Kathleen McGurl - The Forgotten Gift

It is late and I grow weary of writing by gaslight. I will continue tomorrow, for something important happened earlier today which I need to capture in my journal.

We have employed, as of yesterday, a new upstairs maidservant, to replace one my mother had found unsatisfactory in some way, although quite what was wrong with the previous girl whom I’d thought was pretty and personable, was unclear to me.

The new girl’s name is Lucy. She is the sweetest-looking girl one could ever hope to see. Her hair is a light brown, wavy tendrils of it escape her cap and curl about her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are wide, their colour is hard to describe – in some lights they look brown, in others blue, and in still others, green. Perhaps I shall call them hazel. They are intriguing, mystifying eyes like none I have ever had the fortune to gaze upon before. Her figure is slight, trim, neat and efficient. We call women the weaker sex, but Lucy’s bearing suggests a hidden, exciting strength. Were I a painter, I would ask her to sit for me; I would try to capture that elusive eye colour, that regal bearing, that aura of mystical beauty she carries with her.

She arrived mid-morning. I was on my way downstairs, considering taking my father’s bay mare Bella for a gallop across the bare fields. He rarely takes the poor creature out, and the groom and stable hands have enough work to do without needing to exercise his horse. I met Mother as she conducted Lucy upstairs to show her the duties that would be expected of her. I couldn’t help myself. Lucy’s face, her figure, her bearing – everything about her was mesmerising and I am ashamed to admit it, I stared as she approached and passed me on the stairs.

She noticed. A tiny smile played at the corner of her perfect mouth, and if I am not mistaken, she pulled herself a little more upright, her shoulders a little further back, her chin a little higher, as she ascended and I stood gaping.

Mother noticed too. While I was still sitting on a chair in the hall, pulling on my riding boots, she came back down, having presumably left Lucy in one of the rooms upstairs. She approached me and stood before me, her face clouded with anger.

‘I saw the way you looked at that girl. You steer clear of her, you hear me?’ Her voice was low and hissing. I supposed she did not want the other house servant, plain, simple Maggie, who was busy blacking the grate in the sitting room, to hear.

I was shocked but not surprised by the venom in her voice. It is not the first time she has spoken to me like this. I tried to appease her. ‘Of course, Mother. I was just struck by her beauty. I meant nothing by staring at her. What is her name, please?’

‘The girl’s name is Lucy Carter, though why you need to know that is beyond me. I am warning you, if you go getting her into trouble, I will throw you out, and make sure your father leaves you not a penny. Do you hear? Do you understand me?’

‘I hear you, Mother,’ I answered. ‘Please be assured I would never do anything to harm her, or any other servant we might employ.’ It’s not in my nature to harm another human. Did she not know that? My own mother? Did she not know my character?

‘You say that, but you’re a man, and I know what men are like and what they are capable of, when their heads are turned by a pretty face. She comes with good references and I don’t want to lose her. You’ll keep your hands to yourself and your eyes averted, my boy. Your brother would not have looked at her like that. He, at least, is an honourable man. You are too much like your father.’ She turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs.

I sighed. This was not the first time she had turned on me like that, for apparently no reason. But perhaps I had stared too much, too openly, and perhaps she was justified in her admonishment. I pulled on my riding boots and took Bella for the hardest gallop she’d ever had. We both came back sweating and exhausted, our thoughts only on refreshment and rest.

I was late for lunch, and it was already laid out in the dining room – a buffet of cold cuts, scones, pickles and pies. With no time to change or freshen up, I went straight in, pulled out a chair and sat down. Father was already seated at the head of the table, his plate piled high, his wine glass part-filled with a deep rusty claret. Mother was hovering at the sideboard, picking the choicest morsels of cold beef and ham. And Lucy, sweet-faced Lucy, was going around the table filling water glasses from a large ewer.

She smiled at me as I sat, and then she was there, beside me, her hip pressing slightly against my upper arm. ‘Water, sir?’

Her voice, in just those two words, was melodious, rich, and was I imagining it or did I detect a tiny hint of mischief in the way she raised her intonation at the end of the short sentence, as though she was offering more than a simple glass of water?

I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak, as my mother was glaring at me from across the table. What I was not imagining was the pressure of Lucy’s thigh against my arm, as she leaned across me to fill my glass.

And so this evening, as I write my journal, I find myself pondering the events of the day and the attractions of sweet Lucy, and wondering whether her pressure against me was accidental or intentional. I can reach no conclusion. I find myself half wishing Mr Smythe were still here to work through the puzzle with me, as though it were a mathematical problem or a philosophical question. But I am grown now, and the problem is my own, and only I can solve it. Why is this girl who I have set eyes on only thrice (the third time being at the dinner table where she once again waited on us) filling my mind so, and leaving no room for anything else?

Lucy is all I can think about. She fills my senses, my waking thoughts and my dreams with her presence. I find myself prowling through the house looking for her. I stand and watch her at her work, as she sets the dining table for the next meal, or crouches by a fireplace to black the grates, or passes a duster over a mantelpiece. I try to catch her on the stairs, and pass her, uttering what I hope is a cheery ‘good morning’ with a smile. She smiles back, and dips her head, and occasionally says to me, ‘good morning, sir,’ in her warm, melodious voice that seems to melt my insides.

And I have begun wondering, what would life be like if she and I could … I know our stations in life are vastly different but does that matter? If two people love each other, why does it matter that one is a gentleman and the other a servant? I think she does like me. We have had a few conversations – just a dozen snatched words as she goes about her work. Comments on the weather, on how well she has polished a sideboard, how hard it must be to keep all Mother’s ornaments dust-free. I speak and she responds and smiles at me, and my day is made. For the first time I have begun to dream of possible futures for myself, and, I confess, in many of those futures Lucy features.

But today, something more happened that I must write here. I came across her in the drawing room this morning, and stood by the door watching her as she bent to plump cushions and straighten antimacassars. Her slim figure stretching over the sofa back was something to behold. She spotted I was there, and stood straight, turning to me.

‘Come in, sir, please don’t let me stop you.’ She curtsied as she spoke, and tilted her pretty head on one side, and I felt my heart flutter. I entered the room, and sat on the sofa she had just finished straightening. To my surprise she didn’t continue working, but stood before me. ‘You like me, sir, don’t you?’ she said, and I blushed to my roots.