“Emily, they’ll find you out!” His laughter vanished as it dawned on him that she might be serious.

“Oh no they won’t! I shall be a model of good behavior.”

Disbelief was written all over his face.

“Charlotte has got away with being Miss Barnaby,” she carried on determinedly. “And I’m a far better liar than she is. I shall go this afternoon, otherwise I may be too late. I have written myself a glowing reference, and I shall obtain another from Aunt Vespasia. I have already telephoned her— did I tell you I have acquired a telephone? It’s a wonderful thing; I don’t know why I didn’t get one before—and she is expecting me this afternoon. She will write an introductory letter for me if I ask her.” She was not at all sure that Aunt Vespasia would do anything of the sort, but she would do all she could to persuade her.

Now he looked really concerned. “But Emily, think of the danger! If what you are supposing is true, then someone murdered the maid. If they have even a suspicion of you, you could end up the same way! Leave it to Thomas.”

She swung round on him immediately. “And what do you suggest he do? Go as a footman? He wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to get on, apart from the fact that they know him already and that he is with the police. From what Charlotte says, his superiors aren’t interested in Robert York’s death. All they want to do is make sure Veronica is suitable to marry Julian Danver!”

“Oh come on!” Jack turned sideways in the chair opposite her. “That’s what they said, but it’s obviously an excuse. They don’t care in the least what Veronica does, if she’s discreet about it. And if she weren’t they’d know without anyone’s finding out for them. They’re suspicious about York’s death and whether Veronica had a lover or not, and if he or even Veronica herself murdered Robert. They are just too devious to have said so outright.”

She stared at him. “Are they? What about treason? What about the woman in cerise?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, that could have been Veronica herself after an assignation with Julian Danver, if they were lovers then.”

“Then it was Julian who killed Robert York?”

“Possibly. The fact that he’s an agreeable fellow is irrelevant. Some of the worst cads I’ve known have been charming, as long as you didn’t stand in their way. Or it could have been Harriet leading a double life, with Felix Asherson. She’s obviously in love with him.”

“Charlotte didn’t tell you that!”

“My dear girl, she didn’t need to! Do you think I’m a complete fool? I’ve seen too many flirtations not to know when a woman’s in love. She was polite, she pretended he was a friend and of no romantic interest. She avoided his eyes, and looked at him when he was turned away. She was so careful it must matter to her very much.”

She had had no idea he was so perceptive. It came as a sobering surprise, puncturing her confidence.

“Indeed,” she said coldly. “And of course you are never mistaken—you can read women just like that!” She tried to snap her fingers and failed to make the sharp sound she wished, producing instead only a faint thump. “Hellfire!” she said under her breath. “Well anyway, I am going to the Yorks’. There is something hideously wrong in that house, and I shall discover what it is.”

“Emily, please.” His voice changed completely, the lightness vanished. “If they catch you out in the least thing they may well realize why you are really there! If they pushed one maid out of the window they won’t hesitate to get rid of you, too!”

“They can’t push two maids out of the window,” she said with chill reason. “Eyebrows would be raised, even at the Honorable Piers York!”

“It doesn’t have to be a window,” he said, getting angry himself. “It could be the stairs, or a ladder. They could push you under a carriage wheel, or it might be something you ate. Or you could simply disappear, along with a couple of good pieces of the family silver. Emily, for God’s sake, use a little sense!”

“I am bored to screaming with using sense!” She turned round fiercely and glared at him. “I have worn black, seen no one, and been sensible for six months, and I am beginning to feel as if it was me they buried! I am going to the Yorks’ to be a maid and discover who murdered Robert York, and why. Now, if you wish to come to Great-aunt Vespasia’s with me, you are welcome. Otherwise, will you please excuse me, because I have work to do. I am telling my own staff that I am going to stay with my sister for a while. Of course I shall tell Charlotte the truth. If you want to help, that will be very nice; if not, if you prefer to disassociate yourself, I shall understand completely. Playing detective is not for everyone,” she finished with immense condescension.

“If I don’t help, Charlotte will be left high and dry,” he pointed out with a slight smile.

She had forgotten that. She was obliged to climb down, but it was hard to do it gracefully.

“Then I hope you will feel able to continue.” She did not look at him. “We must keep in touch with the Danvers; they are certainly part of it.”

“Does Charlotte know about this—plan of yours?”

“Not yet.”

He drew in breath to comment, then let it out again in a sigh. Seeing men behave like fools was one thing, but he was not accustomed to this behavior in women. He had to readjust his thinking, but Jack was adaptable and had remarkably few prejudices. “I’ll work out a way to keep in touch with you,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “Don’t forget, most houses don’t allow maids to have ‘followers.’ And they’ll comment on letters, maybe even read them if they suspect it’s an admirer.”

She stopped. She had not thought of that. But it was too late to withdraw now. “I’ll be careful,” she conceded. “I’ll say it is my mother or something.”

“And how will you account for the fact that your mother lives in Bloomsbury?” he asked.

“I . . .” At last she faced him.

“You haven’t thought,” he said candidly.

For a moment she blessed him for not being patronizing. If he had been gentle it would have been the last straw. She remembered her own early days of social aspiration, the constant struggle to keep up, to say the right thing, to please the right people. Those born to acceptance can never understand the feeling. That was one of the things she and Jack shared, a sense of being outside, accepted as long as they charmed and amused, but not by right. He had felt the sting of unconscious superiority too often to practice it himself.

He was waiting for her to flare up; instead Emily was reminded of how much she liked him. He had said nothing of the risk to her social position.

“No,” she agreed with a small smile, quite calmly. “I would be obliged if you would help me sort out such details. I shall have to say my sister is in service, if they ask me. There are plenty of residential servants in Bloomsbury.”

“Then she must have the same surname. What are you going to call yourself?”

“Er, Amelia.”

“Amelia what?”

“Anything. I can’t use Pitt, they might remember it from Thomas. I once had a maid called Gibson; I’ll use her name.”

“Then you’ll have to remember to write to Charlotte as Miss Gibson too. I’ll tell her.”

“Thank you, Jack. I really am very obliged.”

He grinned suddenly. “I should think so!”

“You are going to do what?” Great-aunt Vespasia’s silver eyebrows arched high above her hooded eyes. She was seated in her spare, elegant withdrawing room, dressed in mulberry silk with a pink fichu at the neck that was fastened with a seed pearl star. She looked frailer than before, thinner, since George’s death. But some of the fire had come back into her glance, and her back was as straight as ever.

“I’m going to go to the Yorks’ as a lady’s maid,” Emily repeated. She swallowed hard and met Aunt Vespasia’s eyes.

And Vespasia stared unflinchingly back at her. “Are you? You won’t like it, my dear. Your duties will be the least part of your burden; even obedience will be less irksome to you than assuming an air of meekness and respect towards the sort of people you normally treat as equals, whatever your private thoughts may be. And do remember, that goes for the housekeeper and the butler as well, not just the mistress.”

