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

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

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.

‘Well, this shouldn’t be a problem!’ Nora exclaimed, making the couple at the nearest table turn in her direction. ‘Our holiday home in Lido stands empty for most of the year. It isn’t in Venice proper, of course, but it’s close enough. Twenty minutes by boat, I think. Perhaps, thirty, if you are unlucky. No one is going to be using it for several months. Although, if I were you, I’d wait until autumn,’ she added. ‘Italy in summer feels like a local branch of hell.’

‘You are going to give me the keys to your holiday home?’ Charity asked with disbelief ringing in her voice. Lucy shared her perplexity.

‘Why not?’ Nora shrugged. ‘As I’ve said, no one is going to live there for some time. Father and Lady Isabelle are planning to spend this autumn in France.’

Eleanor almost never spoke of anyone with open bitterness. However, Sir Frederick Palmer’s second wife was never a ‘mother’ or even a ‘stepmother’ – always ‘Lady Isabelle’.

‘If you are sure that it will cause you no trouble …’ Charity still sounded doubtful.

‘Absolutely not!’ Nora reached across the table to squeeze her hand. Charity flinched almost imperceptibly. Lucy could understand that – Nora was charming, but her propensity for touching people like that always came across as a little startling.

‘You are an angel. I only hope the new government won’t take offence at my visit.’

‘Oh, that’s probably the last thing you should worry about.’

‘Well, people are telling all sorts of stories.’

‘Believe me: I go to Venice every year, and I haven’t noticed anything sinister so far.’

‘It’s not just Venice,’ Charity remarked. ‘The Continent as a whole is going a little wild lately. Have you heard of what happened in Germany?’

‘You mean the appointment of this new Reich Chancellor? Oh, of course. I’m afraid I missed the first flurry of gossip, though,’ Eleanor confessed. ‘I’ve spent almost the whole winter on that safari, and it’s not easy to keep track of Kenyan rhinoceroses and European politics at the same time. But everyone enlightened me once I came back. Some people thought it to be a great joke, and, to be honest, I agree. Wasn’t he a common soldier?’

‘I’ve heard he was a painter.’

‘Even better!’

‘I thought you’d always supported the arts,’ Charity teased.

‘But not quite to that extent!’ Nora rolled her eyes. ‘We have our own fair share of lunatics, though. Look at Sir Oswald Mosley and his boys, for instance. If anything, they resemble overgrown Boy Scouts.’

Lucy sat still, barely daring to breathe. What if one of the ladies turned and asked her opinion on the subject? She didn’t hold an opinion on the subject. She simply knew nothing about the subject.

What would they think of her then?

They didn’t ask her, though. Nor did they throw a single glance at her.

‘Mosley is still bitter because the Labour Party didn’t want to listen to his proposals,’ Charity observed. ‘To be honest, I thought he would have calmed down by now. All these marches and chants won’t get him back into power – they simply make him look ridiculous. If he was impressed by the Italians so much, he could have just taken up fresco painting.’

Breathe deeper, Lucy told herself. It isn’t the end of the world. If you don’t know it, you can always read about it.

‘Do you know, though, that even his mistress calls him The Leader?’

‘Alexandra Metcalfe?’ Charity frowned. ‘I thought better of her.’

‘No, the Mitford girl.’

‘Diana? The one who took to wearing her tiara on her neck?’

‘That one.’

‘Oh, heavens. She doesn’t call him that to his face, I hope? Otherwise their nights together must be the stuff of nightmares.’

‘Diana herself clearly doesn’t think so. I’ve heard, he is quite … Oh, Charity, look! We are making poor Lucy blush!’

Never did Lucy hate her fair skin as fiercely as she did at that moment. Her fingers squeezed the dainty porcelain cup with unnatural rigidity.

How she loathed her innocence. Her inexperience. Her diffidence.

She didn’t want to play the part of a timid, ignorant country girl – the role that seemed to have been assigned to her the moment she stepped into her first ballroom.

