Annabel Fielding - A Pearl for My Mistress

On the other side of the door, the silence of long, half-lit passageways greeted Hester. Her escort’s energetic footsteps rang unnaturally loudly in this hollow maze. Half ashamed of her own unease (what was she, a child in the darkness?), Hester tried her best to keep up with him. The thought of getting lost in these corridors was terrifying in more ways than one. After all, she was tired, and the possibility of her rest being delayed still further was almost as frightening as the gargoyles outside.

Their way ended in an enormous kitchen. Hester was seated, a blissfully large cup of tea thrust into her hands. Not wasting any time, she put the cardboard suitcase securely by her side. Hester looked up with silent gratitude at the tall woman who greeted her in the kitchen.

‘You must be quite tired after the journey,’ the cook observed.

Hester half expected her to sit down beside her; however, the woman continued to stand with the rigid dignity of stone.

For some strange reason, Hester had always imagined cooks – particularly cooks in such grand households as this – to be plump, sturdy, motherly creatures. Mrs Mullet, however, was none of these things. Hester found herself wondering how she even managed to lift all the menacing-looking saucepans, let alone work with them for hours on end.

‘To be honest, I am. It took longer than I expected. Thank you so much for the tea,’ Hester added belatedly.

Really, she didn’t expect a journey of less than a hundred miles to fill all day. However, it turned out that to reach the place of her new employment, Hester had to change three trains. Of course, these were not the shiny new expresses, which could take you from one end of the country to the other in a matter of hours; the steam-powered trains used for local needs must have remembered Queen Victoria as a happy newlywed.

It didn’t diminish Hester’s excitement, of course. Ever since she’d left home, she had been clutching her thick cardboard ticket as if it designated her straight to Paradise. In the smoky refreshment rooms of every station she told the other bored travellers: ‘Me? Oh, I’m going to take up a new job. I will become a lady’s maid in the Earl of Hereford’s household. You must’ve heard of them: their seat is Hebden Hall. Such a grand place.’

Strictly speaking, Hester was to become merely a young lady’s maid; that is, she was going to serve the Earl’s debutante daughter, not his wife the Countess. But there was no need to go into such details for the strangers in railway refreshment rooms, was there?

Mrs Mullet apparently thought that the newcomer had had enough rest, and was more than ready to hear the list of her duties. The cook (or, rather, now she was in her capacity of housekeeper) went over each point with metallic precision and years-honed confidence.

‘The breakfast tray is to be taken upstairs at eight. The young lady is an early riser.’

Hester, having relaxed too much in the suffusing warmth of the kitchen, now leaned forward and listened closely. The meticulous list of times and things to do was growing threateningly, and Hester felt the slow burn of fear lest she forget anything.

‘I am afraid you’ve arrived a little too late for Lady Lucy to meet you now,’ Mrs Mullet added with a note of genuine regret in her voice. There was also a hint of reprove, as if the country trains might have done well to be a little more considerate of her lady’s time. ‘Abigail will take you to your room. I wish you a good night’s rest, Miss Blake.’

She didn’t add, ‘You are going to need it,’ but the heavy implication seemed to hang in the air.

Unwilling as she was to steer herself from the brightly lit kitchen and her warm cup, Hester nonetheless took the hint. She stood up, took the long-suffering suitcase, and followed sprightly Abigail into the gloomy maze of corridors.

Was she actually called Abigail ? Hester wondered. Her uncle used to serve in the magnificent household of Lord Londonderry, and, according to him, a lot of masters had a propensity for giving their servants ‘smarter’ names. He was once rechristened Charles, and plenty of maids went by the name of Abigail.

‘But don’t you worry, Hettie,’ he said. ‘They don’t do such things any more. Not to ladies’ maids, anyway.’

It might have been true, of course. After all, he went into service way before the war started – therefore, as far as Hester was concerned, in unimaginable antiquity. He was hired as one of the ‘matching’ footmen, chosen for their impressive height and build. Lord Londonderry had, it seemed, very particular aesthetic preferences; his housemaids were also invariably tall. Hester’s uncle was to wait upon bejewelled guests during most splendid receptions. His hair, like the hair of the other footmen, was powdered, his gloves spotless.

Departing for Hebden Hall, Hester half expected to find a similar grandeur here. That was silly, of course. The sheer fact that Mrs Mullet the cook also had to take up the duties of a housekeeper said enough.

Abigail’s smile was tinged with compassion as she opened the door for her. Nodding gratefully, Hester stepped into the room – and, for the first time in this impossibly long day, found herself surrounded by silence.

The simple outlook of the room would’ve been dear to the hearts of ancient Spartans. However, the fact that she had her own room was a pleasant surprise all by itself.

It was strange to think of it now; but, as Hester reminded herself, this was going to become her home for the next two or three years, at least. Therefore, she had better start getting used to it.

Waving exhaustion aside, Hester began unpacking.

First things first, of course: print frocks, sturdy shoes, sensible woollen dresses. Hester was fortunate: unlike poor Abigail, she was spared the need to wear the uniform, the lace bonnet, and clean aprons. However, there were still certain rules she had to abide by.

Hester grieved silently for her red lipstick. But then, she usually only wore it to dances, anyway; there would be no dances here.

The frocks looked pleasantly new, sewn only last week. The fabric felt encouragingly fresh beneath her fingers.

The turn of treasures came only when the necessities were unpacked and hung.

Hester carefully placed the postcards upon her table; they seemed to glow with colour in the grey strictness of the room.

The landscapes of Java, the boulevards of Paris. The purple of imperial palaces, the green of Alpine slopes, the white of the sea foam. Dazzling, vivid windows into other worlds.

And now, Hester was closer to them than she had ever been.

Her heart was thudding in her chest, but this time it was thudding with pleasant anticipation.

Yes, she was closer to her dream than ever before. And she would reach it one day; yes, she would reach these enigmatic shores, the exotic and the urbane. Whatever cold nights and mind-numbing efforts it took.

The stack of letters, tied with a pretty red ribbon, was the last thing she unpacked.

***

Hester couldn’t have imagined the stairs to be so long.

The breakfast tray was a deadly weight in her hands. She watched her every step, bathing in cold sweat every time the precarious balance of cups and plates seemed to be threatened.

Please, please, please, don’t let the door be heavy …

Her prayers were left unanswered.

When all the dangers were finally overcome, and the threshold of her mistress’s bedroom was safely behind, Hester discovered two surprises waiting for her.

The first was the room itself. Hester had somehow expected the bedchamber, belonging to the daughter of the house (and the only daughter at that) to be the epitome of silken luxury. However, it was quite as gloomy and almost as austere as Hester’s own, if admittedly grander in size. The stark white walls and sparse pieces of furniture seemed to have been left untouched since the first Earl of Hereford won his fortune in some medieval adventure.