Emily could not dare to think of it or her nerve would desert her. A small timorous voice inside her wished Aunt Vespasia would come up with some unanswerable reason why she could not possibly go. She knew she had been unfair to Jack; he had been concerned for her, that was all. She would have been hurt if he had not objected to the plan.

“I know,” she admitted. “I expect it to be difficult. I may not even last very long, but this way, I can learn things about the Yorks that years of visiting couldn’t achieve. People forget servants; they think of them as furniture. I know. I do it myself.”

“Yes,” Aunt Vespasia agreed dryly. “I daresay your own maid’s opinion of you might be a salutary thing for you to learn, if you ever get above yourself. No one knows your vanity, nor your frailties, quite like a maid. But remember, my dear, for precisely that reason one trusts a maid. If you break that trust, do not expect to be forgiven. I do not imagine Loretta York is a forgiving woman.”

“You know her?”

“Only in the way everyone in Society knows everyone else. She is not my generation. Now, you will need some plain stuff dresses and some caps and aprons, some petticoats without lace, a night shift, and some ordinary black boots. I am sure one of my maids will be near enough to your size. And a plain box to carry them in. If you do this highly bizarre thing, you had at least better do it properly.”

“Yes, Aunt Vespasia,” Emily said with a sinking heart. “Thank you.”

Late that afternoon, without perfume or the merest rouge to heighten her pale color and clad in a dowdy brown dress and a brown hat, Emily alit from the public omnibus carrying a borrowed and much used box. She walked to number two Hanover Close to present herself at the servants’ entrance. She had in her reticule, also borrowed, two letters of recommendation, one from herself and the other from Great-aunt Vespasia. She had been preceded by a call on the new telephone, which Aunt Vespasia delighted in, to announce her coming. After all, there was no point in applying for this position if it were already filled. Aunt Vespasia had learned that it had not been filled, although there were applicants in mind. The elder Mrs. York was very particular, even though the maid was actually to serve her daughter-in-law. Still, she was mistress of the house, and would say who worked in it and who did not.

Aunt Vespasia had asked after Mrs. York’s health, then proceeded to commiserate with her about the distress and inconvenience of losing a maid in such circumstances. She had remarked that her own lady’s maid, Amelia Gibson, who had served her most satisfactorily, was now, in Aunt Vespasia’s declining years and semiretirement from Society, really more than she required, and was consequently looking for a new position. She was a girl of reliable family, long known to Vespasia, who had also been in the service of her great-niece, Lady Ashworth, whose accompanying testimonial would bear witness. Vespasia hoped that Mrs. York might find Amelia of satisfactory skill and disposition. Vespasia would vouch for her character.

Mrs. York thanked her for her courtesy and agreed to see Amelia if she presented herself forthwith.

Emily clutched her reticule with the letters and three pounds, fifteen shillings in silver and copper (maids would not have gold sovereigns or guineas) and lugged the unaccustomed weight of a box containing a change of dress, aprons, caps and her underwear, a Bible and some writing paper, pen and ink, as she descended the area steps, her heart knocking in her ribs, her mouth dry. She tried to rehearse what she was going to say. There was still time to change her mind. She could turn round and simply go away and write a letter making some excuse: she had been taken ill, her mother had died—anything!

But her feet kept going, and just as she was about to weigh up this lunatic decision in the last moment left, the back door opened. A scullery maid who looked to be about fourteen came out with a bowl full of peelings to throw in the waste bin.

“You be come fer poor Dulcie’s position?” she said cheerfully, eyeing Emily’s shabby coat and the box in her hand. “Come on in then, you’ll freeze out ’ere in the yard. Give yer a cup o’ tea afore yer see the mistress, make yer feel better. Yer look ’alf starved in the cold, yer do. ’Ere, give that there box ter Albert, ’e’ll carry it for yer, if yer staying.”

Emily was grateful, and terrified now that the decision to come had been made. She wanted to thank the girl, but her voice simply refused to obey. Mutely she followed the scullery maid up the steps into the back kitchen, past the vegetables, the hanging corpses of two chickens and a brace of game birds complete with feathers, and into the main kitchen. Her hands were numb in her cotton gloves and the sudden warmth engulfed her, bringing tears to her eyes and making her sniff after the stinging cold on the walk from the omnibus stop.

“Mrs. Melrose, this is someone applyin’ ter be the new lady’s maid, and she’s fair perished, poor thing.”

The cook, a narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped woman with a face like a cottage loaf, looked up from the pastry she was rolling and regarded Emily with businesslike sympathy.

“Well, come in, girl, put that box down in the corner. Out of the way! Don’t want folk falling over it. If you stay, we can ’ave it taken upstairs for you. What’s your name? Don’t stand there, girl! Cat got your tongue?” She dusted the flour off her bare arms, flipped the pastry the other way on the board, and began again with the rolling pin, still looking at Emily.

“Amelia Gibson, ma’am,” Emily said falteringly, realizing she did not know exactly how deferential a lady’s maid should be to a cook. It was something she had forgotten to ask.

“Some folk call lady’s maids by their surnames,” the cook remarked. “But we don’t in this ’ouse. Anyway, you’re too young for that. I’m Mrs. Melrose, the cook. That’s Prim, the scullery maid, as let you in, and Mary, the kitchen maid there.” She pointed with a floury finger at a girl in a stuff dress and mob cap who was whisking eggs in a bowl. “You’ll find out the rest of the ’ousehold if you need to know. Sit down at the table there and Mary’ll get you a cup o’ tea while we tell the mistress you’re ’ere. Get on with your work, Prim, you got no time to stand around, girl! Albert!” she called shrilly. “Where is that boy? Albert!”

A moment later a round-eyed youth of about fifteen appeared, his hair standing on end where it grew away from his forehead in a cowlick, a double crown at the back giving him a quiff like a cockatoo.

“Yes, Mrs. Melrose?” he said, swallowing quickly. He had obviously been eating on the sly.

The cook snorted. “Go up and tell Mr. Redditch as the new girl’s ’ere after Dulcie’s place. Go on wi’ you! And if I catch you in them cakes again I’ll take a broom to yer!”

“Yes, Mrs. Melrose,” he said, and disappeared with alacrity.

Emily accepted her cup of tea and sipped it, giving herself hiccups and then feeling ridiculous when Mary laughed at her and the cook scowled. She tried holding her breath and had only just conquered them when the trim, pretty parlormaid came to say that Mrs. York would see her in the boudoir. She led the way and Emily followed. All along the passage, past the butler’s pantry, through the green baize door and into the main house she kept rehearsing in her mind what she must say, how she must behave. Eyes candid but modest, speak only when spoken to, never interrupt, never contradict, never express an opinion. No one cared or wanted to know what maids thought, it was impertinence. Never ask anyone to do anything for you, do it yourself. Call the butler sir, or by his name. Address the housekeeper and the cook by name. And remember to speak with the right accent! Always be available, night or day. Never have headaches or stomachaches—you were there to do a job, and short of serious illness there were no excuses. The vapors were for ladies, not for servants.

Nora, the parlormaid, knocked on the door, opened it, and announced, “The girl to see you, ma’am, about being Miss Veronica’s maid.”