But what could she do?

‘Let’s not be cruel.’ Charity smiled. ‘We don’t want the poor girl to spontaneously combust, do we? Better tell me now about your champagne safari, Nora. I’ve always wanted to learn about it.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t go quite so far as to call it a champagne safari, but it was comfortable enough. I was fortunate to find a good hunter, though. You wouldn’t believe what an exhausting enterprise it all is! He helped me to manage that army of porters, servants, and gunbearers, not to mention the actual hunt, of course …’

At any other time, Lucy would’ve been delighted to hear the story of Nora’s adventures in the African wilderness. However, now she felt a strange uneasiness, as if the sunlit brilliance of her surroundings had diminished somehow. The thoughts of Italians and Blackshirts, and Oswald Mosley with his dark uniforms and radical ideas refused to leave her mind.

I will find it all out by the time of our next meeting, Lucy promised herself. If only to understand their jokes.

Chapter One

County of Northumberland, February 1934

Hester immediately braced herself for the furious wind as she stepped out of the car. As usual, the expectation didn’t fail her; it seemed to be cutting through her coat, through her jumper, through her skin, and chilling her straight to the bone.

Perhaps, though, car was too elegant a name for that vehicle. More than anything, it resembled the small blue vans that butchers in her hometown used for deliveries.

It also smelled oddly of hounds.

Instinctively, Hester reached for her suitcase; however, the chauffeur clearly intended to carry it for her all the way to the house. Not that she minded the courtesy too much; her hands ached after clutching the suitcase during the day-long journey, and having help made a pleasant change. However, seeing her belongings in someone else’s hands made Hester feel somehow vulnerable, almost naked.

Trotting along the gravel path, Hester raised her eyes. There it was, her home for the next several years: the massive stone bulk of Hebden Hall.

There were plenty of things one could say about this house. You could accuse it of being unwelcoming, forbidding, old-fashioned, or even eerie. But no one – at least, no one Hester knew – could level against it the charge of being unimpressive.

Like a medieval cathedral, this stately home must have been designed to inspire awe and a little fear in the hearts of visitors. If that was the case, Hester couldn’t help but give the unknown architect his due. He had clearly succeeded.

The oldest part of the building, where the walls were dark with age and tinged with green, was crawling with strange creatures. They leered at Hester from above, the eternal captives of stone. Some of them resembled cruel dogs; some seemed closer to hungry lions.

Gargoyles, Hester remembered. They are called gargoyles.

The main entrance glared at her, impossibly grand and preceded by a tall staircase. For a single wild moment, Hester thought that she would have to come through these forbidding doors.

But no, of course not. The fear was unfounded; furthermore, it was silly. The chauffeur, whose name she was too shy to ask, was already turning to an obscure door covered with green baize.

‘The servants always come in here,’ he explained, giving her the suitcase back. Hester took it with an ill-concealed relief. ‘Don’t you worry. We are almost there.’

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.

The second surprise was the fact that all her tiptoeing and worrying was for nothing. Lady Lucy Fitzmartin, the daughter of the ninth Earl of Hereford, was already fully awake, with her head propped on a pillow, her night-black hair spread across it like a net.

And she was smiling.

‘Why, good morning!’ she said, turning her head to the newcomer. Her eyes were wild with delight, as if she had awaited this visit for hours. ‘I hope I didn’t startle you.’

‘Not at all, my lady,’ was all Hester managed to say.

‘Good.’ Lady Lucy nodded. ‘The rainfall must have wakened me, and then I simply couldn’t fall asleep again. My thoughts never allow me to.’ Was her tone apologetic? ‘You are Blake, aren’t you?’

No smart new name for her, Hester remembered. Only a surname.

‘Yes, my lady.’ She set the tray down, dutifully careful. ‘I arrived yesterday evening.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard about it. And how do you like Hebden Hall so far?’

