Untitled (25 page)

   "I'll keep it warm for you," Mrs. Johnson calls after him.

   Now that Cartwright is gone, the women sit back in their chairs and look at one another. "Well," says Sarah. "What's got into him all of a sudden?"

   Mrs. Johnson takes up his plate and slides it into the oven. "He's taken it to heart, the mistress dying like that. He's worked here for longer than any of the rest of us, and she was always good to him."

   "There's no need to make us sit at the table without a word."

   Mrs. Johnson swings the oven door closed and lets herself drop down onto her chair again. "That's how things should be. You work in one of them big houses and you'll see—no one allowed to say a word unless the butler or the housekeeper asks them something first."

   Sarah pushes away her plate. "I wouldn't stand for it." Elsie snorts but doesn't say anything. Sarah glares at her. "Well, it's not right," she says. "The family talk when they eat, don't they? Why not us?" She looks from Elsie to Jane to Mrs. Johnson.

   Mrs. Johnson is pushing mutton onto her fork. "You should watch yourself. We've got a new mistress now and I'm sure she's going to have her own rules."

   "What's that supposed to mean? I hope you don't think that—"

   "The mistress is dead. All these weeks Mrs. Robert has been here and has had a hand in how things have gone but without being mistress. We haven't felt her being here, not really. Now it's her turn, and none of us can know what she'll be like."

   Sarah snorts. "Of course we do. Soon we'll be on hashed mutton every day. Or maybe she'll want to us live off bread and cheese."

   "There's the other Mrs. Bentley too," says Jane.

   For a moment Sarah and Mrs. Johnson stare at her.

   "That young thing?" Mrs. Johnson laughs.

   "The house is just as much hers, isn't it?"

   From Elsie comes a laugh. She hasn't swallowed the food in her mouth and it shows pale against her tongue. "That'll be a fine thing. Them two ladies both wanting to be mistress." She tears off a piece of bread and pushes it into her mouth. "Or p'raps they'll both go back where they came from and the whole lot of us'll be looking for new situations."

   Mrs. Johnson bows her head at that and fiddles with her mutton. "No use worrying about it yet," she says.

   Jane picks up her knife and fork and stares down at what's left of her food. To think that she could soon be thrown back onto the world, this time by a mistress who knows she is a liar. What's more, if Sarah should take it into her head to tell Mrs. Robert about her mother, she wouldn't be in this house longer than it would take to drag her to the door. Yet for now, why would Sarah tell when she can use the secret to make Jane open letters, to take on her work, to help herself to Jane's money? No, she thinks, Sarah won't tell, not yet.

   And if Sarah won't tell yet, perhaps she should sway Mrs. Robert against her.

   Sarah helps herself to another slice of bread, though Mrs. Johnson frowns at her. "Anyway," she says, "one thing's certain—we'll have to put up with Mrs. Robert for some time to come. Mr. Robert isn't going anywhere."

   "Been listening at doors again, have you?"

   Sarah laughs, but her eyes move quickly. "Can't help overhearing what they say sometimes, can we?" She shoves back her chair and the legs squeal over the floor. "They're having their things sent over from Paris." Her mouth twists into an odd smile as she turns away to the scullery.

   This must be what the letter to Paris was about. Jane scrapes up what's left of her mutton. It lies unpleasantly cold against her tongue. Surely Sarah, she thinks, doesn't understand French. Maybe she
did
overhear it. Such a piece of information could easily slip out during the course of a conversation. No, that's not right, she tells herself. The way Sarah got up like that, and the look on her face. She can't help but show off what she knows.

   But then, Jane wonders, how did she find out what was in the letter? As she wipes her mouth she thinks of Sarah's gentleman, who'd hurried away from the area railings. A gentleman would understand French, wouldn't he?

Chapter 18

P
rice does not even rouse herself for her mistress's funeral. When Mina, Robert, and the widow return, pale-faced and chilled, she is still nowhere to be seen. Mina takes off her coat and hands it to Cartwright. "Is she up yet?" she asks.

   He folds her coat over his arm. "No, ma'am. Apparently she is still indisposed."