The boudoir was ivory and pink with touches of deeper rose, very feminine indeed. There was no time to look for character or quality now.

Mrs. Loretta York sat in an armchair. She was a small woman, a little plump around the shoulders, an inch or two thicker at the waist than she probably wished, but otherwise the beauty she had been in her youth was excellently preserved. Emily knew instantly that there was steel under the woman’s soft, white skin, and for all the lace handkerchiefs, the waft of perfume, and her thick, soft hair, there was nothing remotely vague in her wide eyes.

“Ma’am.” Emily bobbled a very small curtsy.

“Where do you come from, Amelia?” Loretta inquired.

Emily had already decided the safest thing would be to copy her own maid’s background—that way she would be certain not to contradict herself. “King’s Langley, ma’am, in Hertfordshire.”

“I see. What does your father do?”

“He’s a cooper, ma’am. Makes barrels and the like. My mam used to be a dairymaid for Lord Ashworth, as was the old gentleman, before he passed on.” She knew not to say died; it was too blunt a word for a servant to use on such a delicate subject. One did not speak of death.

“And you have worked for Lady Ashworth and Lady Cumming-Gould. Do you have your references?”

“Yes ma’am.” She took them out of her reticule, fingers stiff with nervousness, and passed them over. She looked at the floor while Loretta first read them and then refolded them and passed them back. Both letters were written on crested paper, she had taken care to see to that.

“Well, these seem to be satisfactory,” Loretta observed. “Why did you leave Lady Ashworth’s service?”

She had thought of that. “My mam passed on,” she said, catching her breath and swallowing hard. Please heaven the hiccups did not return! It would be disastrous if Loretta thought she had been tippling at the cooking sherry. “I had to go back home to care for my younger sisters, until we could find places for them. And of course Lady Ashworth, being a lady of Society, had to find someone to take me place: but she said she’d speak well for me. And then Lady Cumming-Gould took me on.”

“I see.” The chill eyes regarded her unemotionally. It was odd to be looked at as if one were a property to be purchased or passed by, without regard to manners or feelings. It was not peculiar to Loretta York; anyone else would have been similar. And yet she would be employed to care for her on the most intimate terms, brush her hair, launder, iron and mend her clothes, even her underwear, wake her in the morning, dress her for dinners and balls, wait on her if she were ill. No one else knew a woman as intimately as her maid. Her husband certainly did not.

“Well Amelia, I presume you can sew and iron and care for a wardrobe properly, or Lady Ashworth would not recommend you. She has a reputation for being in the height of fashion, without vulgarity, although I cannot recall meeting her myself.”

Emily felt a rush of blood into her face, then an immediate chill as fear washed through her. The chance of recognition had brushed close sooner than she had anticipated. The peril had come and gone in one awful moment, and when it had passed she opened her mouth to thank Loretta for the compliment, realizing with a start that a reply would have betrayed her into the very pitfall she had just avoided. In her new station no comment was expected of her.

“You may begin immediately,” Loretta continued, “and if you prove satisfactory after a month, we shall make you permanent. You will attend my daughter-in-law. You will be paid eighteen pounds a year, and have one afternoon off every second week, if it is convenient, but you will be home again before nine. We have no girls out late. You may have a day off to go home and see your family every three months.”

Emily stared at her. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said in a rush. She had been given the position. It was decided. She felt at once frightened and victorious.

“Thank you, Amelia, that will be all. You may go.” Loretta’s voice brought her back to reality.

“Thank you, ma’am,” she said again, letting the relief show in her face. After all, she really did want the place! She bobbed very briefly and turned to leave, feeling an overwhelming sense of freedom just at being out of the room and past the first obstacle.

“Well?” The cook looked up from the apple pie she was finishing off with carefully cut pastry leaves.

Emily smiled at her more broadly than she should have. “I got it!”

“Then be about your unpacking,” the cook said pleasantly. “Don’t stand around ’ere, girl. You’re no use to me! ’Ousekeeper’s sitting room is second on the left. Mrs. Crawford should be in there this time o’ day. Go and see ’er and she’ll tell you where you’ll sleep—Dulcie’s room, I daresay—and she’ll have Joan, the laundry maid, show you where your iron is, and the like. I daresay someone’ll find Edith for you—that’s Mrs. Piers York’s maid. You’ll be for Miss Veronica.”

“Yes, Mrs. Melrose.” Emily went to the corner to pick up her box.

“Don’t you bother wi’ that! Albert’ll take it up. Liftin’ and carryin’s not your job, ’less you’re asked. On wi’ you!”

“Yes, Mrs. Melrose.”

She went to the housekeeper’s sitting room and knocked on the door. She was told sharply to come in.

It was small, crowded with dark furniture, the smell of polish mixing with the thick, greenhouse odor of a potted lily on a jardinière in one corner. There were embroidered antimacassars on the backs of the chairs and along the sideboard, which was littered with photographs. Two hand-stitched samplers framed in wood hung on the walls. Emily felt overpowered even before she stepped inside.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Crawford, was short and thin, with the face of an irritable sparrow. Gray hair escaped a screwed-back hairstyle that was considerably out of date and crowned with white lace like froth.

“Yes?” she said sharply. “Who are you?”

Emily stood up straight. “The new lady’s maid, Mrs. Crawford. Mrs. Melrose said as you would tell me where I should sleep.”

“Sleep! At four o’clock in the afternoon, girl? I’ll tell you where you can put your box! And I’ll show you to the laundry and Joan can give you your iron and table. I daresay Edith is sitting down; she’s not so well these days. You’ll have met Nora, the parlormaid, and there’s Libby the upstairs maid and Bertha the downstairs maid, and Fanny the tweeny, but a useless little article she is! And of course Mr. Redditch, the butler, but you’ll not have much to do with him, nor John the footman, who valets for Mr. York, and Albert the bootboy.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crawford.”

“And you’ll have met Mary the kitchen maid and Prim the scullery maid. Well, that’s all. Outside staff, grooms and the like, don’t need to concern you. And you’ll not have anything to do with anyone outside the house unless Mrs. York sends you on an errand. You’ll have Sunday mornings off to go to church. You’ll eat in the servants hall with the rest of us. I expect that dress’ll do you.” She looked at it without favor. “You’ve got caps and aprons, of course? I should think so. If Miss Veronica wants them changed she’ll tell you. I hope I don’t need to remind you, you’ll have no followers, no gentlemen callers of any sort, unless you’ve a father or brother, in which case if you ask permission, I daresay they’ll be allowed to see you, at convenient times.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Emily could feel the walls tightening round her as if she were a prisoner. No callers, no admirers, one half day off a fortnight! How was she going to keep in touch with Charlotte, and Jack?

“Well, don’t stand there, girl!” Mrs. Crawford rose and smoothed her apron briskly, her keys jangling at her waist. She led the way out, moving like a little rodent, with busy, jerky steps. In the laundry she patted and touched things, showing Emily coppers for boiling linen, bins of soap, starch, ironing tables, flatirons, and airing rails, all the time clicking her tongue over the absence of Joan.