Hester hesitated. It wouldn’t do to lie to her young mistress, of course. And, in any case, she was a terrible liar.

‘It’s … very impressive, my lady,’ she said at last.

‘It certainly is.’ Lady Lucy grinned again, and Hester felt as if she had seen through her clumsy politeness clearly, as if the truth was written on Hester’s cheeks. Surprisingly, this was not a discomforting feeling; her mistress’s smile held no maliciousness.

Or, perhaps, it was all merely a fruit of Hester’s overanxious imagination.

She ran through her next duties as quickly and efficiently as possible. While Lady Lucy dedicated her full attention to the breakfast tray, Hester picked up the clothes she had worn on the previous evening and set about preparing her morning bath. With soothing timeliness, it was ready just in time as the lady finished her tea. So far, Lady Lucy looked friendly; however, making her mistress wait was the last thing Hester wanted to do on her first day.

Lady Lucy climbed out of bed vigorously, as if the duvet had held her captive. She wore a long, thick nightgown, which could have belonged to her Victorian grandmother (and, in all probability, it did). Hester wondered if it truly saved her during the cold Northern nights; after all, even now she could feel the chilly draughts seeping into the room through a thousand unseen cracks.

The lady’s skin was still breathing with the warm languor of the bath, while Hester fastened the hooks of her blue morning dress. An ardent blush still bloomed on her cheeks.

Lady Lucy probably blushed very easily, Hester reflected. After all, her skin was so fair; her veins could have been painted in vivid blue upon the ivory surface of her wrists. Her fingers were so thin that Hester found herself catching her breath in fear.

What if she had an accident? They would be so easy, so painfully easy to break …

Some ladies, Hester had heard, enjoyed the daily ritual of having their hair brushed and arranged. However, her new mistress clearly wasn’t counted among them. She frowned into the mirror, turned her head in discontent, and drummed her fingers on the table tirelessly, as if performing some unnerving melody.

‘Have you arrived from far away?’ she finally asked, clearly aiming to fill some time.

‘No, my lady.’

The name of her hometown was unlikely to tell Lady Lucy anything; however, she made a courteous nod of recognition upon hearing it.

‘To be honest, I imagined you to have come from some distant clime,’ she noted. ‘You have such lovely olive skin, after all. Most local girls look as if they’ve spent their youth and childhood in Château d’If.’

‘Well, some of my ancestors might have come from those distant climes,’ Hester replied, her tone tinted by pleasure at the compliment. ‘There is even one family story … Although, strictly speaking, it’s more of a family legend.’

She stopped, as if her speech had been cut away with a knife.

You are not bantering with your friends now. She isn’t interested in your family legends. Or stories, for that matter.

She must remember; she must mould herself into this new role.

‘Do tell!’ Lady Lucy’s blue eyes, lucid and unnervingly clear, now shone with curiosity. She looked at Hester, unaware of her painful thoughts. ‘I love legends.’

As she moved her hands, Hester couldn’t help but notice a scar cutting across the lady’s right palm. It resembled an ugly stitch, made by an indifferent apprentice upon transparent white satin.

‘Well …’ Hester lowered her eyes, continuing to brush her mistress’s fine hair. The strands flew between her fingers, like water. ‘It says that my family actually came here from Spain many centuries ago, fleeing the wrath of Queen Isabella. They were Moors, I mean. From Granada,’ she hurried to explain, belatedly. ‘Isabella captured it …’

‘I am familiar with the events of the Reconquista, thank you.’ Lady Lucy’s voice grew harsher for a second, before melting into genteel neutrality once again. ‘It is quite fascinating. Do you believe it, Blake?’

Hester paused. Was she supposed to tell the truth or to play along with her lady’s evident wanderlust?

Of course, she must nod and agree; it would have been obvious for any servant, Mrs Mullet wouldn’t even think …

‘To be honest, my lady, I don’t. I am not sure how these things work; but, I think, if my ancestors came here in the fifteenth century and married the locals ever since, there wouldn’t be any traces left by now. Not even the olive skin.’

