Annabel Fielding - A Pearl for My Mistress

England, 1934.Hester Blake, an ambitious girl from an industrial Northern town, finds a job as a lady’s maid in a small aristocratic household.

Despite their impressive title and glorious past, the Fitzmartins are crumbling under the pressures of the new century. And in the cold isolation of these new surroundings, Hester ends up hopelessly besotted with her young mistress, Lady Lucy.

Accompanying Lucy on her London Season, Hester is plunged into a heady and decadent world. But hushed whispers of another war swirl beneath the capital… and soon, Hester finds herself the keeper of some of society’s most dangerous secrets…

A Pearl for My Mistress

Annabel Fielding

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb England, 1934. Hester Blake, an ambitious girl from an industrial Northern town, finds a job as a lady’s maid in a small aristocratic household. Despite their impressive title and glorious past, the Fitzmartins are crumbling under the pressures of the new century. And in the cold isolation of these new surroundings, Hester ends up hopelessly besotted with her young mistress, Lady Lucy. Accompanying Lucy on her London Season, Hester is plunged into a heady and decadent world. But hushed whispers of another war swirl beneath the capital… and soon, Hester finds herself the keeper of some of society’s most dangerous secrets…

Title Page A Pearl for My Mistress Annabel Fielding ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Author Bio ANNABEL FIELDING , having graduated from the University of Arts London with an MA in Public Relations, is a PR assistant by day and a novelist by night. Being a self-professed history geek, she dedicates her free time to obscure biographies, solo travel and tea. She also posts a mix of book reviews and travel photos on her blog at http://historygeekintown.com

Dedication To my dearest Eugenia, who readily shared my rage and my love for so many things.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Historical Note

Endpages

Copyright

ANNABEL FIELDING,

having graduated from the University of Arts London with an MA in Public Relations, is a PR assistant by day and a novelist by night. Being a self-professed history geek, she dedicates her free time to obscure biographies, solo travel and tea. She also posts a mix of book reviews and travel photos on her blog at http://historygeekintown.com

To my dearest Eugenia, who readily shared my rage and my love for so many things.

Prologue

London, May 1933

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the majestic windows of the Claridge’s hotel. It danced across the room, reflecting on the new glass panels, throwing patches of light on Eleanor’s red hair. It illuminated the black-and-white mosaic, the cream-coloured pillars, and the gold-coloured walls. The whole restaurant now seemed to be serenely floating among the radiant clouds, all its patrons transformed into ethereal beings.

‘So, tell me about this new novel of yours.’

Only the sense of decorum must have prevented Eleanor from leaning across the table.

Her name always seemed a little too ceremonious for her, too decorous, too grand; perhaps, that is why she was usually fondly referred to as Nora.

‘Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a novel already.’ Charity shook her head. ‘It’s still more of an idea. It may come to nothing in the end.’

‘Do tell!’

‘You see, I’ve grown a little tired of English country houses …’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘They are dreadful. I still don’t know how I managed to survive my childhood winters there.’

The corner of Lucy’s mouth twitched. She understood this sentiment better than most. Last year, she couldn’t have been more relieved that her family had finally capitulated and decided to install central heating in Hebden Hall. Perhaps capitulation was too strong a word; actually, it was more of a compromise. If the house absolutely had to be defiled by this new apparatus, they thought, then the change must, at least, remain unobtrusive. Therefore, the radiators were concealed by complicated latticework and tucked as far from prying eyes as possible.

Lucy didn’t mind. At least now she wouldn’t have to dress in a way that called to mind early Antarctic explorers.

‘I mean, I am tired of writing about them,’ Charity said, her eyes laughing.

‘Again, who wouldn’t be?’ Nora sighed deeply and shook her head, making the lush red tresses sweep across her shoulders.

The Honourable Miss Eleanor Palmer was nothing if not expressive. Few people would have called her beautiful; however, she definitely possessed a certain presence . Indeed, most ordinary mortals seemed to grow somehow muted while in her radius. Even Charity Williams, a self-assured Oxford graduate and an acclaimed novelist, looked quite subdued next to the heiress. A small, pale debutante like Lucy was simply destined to blend in to the surroundings.

‘So, where will this new novel be set?’ Nora asked, as she finished the delicate cucumber sandwich.

‘I’m planning to write about Venice.’

‘Venice? But how marvellous!’ Nora all but clapped her hands. ‘I’ve spent so many delightful months there. Speaking of which, have you ever been to Venice?’

‘That’s the difficulty, I’m afraid.’ Charity smiled wryly. ‘I haven’t. I know Mrs Radcliffe used to set her Gothic novels in Italy while knowing it only from dramatic paintings, but I don’t think anyone can get away with that sort of thing now.’

And even if they could , Lucy thought, Charity would never do such a thing . She has always been thorough . Lucy admired that.

Miss Williams’ world seemed to her as improbable and fantastic as the legends discussed in Charity’s beloved Oxford by her equally beloved Professor Tolkien. In this world, there were heated intellectual discussions and fondly remembered debates. There were books, written by Charity herself, finished and published and acclaimed. There were no chaperones.

Lucy strained her ears to hear Charity better every time they happened to meet in the same company.

Lucy’s father, the esteemed pillar of local gentry, was of the opinion that schools only spoiled girls, and excessive reading was unwholesome for any child. Following that logic, universities should have probably spoiled them to a frightening degree. Charity showed no sign of being affected by such corruption, though.

How strange this reserved intellectual looked at Eleanor’s side. The latter always conducted herself as if she were playing an American heiress in a bad musical.

In a twist of irony, Nora’s late mother, a real American heiress, was reputed in her day to be the demurest creature on the whole London scene. This must have been why the shy foreigner drew Sir Frederick Palmer’s attention back then – aside from her money, of course. After all, the young baronet was already used to the high life, and Marianne Lindley’s dowry freed him from the daunting prospect of parting with his habits.