Upstairs Emily was shown Veronica York’s bedroom. It was cool green and white with touches of yellow, like a spring field, and her dressing room had cupboards full of clothes, all fashionable and of high quality—but nothing in pink, let alone cerise.

Upstairs on the servants’ floor, she was led to a small room about one fifth the size of her own at home, bare but for an iron bedstead with a ticking-covered mattress, gray blankets, and a pillow; one small cupboard; and a table with a basin on it, no pitcher. Under the bed was a plain white china chamber pot. The ceiling sloped so that in only half of the room could she stand upright, and the dormered window had thin, unlined brown curtains. The linoleum on the floor was like ice to the touch; there was one small rag mat by the bedside. Her heart sank. It was clean and cold and infinitely grim compared with home. How many girls had stood in doorways like this with tears welling up inside them, knowing there was no possible escape, and this was the best they could hope for, not the worst?

“Thank you, Mrs. Crawford,” she said huskily.

“Albert’s put your box there; you unpack it, and when Miss Veronica rings”—she pointed to the bell Emily had not noticed before—“you’ll go down and attend to her dressing for dinner. She’s out now, or I’d have taken you to her.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crawford.”

And the next minute she was alone. It was ghastly. All she had was a box of clothes, a narrow bed as hard as a bench, three blankets to keep warm, no fire, no water except what she fetched for herself to put in that basin, and no light but for one candle in a chipped enamel holder; and she was at the beck and call of a woman she had never met. Jack was right: she must have lost her wits! If only he had forbidden her, if only Aunt Vespasia had begged her not to do it!

But Jack was not worried about her loneliness, the bare floor, the cold bed, the chamber pot, the strip wash in one basin of water, or the obedience to a bell. He was afraid because someone had committed murder in this house— twice—and Emily was an intruder who had come to try and catch the murderer.

She sat down on the bed, her legs shaking. The springs creaked. She was cold and her throat ached with the effort not to weep. “I am here to find a murderer,” she said to herself quietly. “Robert York was murdered—Dulcie was pushed out of a window because she saw the woman in cerise and told Thomas. There is something terrible in this house, and I am going to find out what it is. Thousands of girls, tens of thousands all over the country live like this. If they can do it, so can I. I am not a coward. I do not run away just because things are frightening, and certainly not because they are unpleasant. They are not going to beat me before I’ve even begun!”

At half past five the bell rang, and after straightening her cap in front of the piece of mirror on the mantel shelf and retying her apron, Emily went down to meet Veronica York, carrying the candle.

On the landing she knocked on the bedroom door and was told to go in. She did not glance at the room; she had seen it before, and curiosity would not do. And indeed, her real interest was in Veronica herself.

“Yes ma’am?”

Veronica was sitting on the dressing stool in a white robe tied at the waist, her black hair falling loose like satin ribbons down her back. Her face was pale but the bones were beautiful, her eyes large and dark as peat water. At the moment her fragile skin was a little blue around the slender nose and across her high cheeks, and she was definitely too thin for current fashion. She would need a bustle to plump out those narrow hips, and swathes to make her bosom look fuller. But Emily had to admit she was a beautiful woman, with the qualities of delicacy and character that haunt the mind far longer than mere regularity of feature. There was passion in her face, and intelligence.

“I’m Amelia, ma’am. Mrs. York employed me this afternoon.”

Suddenly Veronica smiled and all her color returned; it was like illumination in a gray room.

“Yes, I know. I hope you’ll like it here, Amelia. Are you comfortable?”

“Yes thank you, ma’am,” Emily lied bravely. What she had been given was all a maid could expect. “Will you be dressing for dinner, ma’am?”

“Yes please. The blue gown; I think Edith put it in the first cupboard.”

“Yes ma’am.” Emily went through to the dressing room and brought back a royal blue velvet and taffeta gown, cut low, with balloon sleeves. It took her a few moments to find the right petticoats and lay them out.

“Yes, that’s right, thank you,” Veronica agreed.

“Would you like your hair done before your gown, ma’am?” It was the way Emily herself dressed—it was so easy to drop a hair or a pin, a smudge of powder or a perfume stain.

“Yes.” Veronica sat still while Emily took the brush, then polished the long shining hair with a silk scarf. It was lovely, thick and dark as a moonless sea. Had Jack looked at it with such admiration? She forced that idea away. This was no time to tease herself with jealousies.

“You will find we are a little behind,” Veronica said, interrupting her thoughts. Emily saw her shoulders stiffen and the muscles pull across the back of her neck. “I am afraid my previous maid had—a terrible accident.”

Emily’s hand with the comb stopped in the air. “Oh.” She had decided to affect ignorance. None of the servants had told her, and the sort of person she was pretending to be would never have read about the “accident.” “I’m sorry, ma’am. That must have been distressing for you. Was she hurt badly?”

The answer was very quiet. “I’m afraid she was killed. She fell out of the window. Don’t worry, it wasn’t the room you are in.”

Emily saw Veronica’s eyes on her in the mirror. Deliberately she put on an expression of surprise and sympathy, knowing she must be careful not to overact.

“Oh, that’s terrible, ma’am! The poor creature. Well, I’ll be very careful. I don’t like heights anyway, never did.” She began coiling Veronica’s hair and pinning it, sweeping it away from her temples. At any other time she would have enjoyed the task, but now she was nervous. She must look skilled, they had to believe this was her profession. “How did it happen, ma’am?” It would be only natural to ask.

Veronica shivered. “I don’t know. No one does. Nobody saw it happen.”

“Did it happen at night then?”

“No, it was in the evening. We were all at dinner.”

“How awful for you,” Emily said with what she hoped sounded more like compassion than curiosity. “I hope you didn’t have guests, ma’am.”

“Yes we did, but fortunately they left before we discovered what had happened.”

Emily did not probe any further. She would be able to find out from one of the other servants who the guests had been, although she was prepared to wager one had been Julian Danver.

“What a terrible time you’ve had.” She curled the last strand of hair and put in the pins. “Is that comfortable, ma’am?”

Veronica turned her head one way and then the other in front of the glass. “You’ve done that very well, Amelia. It’s not how I usually wear it, but I think it’s an improvement.”

Emily was greatly relieved. “Oh thank you, ma’am.”

Veronica stood up and Emily helped her into the petticoats and then the gown, fastening it carefully. Veronica looked very striking indeed, but Emily was uncertain whether a compliment might be considered too familiar. She decided against it. After all, a maid’s opinion hardly mattered.

There was a sharp rap on the door, and almost before Veronica had said “Come in” it opened and Loretta York, elegant in lavender silk embroidered in black and silver, swished in, regarding Veronica up and down critically. She appeared not even to see Emily.

