Lips Like Heaven

       Donna George Storey

      A good servant is invisible. To be seen is to ask for trouble.

      So my aunt told me before I went into service, soon after my parents died.

      But she hadn’t warned me not to be heard.

      My ‘trouble’ began innocently enough, with all four members of the staff gathered around the piano in the drawing room, enjoying a bit of music after a hard day’s work. Had the family been in residence, we would have properly confined ourselves to the servants’ hall, but the stylish London townhouse looked more like a storeroom as we prepared the newlywed home of Mr and Mrs Charles E. Shaw. Each day more crates arrived, luxurious furnishings ordered by the master’s wife-to-be. Meanwhile Alice and I polished woodwork, scrubbed floors and tidied up the mess left by the painters. Mr Barker, on loan from the master’s father’s London house, stocked the wine cellar and pantries, and old Tim put up fresh wallpaper. None of us knew if the mistress would keep us on, but the uncertainty gave our days a holiday air, which was why we dared assemble in the drawing room in the first place.

      We never dreamed our master would drop in on us unannounced.

      Mr Barker was playing the piano and I led the songs – back home I was famous for my clear soprano. ‘The English Jenny Lind’ the boys called me. And so I was quite lost in the light-hearted ditty ‘Now Is the Month of Maying’, when suddenly the smiling faces of my fellow servants froze in horror. Slowly I turned to see three tall gentlemen, resplendent in evening clothes, regarding the lot of us with amusement.

      Mr Barker jumped to his feet and bowed stiffly. ‘Mr Shaw, I’m terribly sorry. We weren’t expecting you this evening, sir.’

      I’d not yet met my employer. He’d been as invisible to me as I was supposed to be to him. Yet when the most handsome of the three said, ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Barker, I’m glad to see you all enjoying yourselves,’ and fixed his eyes directly on my person, my whole body tingled.

      Mr Barker was the only miscreant to keep his wits. ‘We’ll be getting back downstairs, sir. May I bring refreshment?’

      The master was still gazing at me. ‘I suppose we could do with another bottle of port. And I’d like this nightingale to stay and sing us a few songs.’

      Mr Barker, Alice and Tim vanished like phantoms, and I was left alone with the gentlemen, altogether too visible to their glittering eyes.

      ‘Don’t be frightened.’ The master smiled. ‘You have a lovely voice. You could be on the stage.’

      I blushed. Back home some had suggested as much, but more as a taunt for ‘putting on airs’ when I sang.

      The master seated himself at the piano and began to play a lively tune I didn’t recognise.

      ‘I didn’t know you could play so well, Charles. Perhaps you should go on the stage yourself?’ said the blond gentleman who sported a thin moustache, smirking.

      ‘He only uses his talents to seduce married ladies, Sheldon,’ said the tallest man, who had striking green eyes. ‘I wonder if his own wife will prove equally irresistible?’

      The master merely laughed.

      As the gentlemen all seemed quite merry from drink, I inched toward the door, hoping to make my escape.

      Alas, they hadn’t forgotten me. Green Eyes caught me by the arm and pushed me playfully toward the piano. ‘Don’t run away from us, little bird.’

      ‘Voice as sweet as a Lillie Langtry’s,’ the blond declared, his eyes sweeping over me as if I were something good to eat.

      The master was watching me too. With his sky-blue eyes and wheat-coloured hair, he was by far the most handsome.

      ‘What’s your name then?’ he asked me gently.

      ‘Irene, sir.’

      ‘You’re new in our family employ?’

      ‘They took me on a few weeks ago to help get the house ready. But it’s up to your missus if I stay,’ I blurted out foolishly.

      The blond gentleman slipped his arm around my waist. ‘If you don’t keep her, I will. How about a kiss from those heavenly lips, sweet bird?’

      I turned my head away. I knew when a man was drunk, whether on French wine or public-house ale.

      Fortunately the master came to my rescue. ‘Your seduction might fare better with a bit more subtlety and a lot more respect, my good man. Now let the poor girl go.’

      ‘If the lass were married, you’d sing a different tune, eh, Charles?’

      The master glared at his friend and escorted me into the hall. ‘I apologise. Usually they’re good fellows, but they’re acting rotten tonight. Perhaps you’ll sing for me under more favourable circumstances?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ Imprudent as it would surely be, the bold part of me very much wanted to.

      ‘Goodnight, then, little nightingale.’ With a smile, he bowed over my hand and gave it a kiss as if I were a fine lady.

      Long after I returned to my narrow bedroom in the attic, my flesh still tingled from his touch.

      * * *

      Not one week later, Mr Barker approached me while I was unpacking dishes in the servants’ hall.

      ‘The