   "I see." She lays a hand on the widow's arm. "Be a dear and come with me for a few minutes."

   "Oh." Victoria's mouth twitches slightly. "Yes, if you think it necessary."

   So Mina Bentley leads the way upstairs while Robert retreats to the study and Cartwright carries off their coats. She takes Victoria all the way up, up to where the stairs have no carpet and the paint has turned a dingy brown, then along a narrow corridor where their skirts brush against the walls. In the dim light doors are just visible. At the last one she knocks. Without waiting, she walks in.

   Stretched out in the bed, looking suddenly old, lies Price. Her eyes are shut, though certainly she must have heard the knock at the door and the footsteps of the two women approaching.

   "Price?" Mina pulls over the only chair in the room, a bare, straight-backed thing. She sits down on it and leans close to the bed. "Open your eyes, Price."

   Instead she moans, and Mina glances up at the widow. This, her face says, is going too far.

   "Price?" she calls again, more loudly this time. "Tell me what is the matter."

   Price works her mouth, then licks her lips. "I can't move, ma'am."

   "You've let yourself get too worked up. If only you'd get out of bed and eat a little food you'd feel better."

   Price lets her head fall to the side and opens her eyes. "You wouldn't throw me out into the street in this state, would you, ma'am? I'd end up in the workhouse." Her voice is hoarse.

   Mina moves the chair so that she is looking straight into Price's face. "I have a forgiving nature. But I can spot a deception with little effort." Beside her Victoria shifts. She reaches for the widow's arm and pulls her close. "Do you understand me, Price? I am giving you fair warning: I treat subterfuge without mercy."

   Price's hands grip the bedcovers. "I have always been a faithful servant to Mrs. Bentley," she whispers. "I have devoted myself to her these last twelve years."

   Mina feels the widow move, pulling away from her grip. "Victoria"—she glances at her—"we are prepared to be generous to Price, are we not?"

   The widow nods, but her face has gone stiff.

   "And your mistress was kind enough to leave you a small bequest, as you well know." Now she stands, all the better to look down at Price. "I expect that by tomorrow morning you will have the strength to get out of bed. Then we'll discuss the matter of your character, for I'm sure you'll want to look for a new situation immediately."

   She leads the way back to the corridor, and to the narrow stairs down to the main floors of the house. On the landing she takes Victoria by the elbow. "I think I was more than fair, don't you? One cannot stand for being taken advantage of, though one hates to play the ogre. More than anything"—she touches the side of the widow's face with her fingertips—"it is being made a fool of that so offends, don't you think?"

* * *

It has taken longer than expected, but five trunks arrive from Paris. They are lined up along the hallway like a train that has pulled in, and Mina walks the length of them until she finds it: an old battered thing secured with a leather strap, and with the marks of many paper labels that have been pasted on and torn off. "This one," she tells Cartwright. "The others can be taken to Mr. Bentley's study."

   She watches as he hefts one end of it and Jane bends to lift the other. Of course, he makes Jane walk backwards up the stairs, and twice she trips because her feet catch in her skirts. Up they go, and Mina follows them at a dignified distance. This one, she thinks to herself. Surely this one, for she hid it in there herself just before she and Robert were married.

   Carrying the trunk into the bedroom, Cartwright huffs like an old stallion. Yet when they set it down on the far side of the room beside the dressing table, it is Jane who stands unsteadily. "Come along," Cartwright tells her, "out of the way now."

   The girl teeters, then holds her hands out in a way there is no mistaking. "Sit," commands Mina, and pushes a chair towards her. "I'll take care of her, Cartwright. I'm sure she'll be fine in a few minutes."

   "Very good, ma'am."

   Once the door has closed, Jane sits up straight. "You wanted me to be your eyes and ears, ma'am."

   Mina stands on the carpet in front of the girl. "Yes."

   "Sarah has a gentleman friend, ma'am."

   She steps back to the mantelpiece. When the trunk is sitting right here, within reach,
now
the girl comes to her with stories—and not about the other Mrs. Bentley but about a downstairs romance?