“You look pale. For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, my dear. We have a duty to do. The family deserves our best courtesy, as well as the guests. Your father-in-law will be expecting us. We do not wish him to think we crumble to pieces because of some domestic tragedy. He has enough to concern himself with. What happens at home is our affair, and we must protect him from any disturbances. A man has a right to a calm and well-ordered home.” She looked at Veronica’s hair carefully. “People do die. Death is the inevitable end of life, and you are not some tuppenny bourgeoise to fall into the vapors at the first affliction. Now pinch a little color into your face and come downstairs.”

Veronica’s body stiffened, the blue silk tightening as the line of her jaw hardened into a sharp angle.

“I have quite as much color as usual, Mother-in-law. I do not wish to look as if I have a fever.”

Loretta’s face froze. “I am thinking of your welfare, Veronica,” she said icily. “I always have your good in mind, which you will realize if you think back.” The words were reasonable, even kind, but her voice cut like a knife.

Veronica grew paler, and she spoke with difficulty. “I am aware of that, Mother-in-law.”

Emily was transfixed. The emotion was so strong she could feel it prickling her skin. And yet the issue was so slight!

“Sometimes I wonder if it slips your mind.” Loretta did not alter her fixed gaze. “I want your future happiness and security, my dear. Don’t ever forget that.”

Veronica swiveled, her throat jerking with the effort. “I never, never forget what you do for me,” she whispered.

“I will always be here, my dear,” Loretta promised—or, in the hot motionlessness of this room, was this a veiled threat? “Always.” Then, as Emily’s paralyzed figure caught the corner of her vision, “What are you staring at, girl?” she asked. Her voice stung like a sudden slap. “Be about your business!”

Emily leapt to attention and the dressing robe slid from her hands to the floor. She bent and picked it up clumsily, fingers stiff. “Yes ma’am!” She almost ran from the room, her face burning with frustration and embarrassment for having been caught eavesdropping. The words had been so ordinary, any mother and daughter-in-law might have exchanged them, but there had been no lightness or ease in the air; it was charged with multiple layers of meaning. And Emily felt with a crawling electricity under her skin that beneath it all was an immense hatred.

Emily took her first meal in Hanover Close in the servants’ hall, at a large table presided over by Redditch, the butler. He was in his mid-forties and just a trifle pompous, but his face had such an inoffensive air of slight surprise about it that she could not dislike him.

It was late by the time the meal had been served in the dining room, found satisfactory, and cleared away. The scullery was filled with dirty dishes. At the foot of the table sat the cook, who was still solicitous, since Emily was a newcomer, but there was no doubt that motherly concern would be quickly replaced by motherly discipline should Emily speak out of turn or fall short in her duty. Mrs. Crawford, the housekeeper, was dressed in black bombazine with an immaculate lace-trimmed cap, more elaborate than the one she had worn previously. She was very much on her dignity. She obviously considered herself the mistress in any other part of the house and only tolerated the cook’s supremacy here because Mrs. Melrose was so immediately concerned with preparing the meal. Throughout the conversation Mrs. Crawford made sharp little remarks, reminders of rank.

Edith, the other lady’s maid, apparently felt recovered enough to come to the table. She was in her mid-thirties, plump and sullen, her black hair still shiny but her country complexion dulled with two decades of London fog and soot and too little air. Whatever her indisposition, and although she seemed ill pleased with the food, she managed to eat all of it and came back for second helpings of the bread, cheese, and pickles, which was all there was offered, the main meal having been eaten at luncheon. Emily had the strong suspicion that Edith was more lazy than unwell, and she determined to find out why the disciplinarian Mrs. York tolerated her.

She spent what was left of the evening in the servants hall, listening to scraps of conversation and learning all she could, which was little enough, because they spoke mainly of their own affairs, domestic matters, the tradesmen and their shortcomings, and the general decline of the national character as exhibited by other people’s servants and the standards of households in general.

Edith sat next to the fire and sewed a chemise, and the mystery of her employment was solved—she was an exquisite needlewoman. Idle and ungracious she might be, but there was genius in her fingers. Her needle flashed in and out, drawing the gleaming silk behind it, and flowers took shape under her hand, delicate as gossamer and perfectly proportioned. Emily glanced at her work and saw the reverse was almost indistinguishable from the top. She realized that she might well be expected to pull Edith’s weight in fetching and carrying, and she would have to do it without complaint, or she would be replaced. Girls who would run errands were two a penny since the coming of machinery and the consequent disappearance of hundreds of home crafts; the traditional occupations for women no longer existed. Tens of thousands of them poured in from the country to take domestic service, most of them with nothing to offer but willingness and the need to survive. Girls who could stitch like Edith were worth their weight in gold. It was a lesson to be remembered.

Fanny, the tweeny, who was only twelve, was sent to bed at half past nine so she could be up at five to clean out the grates and polish the brasses. She went with a halfhearted complaint, made more from habit than any hope she would be reprieved, and Prim, the scullery maid, followed fifteen minutes later, for similar reasons, and with a similar complaint.

“On with you!” the housekeeper said sharply. “Quick sticks! Up them stairs, girl, or you’ll be late in the morning.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crawford. G’night. G’night, Mr. Redditch.”

“Good night,” came the automatic reply.

“I know there is a big dinner party tomorrow—will there be many guests?” Emily asked as casually as she could.

“Twenty,” Nora replied. “We don’t do very big parties here, but we have some important people.” She sounded a little defensive. She looked at Emily coldly, prepared to counter any slight, should it be offered.

“We used to ’ave more,” Mary said, looking up from the mending she was doing. “Afore Mr. Robert was killed.”

“That’ll do, Mary!” the cook said quickly. “We don’t want to talk o’ things like that. You’ll be givin’ them girls bad dreams again!”

Emily deliberately misunderstood. “I love parties. I love to see the ladies all dressed up.”

“Not parties!” the housekeeper said crossly. “Talking about death. You can’t be expected to know, Amelia, but Mr. Robert died terrible. I’ll caution you to hold your tongue about it. You go tattling all over the place and upsetting people and you’ll have no position in this house, and no character to take with you! Now you go upstairs and put out Miss Veronica’s things for the night an’ make sure you got your tray set for the morning. You can come down here again for cocoa at half past nine.”

Emily sat motionless, her temper rising. Her eyes met the housekeeper’s and she saw the start of surprise in them. Maids do not question their orders, least of all new maids. It was her first mistake.

“Yes, Mrs. Crawford,” she said demurely, her voice thick with anger, both at herself and at being subjected to discipline.

“Uppity, that girl,” Mrs. Crawford said as Emily was almost out of the door. “You mark my words, Mrs. Melrose: uppity! Can see it in her eyes and the way she walks. Got airs, that one. She’ll come to no good—I can always tell.”

Emily’s first night in Hanover Close was wretched. The bed was hard and the blankets thin. She was used to a fire, and a feather quilt, and thick velvet curtains over the windows. These curtains were plain cloth and she could hear the sleet lashing against the glass until sometime in the shivering darkness when it froze and turned to snow. Then there was silence, thick, strange, and penetratingly cold. She hunched up her knees but she could not get warm enough to sleep. Finally she got up, the air so bitter that the touch of her gown against her skin made her wince. She swung her arms sharply but was too tense to succeed in warming herself. Instead she put her towel on top of the bed, and then the mat from the floor over that, and climbed back in.