It was still only a half-truth. Hester didn’t trust the exact facts of the story, of course; she wasn’t that fanciful, whatever her mother might say. However, the lure and enigma of the legend never failed to capture her imagination. Ever since she had heard it for the first time, she was entranced by these visions of the sun-soaked lands. She closed her eyes, daydreaming in the warmer afternoons, and saw the bright shawls of dark-eyed beauties, the orange trees blooming in March.

Hester was still unsure about this latter image, though. She suspected it to be at least an embellishment. How could anything bloom in March, let alone oranges?

Her hometown was a practical place, built around shipyards and factories. Lady Lucy’s Victorian grandmother must have seen it rising. It was sturdy; it was sensible; it was part of the backbone of the industrial empire. It wasn’t a gloomy place, either; there were teashops, and Saturday dances, and even a park. But no oranges or lemons bloomed there in March. Or in any other months, for that matter.

‘Still, it’s a splendid story,’ Lady Lucy concluded, as if answering her thoughts. ‘And, as I’ve said, I love legends. Speaking of which, we have quite a good selection in the library. Have you already been there?’

‘I can use the library?’ Hester blinked.

‘Of course you can.’ The young woman turned and stared at her, slightly frowning. ‘All upper servants can. Didn’t Mrs Mullet tell you?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ Hester confessed.

She said it as quietly as she could, as if trying to drown the evidence that it was her first time in service, and she only knew the barest of rules.

‘Well, then I am telling you. You can read however much you want there.’

A weight seemed to lift from Hester’s shoulders. She had already imagined the trouble of carving out time for trips to the nearest town’s library; or, even worse, the nightmare of living without any new books at all.

‘Thank you, my lady,’ was all she could say. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘You are welcome. Now …’ Lady Lucy touched her newly arranged curls ‘… I think that’s quite sufficient. I wouldn’t dare keep you here for too long; I imagine you have plenty of duties to attend to.’ Her tone and smile were as courteous as they could be; however, from her eyes’ expression, she could just as well have been a military officer saying Dismissed. ‘As do I.’

***

Lucy was a child of winter.

She was born in the crispy frost of January, in the deafening silence of snow-covered countryside.

She was born in the early years of the war, which later passed into the realm of legends. On the Continent, emperors fought with kings, and the fields were soaked with blood. Here, the lights went out, and the country stood in the hushed silence of terror.

Lucy was the first child of a young, sweet, impossibly proper couple – as proper as they came in those turbulent days. She was really supposed to be a boy: a sunny heir, the first of more to come, the harbinger of hope. There would have been joyful celebrations; there would have been tables laid out for tenants. Maids in pristine aprons would have patiently queued to receive a golden sovereign each from their benevolent master.

As it was, there were only veiled consolations.

‘Don’t worry,’ the well-wishers must have said. ‘It will all turn out properly next time.’

No one recounted such words to Lucy, of course, but it was easy enough to imagine them. They appeared in her mind so readily, as if they were lines in an already written novel, just waiting to be called to light. Ordering life in the format of a novel made it so much easier for her to understand.

Lucy was also, at least, supposed to be cheerful and hearty, never bothering anyone with fevers or complaints. She was supposed to be stout and perfectly healthy, a lover of horses and hunting, her cheeks bright as apples. Instead, she turned out to be weak and pale, rarely getting through spring without a flu. Later, she learnt to apologize for it.

And the next time never came. Little Lucy didn’t, of course, know the word ‘miscarriage’ – she was shielded from this improper knowledge as she was from many others. But, as she grew and found out, the strange, unnamed tragedies of her childhood suddenly blossomed with blood and meaning.

She was, in other words, a walking spectre of happiness that never came. She was a living reminder of a failure. She was the failure incarnate.

There was a way to atone for being a failure, and that was to become perfection.

