Secrets and Lords. Justine Elyot
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things’ made the back of Edie’s neck prickle.
He was thinking of her peeling down her clinging damp stockings, unbuttoning the water-stained blouse. Her underwear was silk, not suitable for a servant girl, but she had not quite been able to bear the thought of wearing coarser fabrics next to her skin. Not yet.
No sooner was that thought in her mind than it was succeeded by other, even more disreputable imaginings. How would it feel to have the chauffeur’s leather-gloved hands on her, disrobing her, moving slowly and smoothly over the curves of her body?
Stop it. Just stop it.
Mercifully, he put his foot on the accelerator and drove, his attention diverted to the road.
‘I don’t know what your last place was like but you’ll find the servants’ hall here a very tight-knit bunch,’ he said. ‘A bit like a secret society. It’s hard to get in, but, when you’re accepted, you become a member of the family.’
‘Oh dear, that sounds rather intimidating. I suppose I shall be sized up. I hope I’m not found wanting.’
He gave her a sideways smirk.
‘Can’t imagine why you would be,’ he said gallantly. ‘Never mind the others, but keep the right side of Mrs Munn. She’s the power behind the Deverell throne. If she doesn’t take to you, you’ll never prosper here.’
‘Gosh, you really aren’t inspiring me with confidence, you know.’
He drew up at the huge front steps, pulled the handbrake and turned to her, frowning in confusion.
‘You sure you aren’t some kind of governess or something? I’ve never heard a parlourmaid talk like you do.’
Edie held her carpet bag tighter. ‘And how’s that?’ she asked with a nervous laugh. She had to watch her little quirks and mannerisms of speech. If possible, she must pare her conversation down to the bare minimum necessary for communication.
‘Ladylike,’ he said. ‘Are all the London slaveys like you?’
‘No, not at all. Well, perhaps some of them.’
He smiled. ‘I might consider moving to London, then.’
Edie’s wet clothes suddenly felt too tight, especially around the chest, and her toes curled inside her boots. He was flirting with her. And he was rather attractive, even if he was only a chauffeur.
‘Oh,’ she said, tongue-tied, looking all around her for extra luggage that did not exist. ‘Well. Thank you for the, for, you know, driving me.’
‘A pleasure,’ he said. ‘No, don’t open the door yourself. You’ll do me out of a job.’
He got out into the rain and ran around the front of the car to the passenger side.
Edie, toting her carpet bag, put her feet out of the door, preparing to stand.
‘Now remember, Miss Prior,’ he said, leaning down and speaking softly, ‘if you ever need a friend in this place, Ted Kempe’s your man. Do you promise you’ll remember it?’
She nodded. ‘I promise.’
‘One more word,’ he said, looking over his shoulder as if he expected a legion of eavesdroppers to have materialised from the sheets of rain all around. ‘Watch Sir Charles. Don’t let him …’ He shook his head. ‘Just watch him, all right? Servants’ entrance is round the back.’
Edie had almost made the ridiculous mistake of walking up the front steps.
‘I’d see you inside, but His Lordship’s ordered the car up to take him into Kingsreach. Good thing he sits in the back – you’ve left the passenger side all wet.’
She shot Ted one last breathless nod and a smile, then ran around the side of the building, looking for the way in.
It took a long time to find, given the vastness of the edifice. Edie looked in at every window on her way round, but saw only empty room after empty room until she arrived at the rear of the house. A kitchen garden lay a few hundred yards off, beyond a low wall. Surely the kitchen must be close to that.
She scrambled along a gravel path, desperate now to be out of the rain. A crash of thunder accompanied her descent into a basement area that belched heat up the stairs she squelched down. In the corner a large door stood invitingly open.
Shelter, at last. She stood with her back to the wall, blinking raindrops out of her eyes. Once they were gone she realised she was not alone in the room. The clatter of steel and crockery that filled the room stopped instantly. Two girls, their faces crimson from their endeavours within the hot room, and neither of them much above fourteen, stood against a huge Belfast sink, staring at her.
‘Are you the new girl?’ one of them asked.
Edie nodded.
‘Filthy weather,’ she said, hugging herself.
‘Mrs Munn thought you weren’t coming. You never wrote. She’s been cursing your name all morning,’ said the stouter of the two girls.
‘You’d better go and find her,’ added her companion.
‘How shall I do that?’
Both girls shrugged and turned back to their washing up.
Tight-knit, that was what Ted had said. Meaning ‘unfriendly’ apparently.
Here, in this dark scullery, Edie’s splendid plan did not seem so splendid any more. It had seemed so easy when she had huddled with Patrick and his sisters, evening after evening, discussing and fine-tuning. Now that she stood here, in Deverell Hall, it had immediately assumed a new character with an objective that appeared insurmountable. Failure seemed so likely that she thought about leaving then and there.
A red-faced woman in a dusty cap and apron appeared in the inner doorway and brandished a rolling pin at her. ‘Whatever have we got here? A drowned rat from the garden?’
‘I’m Edie Prior, the new parlourmaid.’
‘Well, what are you doing skulking in here with these two ne’er-do-wells, then? Mrs Munn’s got no hair left, she’s torn that much of it out over you. Come on.’
Edie hurried after her, through a cavern of a kitchen that seemed to swarm with bodies rushing this way and that, and out into a cool, tiled hallway.
‘I’m Mrs Fingall, the cook,’ said the woman. ‘You’ll want to keep civil with me, because I’m the one as feeds you.’
‘Oh, I hope I’m always civil,’ said Edie.
The cook stopped and stared at her, hands on hips. ‘You jolly well do, do yer?’ she said. She knocked on a door. ‘Mrs Munn’s office,’ she said confidentially.
Edie was relieved to be out of the heat and clash of the kitchen, which she had found unnerving. All the same, perhaps she had just left the frying pans – literally – for the fire.
‘Come in.’ The voice was low and calm, giving the lie to what everyone had said about the occupant tearing out her hair.
‘Miss Prior, the new parlourmaid,’ said Mrs Fingall, jabbing her in with two fingers between her ribs.
An angular woman sat at a desk, poring over a ledger.
She looked up at Edie, expressionless.
‘Thank you, Mrs Fingall. Would you fetch Jenny, please?’
Edie wondered why she had never considered the reality of the role she had thrown herself into. She had to converse with people, convince them of her background in domestic service. The best she could do was mimic her friend Josie McCullen, who worked as a daily girl in a house in Pimlico. She had shown Edie how to black-lead a grate and polish silver, but how to be another person … that was a rarer skill.
‘Why did you not