This time she slept, but it seemed only moments before there was a sharp rap on the door and the tweeny’s pale little face came round it.

“Time to get up, Miss Amelia.”

For a moment Emily could not think where on earth she was. It was cold and the room was stark. She saw iron bedposts and a heap of gray blankets and the floor mat over her. The curtains were still closed. Then with a rush of misery it all came back to her, the whole absurd situation she had got herself into.

Fanny was staring at her. “You cold, miss?”

“I’m freezing,” Emily admitted.

“I’ll tell Joan; she’ll find you another blanket. You’d better get up. It’s near seven o’clock, and you’ll ’ave ter get yerself ready, then make Miss Veronica’s tea and fetch it up, and draw ’er bath. She usually likes to be up by eight. An’ if nobody told yer, Edith’ll prob’ly sleep in an’ you’ll ’ave ter make Mrs. York’s tea, too, and draw ’er bath maybe.”

Emily threw the bedclothes off and plunged out, her body shaking. The floor without the mat was like dry ice. “Does Edith often skive off?” she asked with chattering teeth. She pulled open the curtains to let in the light.

“Oh yes,” Fanny answered matter-of-factly. “Dulcie always did ’alf ’er work, as I ’spec’ you will too, if you stay. It’s worf it. Anyway, if Miss Veronica likes you she’ll prob’ly take you wif ’er when she marries Mr. Danver, an’ then you’ll be all right.” She smiled and her eyes moved up to look at the gray sky through the window. “Maybe you’ll get ter meet someone real nice—’andsome, an’ kind—what ’as ’is own shop, maybe, and fall in love. ...” She let the thought hang in the air, beautiful and bright as a bubble, too precious to touch.

Emily felt tears prickling her eyes. She turned away, but she was too cold to stop dressing, nor was there time.

“Is Miss Veronica going to get married? How exciting. What’s he like, Mr. Danver? I expect he’s well-to-do?”

Fanny let the dream go and came back to reality. “Lor’ miss, I dunno! Nora says ’e is, but then she would! Got eyes for the gentlemen, she ’as. My ma used ter say all parlormaids ’as. Fancies theirselves rotten.”

“What was Mr. Robert like?” Emily put on her apron and reached for a brush to untangle her hair and pin it up.

“I dunno, miss. ’E died afore I come ’ere.”

Of course—she was only twelve, she would have been nine when Robert York was murdered. Stupid question.

Fanny was not to be deterred. “Mary says ’e was ever so good-looking, and a real gentleman. Never tried it on, like some gentlemen do, and lovely spoken. ’E liked nice rings, dressed a treat, but not showy like. In fac’ she says ’e was the best gentleman she ever saw. She thought the world of ’im. O’ course I fink she ’eard it all from the front servants like, ’er being scullery maid then. Devoted to Miss Veronica, ’e was; an’ she to ’im.” She sighed and looked down at her plain gray stuff dress. “Terrible sad, ’im bein’ killed like that. Fair broke ’er ’eart. She wept suffink wicked, poor soul. I reckon as ’ooever done it should be topped, but nobody never caught ’im.” She sniffed fiercely. “I’d like to find someone as’d love me like that,” she said, then sniffed again. She was a realist and half of her knew it would always be a fantasy, but it was precious. In the long day of practicalities, she needed to let go for a moment and permit the mind to take wing. Even the remotest chance was infinitely cherished.

Emily thought of George with a vividness she had learned to avoid for months now. A year ago her life had seemed so safe, and here she was, shaking with cold in an attic at seven in the morning, dressed in plain blue stuff and listening to a twelve-year-old tweeny pour out her dreams.

“Yes,” she said honestly, “it would be the best thing imaginable. But don’t run off with thinking that it only happens to ladies. Some of them cry themselves to sleep too; you don’t see all that happens. And some people you’d never think of can find happiness. Don’t give up, Fanny. You mustn’t give up.”

Fanny wiped her nose on a rag from her apron pocket. “You’re a caution, miss. Don’t let Mrs. Crawford ’ear you say that. She don’t approve o’ girls wif ideas. Says it’s bad for ’em: unsettles ’em, like. She says ’appiness comes from knowing yer place an’ keepin’ to it.”

“I’m sure she does,” Emily said. She dashed the cold water from the bowl onto her face and snatched the towel from the bed to rub it dry. It hurt her skin, but at least the roughness made her blood sing.

“I gotta be goin’,” Fanny said, turning to the door. “I only done ’alf me grates, and Bertha’ll be arter me to ’elp ’er wi’ ve tea leaves.”

“Tea leaves?” Emily did not know what she meant.

“On the carpet!” Fanny stared at her. “The tea leaves on the carpet to clean it afore the master and mistress comes down! Mrs. Crawford’ll ’ave me if I don’t get on!” And with a note of real fear in her voice she scuttled away. Emily heard her rapid feet along the uncarpeted passage and down the stairs.

The day was an endless whirl of one task after another. Emily began by cutting fine bread and butter and taking a tea tray to Veronica, pulling back the curtains, inquiring for instructions for bathing and dressing; then she did the same for Loretta and suddenly felt idiotically nervous. Her fingers fumbled and she nearly spilled the tea; the cup rattled and for a moment she was afraid she was going to knock it over. The curtains stuck and she had to yank them and her heart stopped as she had visions of the whole rail coming down on top of her. She felt Loretta’s eyes boring two holes in her back.

But when she turned round Loretta was busy with her bread and butter and had no interest in her whatsoever.

“Would you like me to draw your bath, ma’am?” she asked.

“Certainly.” Loretta did not look up. “Edith has already put out my morning dress. You can come back in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, and excused herself as hastily as she could.

When both the ladies were bathed and dressed Edith deigned to put in an appearance, so Emily had only Veronica’s hair to do, after which she was permitted to hurry down to the kitchen and take her own snatched breakfast. Then she was required to go back upstairs and help Libby the upstairs maid with turning out the bedrooms. Each room had to be aired thoroughly, and before this could be done the cheval glasses must be laid down so the draft could not knock them over and break them. Then in the freezing wind from the open sashes they turned the bottom mattresses, plumped up the middle ones, and thoroughly kneaded and pummeled the top feather ones till they were as light as soufflés. Finally they remade the beds. The carpets were rolled and taken downstairs to be beaten only once a fortnight, and thank heavens it was not today. This time they only swept the carpets, dusted every surface, emptied and washed all the basins and chamber pots, cleaned the baths thoroughly and laid out fresh towels.

By the time they were finished Emily was tired and dirty. Her hair had fallen out of its pins, and Mrs. Crawford caught her on the stairs and told her that she looked a disgrace, she had better smarten herself up if she wished to remain. Emily was on the point of retaliating that if Mrs. Crawford had done a hand’s turn herself she would also look a little untidy when she caught sight of Veronica. Pale and tight-faced, she was walking quickly away from Loretta, and the butler with the morning newspapers freshly ironed, going across the hall towards the dining room.

