Anne Perry - Silence in Hanover Close

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 souffles. 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?