After all, diamonds could be cut and polished. Why not people?

The polishing came in many ways. There were books she wasn’t supposed to read (at least, if she didn’t want them to end up in the fireplace). There was a list of people she could correspond with (all related and female), provided, of course, that her letters were dutifully submitted for inspection. There were things she was never supposed to ask about.

There was a catch, though: namely, that Lucy wasn’t a diamond, and thus didn’t patiently sit on a pillow and wait for the tools to cut her. She learnt to evade the questions and hide the books, to invent codes for letters, to guess the moods, to coax the smiles she wanted and sometimes the permissions she needed. She learnt to navigate the labyrinth of traps (which was hard, as their positions changed every time) and to tread on eggshells.

This latter skill was vital for every inhabitant of the house, from Her Ladyship to her housemaid. After all, her father’s rages were the stuff of legends. They were always called that: rages, with a tint of awe. Never tantrums or, God forbid, hysterics. These words were reserved for Lucy herself, for the times she raised her voice.

She learnt a lot of things, and she went through life with the apologetic air of someone who wasn’t really supposed to exist.

At least, so it was until the last year. Until Lucy learnt with growing surprise that, perhaps, there was someone who might actually be very grateful for her existence.

Very grateful indeed.

Chapter Two

Hebden Hall wasn’t a house, or even an estate; it was a world of its own, and it took time for its map to imprint on Hester’s mind.

There were whole clusters of rooms with unclear purpose: lamp rooms and hamper rooms and flower-arranging rooms. There were clusters of rooms long since shut, and in her more fanciful moments Hester liked to pause by these doors and listen, imagining the cries of a madwoman or the footsteps of a ghost.

But these were, of course, just silly fantasies. The key was turned on all these endless chambers, Snowflake parlours, and Lilac bedrooms, for more practical reasons: the house would have become totally unmanageable otherwise. With the skeleton staff that was left, taking care of it all was beyond possible.

The world of servants, the world downstairs, was a separate universe in its own right. Its sheer size whispered to Hester the stories of the past grandeur, of the disciplined army that must have once dwelled there.

This quiet spirit of forlornness didn’t spare even the servants’ hall, the heart of all things. Among the rows of bells that hung there, most had been deadly quiet for over a decade, intended for long-since dismissed servants. In its cavernous space, Abigail the red-haired housemaid looked painfully small as she sat there in the evenings, mending the towels with a coarse flaxen thread. Her movements were mechanical, but her eyes were alive; she hummed to herself the latest jazz melody, if she couldn’t put the actual record on.

Or, at least, Hester supposed it was the latest. She wouldn’t be surprised if by the time a fresh hit reached the world of Hebden Hall, in London shops it was already moved to the classics department.

Her anxiety waned a little as the time passed. Gradually, her days were drained of the sense of apprehension and filled instead with a sense of routine.

Then, Hester finally decided to clarify a silly little question, which had been disturbing her mind since that first day. It was embarrassing, really – to see a girl for several weeks and doubt whether you knew her real name. She couldn’t bear asking such a question in the hollow space of the servants’ hall; she’d have to wait until they were alone.

Thankfully, such an opportunity presented itself every day.

It was seven in the morning, and the sky was still veiled in a murky haze. Hester gulped down her tea as fast as she could, balancing the tray on her knees. The housemaid, meanwhile, was laying out and kindling the fire. Her face was pallid, and her eyes rimmed with red; the strands of ginger hair, straying from beyond her lace bonnet, seemed to be the only splash of colour in the world.

Hester hesitated for a moment; then she carefully put her cup away.

The tea would do for now. Her real breakfast would be later, after the masters had already been safely served theirs.

She wasn’t sure how to approach the subject.

‘I know it sounds rather silly …’

‘Aye?’ Abby turned her head. Her eyes, Hester noticed, were dim blue.

‘I was just wondering … well … is your name really Abigail?’