“Yes, Mrs. Crawford,” Emily said obediently, remembering why she was there. She was so thirsty she could taste feathers in her mouth and her back was stiff from bending and lifting. But she would not be defeated by a housekeeper! This was the only place to discover who had killed Robert York and why—and who had pushed poor Dulcie out of the window to her death.

Already she had learned more about the characters of the two women than she could have in a month of social visiting. It was Loretta, not Veronica, who slept in shell pink satin sheets with pillowcases embroidered in self-colored silks. Either Veronica was happy with linen, or she had not been offered anything else. It was Loretta who had the expensive oil of musk perfumes in crystal and Lalique bottles with silver filigree stoppers. Veronica was more beautiful by nature’s gift, with her slender height and grace and those haunting eyes; but it was Loretta who was the more elegantly feminine. She bothered with the details of care, the perfume in the handkerchief and in the petticoats to waft to the nostrils as she moved, or passed, the taffeta to rustle and whisper as she walked, the many pairs of boots and slippers to match every gown and be shown in a glimpse under her skirts. Had Veronica not thought of these things, or did their subtlety elude her? Was there some reason for this difference that Emily did not yet understand?

There was obviously a strong emotional bond between the two women, although its exact nature still eluded Emily. Loretta seemed protective, guarding the younger and seemingly weaker woman after the grief of her widowhood, yet at the same time her patience was thin and she was highly critical. And Veronica resented her mother-in-law while appearing to depend upon her a great deal.

When they changed for luncheon after the morning’s outing, Emily was busy taking care of wet coats and soiled skirts, humping them back and forth to be dried out, brushed off, sponged and pressed—and she had both to do since Edith was missing again. She overheard a sharp exchange as Veronica’s voice rose and Loretta’s remained calm and cold in what was seemingly a warning. Emily tried to overhear, but just as she was about to bend to the keyhole the upstairs maid came by and she was obliged to continue with her duties.

Luncheon in the servants hall was called dinner, and Emily was caught out in misnaming it and received a curious look from the cook.

“Think you’re upstairs, do you, my fine lady?” the housekeeper said tartly. “Well, there’ll be no giving yourself airs down here, and you’d best remember it! You’re just the same as the rest of the girls; in fact, you’re not as good until you prove yourself!”

“Oh, maybe some gentleman acquaintance of Miss Veronica’ll take a fancy to ’er an’ she’ll become a duchess!” Nora pulled a face. “ ’Ceptin’ you need to be a parlormaid to meet dukes, and you ’aven’t got the looks for it. You aren’t tall enough, for a start. An’ you ’aven’t got the colorin’ either. Peaked, you are!”

“I don’t suppose there are enough dukes to go around anyway,” Emily snapped back. “Since even parlormaids have to wait till all the ladies are suited!”

“Well, I’ve a sight more chance than you ’ave!” Nora retorted. “At least I know my job; I don’t ’ave to ’ave a tweeny show me ’ow to do it!”

“Duchess!” Edith giggled. “That’s a fine name for ’er. Walks with ’er ’ead in the air like she already got a tiara on an’ was afraid it might slip over ’er nose.” She made a mock curtsy. “Don’t wobble yer ’ead, Yer Grace!”

“That’s enough!” the butler said with a frown of disapproval. “She’s done most of your work this morning. You should be obliged to her! Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you.”

“Edith was busy with mending, and she’s not strong.” Mrs. Crawford gave Redditch a look of irritation which would have quelled anyone less than a butler. “You’ve no call to pick on her.”

“Edith is bone idle and wouldn’t be kept if she wasn’t the best seamstress in the city,” Redditch replied quickly, but his reproach was robbed of some of its bite by the slightly wary air with which he immediately followed it.

“I’ll thank you to attend to your own responsibilities, Mr. Redditch. The maidservants are mine and I’ll look after them my own way, which suits Mrs. York well enough.”

“Well, it doesn’t suit me, Mrs. Crawford, to see girls lowering themselves to make mock of each other, and if I hear it again someone’ll have their notice.”

“We’ll see who has their notice, Mr. Redditch,” Mrs. Crawford said darkly. “You mark my words, it’ll be them as can best be replaced.”

That seemed to be the end of the matter for the time being, but Emily, glancing at their faces, knew that battle lines had been drawn and the exchange would not be forgotten. She had made enemies of both Edith and Nora, and the housekeeper would be happy to catch her in any shortcoming from now on. If she wanted to survive, she would have to cultivate the butler’s regard till her position became a matter of his pride as well.

The afternoon was dreadful. Emily had superintended her own maid often enough and had imagined she knew her duties, but watching someone use a flatiron on lace ruffling was a very different thing from doing it oneself, and it was much more difficult than she had thought. The only good thing about it was that she did not scorch anything, so it was possible for Joan to rescue her, and the outcome was a debt to Joan. Emily had no break all afternoon, not even for a cup of tea, and finally rushed upstairs at half past five, exhausted, her head throbbing, back aching and feet pinched in the unfamiliar boots, barely in time to help Veronica change for the dinner party.

After receiving several callers for tea Veronica seemed tired also, and more nervous than Emily could understand. She was not the hostess; the responsibility for the dinner’s success rested with her mother-in-law, so all she had to do was be charming. Nevertheless she changed her mind three times about which gown to wear, was dissatisfied with her hair, and when Emily had taken it all down and put it back up again she still did not feel confident. She stood in front of the cheval glass and frowned at her reflection.

Emily was exhausted, her mind crowded with thoughts of how selfish this woman was. She had done nothing whatsoever all day except visit, eat, and chatter, while Emily had worked like a Trojan, missed afternoon tea, and been picked on and jeered at, and all Veronica could think of was to tell Emily to take her hair down yet again and do it a third time.

“It becomes you very well the first way, ma’am.” Emily only barely controlled the tone of her voice.

Veronica picked up the perfume bottle and it slipped through her fingers, splashing perfume down the front of her skirt.

Emily could have wept. Now the whole thing had to be changed—there was no possible alternative. And on top of that she did not know how to get rid of the stain and would have to ask Edith, who would crow over her ignorance, almost certainly letting Mrs. Crawford know about it, and probably the rest of the staff. She did not trust herself to speak. It was only when she was in the dressing room fetching a fourth gown that she realized that she herself often gave no more thought to her own maid’s feelings than Veronica was doing now.

Back in the bedroom with the fresh gown she saw Veronica sitting on the bed in her petticoats and chemise, her head low, her hair fallen forward. She looked very slight, her shoulders almost childlike, and painfully vulnerable. This was an acutely private moment. Did anyone else ever see her like this, without the glamor and the confidence? Emily wanted to put her arms round her, she looked so bitterly alone; she, too, understood widowhood in the shadow of murder. But she knew that would be impossible. There was a gulf between them, at least from Veronica’s side.

“Don’t you feel very well, ma’am?” she said gently. “I can get you a tisane, if you like? As lovely as you are, no one will mind if you are a minute or two late. Come down after the other ladies and cause a bit of a flutter!”