   "Thank you, Jane," she says. "You were right to bring the matter to my attention. I know that the late Mrs. Bentley did not permit her servants to form attachments. I, however, think there is nothing wrong in young women of the serving class finding a husband, provided that they do not resort to subterfuge." She gives a small smile. "I shall have a word with Sarah."

   This will be the end of it. She will talk to Sarah, who no doubt will begin by denying any attachment but will eventually admit that there
is
someone, a perfectly respectable someone who works for the butcher or baker or draper. Then Mina will have to impress on her that there must be no sneaking around, no more excursions to the postbox at strange hours, no young men loitering at the area railings. Will Sarah catch her eye? Will she raise her chin ever so slightly? Mina imagines telling her that she cannot let out of the house a maid whom she does not trust. Not even on errands for Mrs. Johnson. Not even with urgent letters. From now on, she'll say, she will have to keep an eye on her because her good character might so easily be ruined. She'll let herself draw out that last word just a little, and surely that will be warning enough.

   Jane must realize the impropriety of her sitting while her mistress is standing, for she gets to her feet. "Ma'am? He's not a follower, he's a
gentleman
. Except there's something odd about him."

   "A gentleman? Meeting Sarah?" She smiles though she didn't quite mean to.

   "Yes, ma'am."

   "Do you mean he dresses like a gentleman? Have you met him?"

   She fiddles with the edge of her apron. "I've seen him, ma'am. From a distance. He dresses like a gentleman."

   "Yet you aren't sure?"

   "His clothes—they didn't look like his own. And when he walks—"

   Mina gives a small sigh and waves one hand through the air. "Yes, yes, very well. I'll talk to Sarah."

   Jane licks her lips as though she's about to say more.

   "I won't tell her how I found out, Jane, if that's what's worrying you."

   It seems the maid has something else on her mind, for she opens her mouth. However, whatever it is remains unsaid, and she simply nods. "Thank you, ma'am."

   At the door she turns back and asks, "Was I good, ma'am?" She lifts her chin towards the chair.

   Mina says, "Oh yes, you're quite the actress."

"Thank you, ma'am."

   As soon as the door closes Mina walks over and locks it. Sarah and her follower—a valet, no doubt, or perhaps even a butler, dressed in his master's castoffs—will have to wait.

   She has to pull hard on the leather strap to undo the buckles, and the leather leaves her hands red and dusty. The top yawns open and the skirt of a dress she considered too bright for London spills out. She lays it on the bed, then another dress, and another. By the time she gets to the bottom the bed is heaped with dresses and shawls.

   Since she has heaped everything pell-mell, it doesn't take much to send the top dresses cascading to the floor in a rustle of silk. And then she sees it: a letter, and for a moment her heart seems to stop. Then she reaches down. Across the front is written M
adame Bentley
in an uncertain hand. It is only a letter from Marie.

   Still, she drops to her knees and reaches into the trunk. With her fingers she feels the corners, then the edges where one wall meets another. No one has tampered with it, and she sinks back onto her heels. "Thank God," she whispers. She was right—an unlocked, empty trunk, what interest would that have held for two bored servants? Now it can be stowed in the lumber room, out of the sight and minds of everyone in this household. She will call Sarah up to put away her dresses. She will tell her that sneaking about is uncalled for, that if she has a young man she is free to meet him on her half day off. Her tone will be enough to ensure that Sarah understands the consequences of disobeying.

   She crosses to the window to read Marie's letter. Nothing much to say—she has packed everything, she hopes that Madame has been satisfied with her work, she is grieved that she will not see Madame again to say good-bye, but now she is engaged and will marry her fiancé just after Christmas. Not until the end of the letter does she mention something, a small occurrence. Just after she and Monsieur Bentley left, a large Englishman—
un gros anglais
—came calling for her. A strange man, not quite a gentleman. When he heard that Madame had remarried and was back in London he became angry and she had to shut the door in his face.

   Mina finds her eyes tripping over the words—
un gros anglais
—
s'est fâché.
Then she rips the letter into strips and the strips into small squares, and she drops them into the fireplace—no fire now, for it is the middle of the day. So she takes a match from the holder nailed up by the mantelpiece and sets them on fire herself.