‘Of course!’ The girl laughed. ‘What else could it be?’

‘I don’t know. Mary? Rose?’ Hester never felt more stupid in her life. It wasn’t the girl’s fault, after all, that she had such a housemaid-ish name.

‘Oh! My sister’s Rose.’

‘Really? It must be nice to have a sister.’ Hester was relieved to find at least some kind of point of rapprochement. She was eager to ask any question now, just to bury her embarrassment. ‘Does she live somewhere around here?’

‘No, no. She stayed in the Highlands.’

Abigail’s accent left little room for doubt.

‘The Highlands? Must be a lovely place.’

‘Nae, not really.’ The first flame had already been woken up by Abby’s sure hands, and the faint glow turned her hair into threads of fire. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have to march down here to find a decent job.’

Hester blinked. ‘What do you mean, march?’

‘I mean march like the soldiers march.’ Abby looked a little amused by this strange misapprehension. ‘Actually, I took me Da’s army backpack with me,’ she added, ‘so I really felt a wee bit like a soldier.’

‘You came here all the way from the Highlands on foot?’

‘It wasn’t so bad,’ the redhead assured her. ‘The big problem was to find somewhere to spend th’night. I was lucky sometimes: people let me in the sheds. But usually I had to stay in a workhouse. I had to toil all the next day as a payment – a lot o’ time lost.’

‘I think they’re called institutions now,’ Hester said automatically. ‘Not workhouses.’

Abigail shrugged.

‘A workhouse’s a workhouse. I’m lucky they took me in here; I thought the housekeeper would turn me away at once. But it turned out they just wanted a housemaid who wouldn’t ask for too much. They didnae have much choice either. I saw it after,’ she added. ‘There’s no queue to serve in this house; that much I can tell.’

‘But you like it here?’

‘They feed me very well.’ It was so strange, to hear this forced purity, devoid of dialect. Mrs Mullet must have worked hard to bring this girl up to standards. ‘Always real butter. Never tasted margarine here. My brother’s jealous.’ Abby bit her lip so as not to giggle. ‘He had to go further south, down to Manchester. Works in a factory now. It was better here afore, though,’ she noted. ‘I worked with another girl back then. She left after the New Year, and they still didnae find anyone else. No queue, just like I said.’

‘It must have been easier to work together.’

That was a bit of an understatement. Having scaled the enormous realm of Hebden Hall over these weeks, Hester failed to imagine how one could housemaid keep even a part of it in order.

‘Oh, it’s not just that.’ With an effort, Abigail stood up. ‘We had so much fun. We used to practise all the new dance steps, when no one saw, and …’ She looked at Hester with a slight suspicion, as if unsure whether to trust her with a grave secret. ‘Promise you won’t tell the Crow. She’ll have my guts for garters.’

It wasn’t hard to guess whom she meant by that soubriquet.

‘I’m deaf and mute.’

‘Well, it happened when we were still in town. It was so late, and we had to clean up after a party. So, we cleaned it …’ Abby made a dramatic pause. ‘Especially the cocktails guests didnae finish. We polished them right off.’

‘You didn’t!’

‘I know, I know! We felt so wild. But we’d never drunk anything like that before, so …’

‘What, even at Saturday dances? I mean … There’re Saturday dances in your hometown, aren’t there?’ Hester had never been to the Scottish Highlands, so she wasn’t entirely sure. Who knows how it was in that windswept wilderness?

‘Of course there’re!’ Abby sounded offended. ‘Every week, in the church hall or the baths. I’ve tried the Green Goddess during the break, but it was nothing like this.’

‘Oh, you’re bold! I’ve always wanted to try it, but could never bring myself up to it. I thought it was only for the most daring girls.’

‘You didnae miss much,’ Abigail assured her.

‘One minute!’ Hester remembered. ‘You said you were in town then? In London, that is?’

‘Aye. We all went there last summer, for Lady Lucy’s coming out.’