Veronica looked up, and Emily was surprised to see the gratitude in her face. She smiled faintly. “Thank you, Amelia. Yes, I would like a tisane. I can drink it while you’re doing my hair.”

It took five minutes for Emily to sort through the ingredients available and select a soothing camomile, and another three for the kettle to boil, after which she had to carry the herb tea back upstairs. She met Mrs. Crawford in the hall.

“What are you doing down here, Amelia?”

“An errand for Mrs. York,” Emily replied tartly, and whisking her skirts around the corner of the stairpost she went up without looking back. She heard Mrs. Crawford snort and the muttered words, “We’ll see about you, miss!” but she could not take time to worry over it now.

Veronica greeted her with pleasure, and sipped the tisane as if it were indeed a life restorer. She made no demur when Emily put her hair up as she had the first time and helped her on with the fourth gown, black taffeta stitched with beads. It was very dramatic, and on a less beautiful woman it would have been overwhelming.

“You look marvelous, ma’am,” Emily said sincerely. “There won’t be a man in the room has eyes for anyone else.”

Veronica blushed, the first color in her cheeks Emily had seen all day.

“Thank you, Amelia. Don’t flatter me or you’ll make me immodest.”

“A little confidence doesn’t do any harm.” Emily picked up the stained gown to take it away. She would have to attend to the stain immediately. Perhaps Joan would help her.

She had just got through the dressing room door and was turning to close it when she heard the bedroom door open and saw Loretta come in. She was wearing dove gray and silver and looked very feminine.

“Good gracious!” Her eyebrows rose when she saw Veronica. “Do you really think that’s suitable? It is most important you impress the French ambassador favorably, my dear, especially in front of the Danvers.”

Veronica drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Emily could see her hand clench in the folds of her skirt.

“Yes, I think it’s perfectly suitable,” she said unsteadily. “Mr. Garrard Danver is an admirer of elegant clothes; he does not care for the ordinary.”

Loretta’s face colored deeply, then the blood drained away. “As you wish.” Her voice was tight. “But I don’t know why you are so late. You came up in plenty of time. Is your new maid no good?”

“She’s perfectly good—in fact she’s excellent. I changed my mind about what I was wearing. It wasn’t Amelia’s fault.”

“A pity. You were probably better advised the first time. Still, it’s too late now. Is that a tisane cup?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Loretta’s voice came quietly, with an edge to it but remaining perfectly controlled. She had moved slightly, so Emily could no longer see her face.

“Veronica, you must not start giving in to nerves. It is a self-indulgence you cannot afford. If you are ill we will call the doctor; otherwise you must exercise a little discipline, put a smile on your face, and come downstairs. You are already close to being late. It won’t do!”

There was silence. Emily pulled the door open an inch wider, but dared do no more in case the movement caught Loretta’s eye.

“I’m perfectly ready,” Veronica said at last.

“No you are not! Being ready is more than having your gown on and your hair done, Veronica.” Her voice sank lower and there was an urgency in it. “You must have your mind prepared as well. You are going to marry Julian Danver; don’t give anyone cause to doubt your happiness, least of all Julian himself, or his family. Smile; no one likes a sulky or nervous woman—women are expected to add to a man’s comfort and pleasure, to be easy company, not a strain! And no one willingly marries a woman whose health is not robust. We hide our petty complaints. Courage and dignity are expected of us—in fact, they are required.”

“Sometimes I hate you,” Veronica said so softly Emily only just heard her, but with a passion that made her skin crawl.

“And that too,” Loretta answered with stonelike calm, “is a self-indulgence you cannot afford, my dear, any more than I can.”

“Perhaps it would be worth it!” Veronica said between her teeth.

“Oh think again, my dear, think again,” Loretta answered her softly. Then quite suddenly her voice changed and became rasping, choked with fury. “Pull yourself together and stop your weak, stupid whining! I can only carry you so far, then you must look after yourself! I have done everything for you that I can, and it has not been as easy for me as you sometimes seem to think.”

There was a rustle of skirts, then the outer door opened and Emily heard an entirely new voice, a man’s, intelligent and individual.

“Are you ready, my dear? It’s time we went to greet our guests.”

That must be Piers York, the only person in the house Emily had not met. “Veronica, you look quite ravishing.”

“Thank you, Papa-in-law.” Veronica’s voice shook even with those few words.

“I am quite aware of the time, Piers,” Loretta said briskly, no trace of her previous emotion remaining; she had transformed it into a slight irritation at being checked up on. “I was reminding Veronica. She has a new maid, and new maids always take a little longer.”

“Oh, has she?” he said mildly. “Don’t think I’ve seen her.”

“No reason why you should,” Loretta answered. “You have enough to do without organizing the servants.”

Veronica was disposed to argue. “It wasn’t Amelia’s fault, it was mine. I changed my mind.”

“A costly thing to do.” There was warning under Loretta’s polite comment, and Veronica must know that as much as Emily. Only Piers was seemingly unaware of it.

“Nonsense, my dear. Lady’s privilege.”

This time Loretta did not argue. Again she changed, her tone becoming courteous and familiar. “Oh, Veronica and I know each other very well. We have shared much grief, so I assure you, my dear, we have no misunderstandings. She knows exactly what I mean. Come, it is past time we were downstairs. Our guests are due, and the Hollingsworths at least are never late. Most tedious.”

“I think they’re all rather tedious,” he said frankly. “I don’t know why we keep on having them here. Can’t see that it’s necessary.”

The rest of the evening was miserable. The kitchen was chaotic as the cook superintended the finishing and serving of a dozen different dishes. Mary was frantic with pastries, gravies, sauces and puddings. Redditch was busy in the cellars and the dining room, where John was, and Albert kept rushing back and forth. Nora was primped up and sweeping around with her skirts swishing, her apron so white and full of lace it looked like a breaking sea as she ordered the housemaids around imperiously. Prim was up to her elbows in the sink trying to get a start on the washing up, at least the saucepans, but as soon as she finished one pile another descended on her. Everyone’s temper was short, and any supper was to be snatched as the opportunity arose, only cold game pie being available—about the last thing Emily felt like eating.

It was not part of her duty, but Emily helped with the clearing up, washing and polishing glasses and putting away extra silver and plates. She could not comfortably go to bed leaving Mary, Prim, and Albert with that monstrous pile, and she needed as many allies as she could earn. Mrs. Crawford was now unalterably an enemy, since the butler had made his regard unfortunately plain. Nora was jealous and kept referring to Emily as “the Duchess,” and Edith made no secret of her contempt.

It was quarter to one, the wind whining outside and seeking every crack in the windows and every open door to send daggerlike drafts. Sleet battered against the glass when Emily climbed the last bare flight of the attic stairs and crept into her small, icy room. There was only a candle to light it and the bed was so cold it felt wet to the touch.

She took off her outer clothes and pulled on her nightgown over all her underwear, then turned back the blankets and slid into bed. She was so cold she was shaking and the tears came to her eyes in spite of all her determination. She rolled over, burying her face in the frozen pillow, and cried herself to sleep.