‘And how was it?’ Hester asked, her heartbeat firing up. ‘The city? How was it?’

‘It was stoating!’ The redhead exclaimed. ‘The house is much smaller, so I didnae have to clean so much. And on Sunday I could even go to the pictures.’

***

‘I wish all my readers good fortune; I hope my advice will help them in this dreariest of winter months!’

The typewriter clicked, and the last of the digits bloomed on the page in vivid fresh ink. Lady Lucy Fitzmartin leaned back in the heavy library chair and stretched her fingers. Her head hurt slightly; it was hard to decide whether it was due to the lack of fresh air or the excess of banality.

I swear to heaven, if I have to write the words ‘charming’ and ‘elegant’ one more time, the heads will roll.

Of course, it was all for naught – empty threats to the universe. That was what they were expecting her to write about: frocks and garden parties, weddings and tips on entertaining. Some Society gossip as well, of course. The heiress of such-and-such abandoned, at last, her Eton crop and began to grow her hair – congratulations! Lady Diana Mitford demonstrated a highly inventive way of wearing a tiara (on her neck, no less). A daring young gentleman came to a costume party in nothing but Zulu war paint and had to be turned away.

That was what they wanted her to write.

More importantly, that was what they were prepared to pay for her to write.

Lucy was certainly in no position to complain; at least, for now.

It was only now she saw, looking back at the last summer, just how haphazard was the start of her career, how fortunate. An encounter at a dinner party, a mentioned need for contributors to the fledgling Sunday Express, an ardent (too ardent to be ladylike) agreement from her.

A trial contract for three articles was signed during the same week.

She was not a fool, of course. She understood that this haste had nothing to do with Lord Beaverbrook’s belief in her talents, but everything to do with his desire to feature a titled name in his young newspaper. ‘Written by Lady Lucy E. Fitzmartin’: doesn’t it sound solid and respectable?

Never did Lucy feel herself in a greater grip of thrill and horror than in those weeks. The fact that someone deemed her writing interesting enough to print it (indeed, to pay for it) was unbelievable all by itself. For hours and days on end, Lucy refused to part with her notebook, writing and crossing out line after line, polishing the drafts until they shone. Despite all these measures, they all seemed to her unbearably silly, silly, silly.

But the Sunday Express was apparently pleased enough, and three articles soon turned into ten.

Lucy’s hands trembled as she signed above the dotted line.

It felt so strange. She always used to regard her penchant for writing as an embarrassing tumour rather than a useful asset. After all, she was neither deaf nor blind; she heard the sneer in people’s voices as they talked about silly and shameless women, who wrote romances, and horrid intellectual girls, who wrote anything else. She was used to scribbling when and where no one could see her, hiding the notebooks as soon as she heard the menacing footsteps.

Lucy was secretly relieved that her hasty handwriting was practically unintelligible: this way no one would be able to read her drafts, even if they unearthed them somehow.

Listening carefully, noticing small details, reimagining her life as a series of flowery sentences to make it seem more exciting – it was something she was always simply doing; recasting it as a serious profession seemed laughable. Holding her the first cheque (an actual cheque for a solid sum, intended for her, featuring her name on it – it seemed surreal), Lucy only thought about pin money, about petty pleasures and beautiful bookshops. But, as the time passed and the sums increased, her thoughts changed accordingly. Slowly but surely, she started imagining other things.

What else could money buy?

A household of her own. A name of her own. A life of her own.

Could it be possible?

The success depended just as much on the power of her title as it did on the actual quality of her writing. Again, she was not a fool. She doubted that regular journalists, however talented, were paid hundreds of pounds for ten articles.

Of course, any real influence her title ever held had drained away decades before she was born. The only inheritance it brought her was a swarm of illusions: illusions of elegance and sophistication for some, illusions of might and tradition for others.

However, in this day and age, even illusions could have their power, if wielded carefully.

Lucy used to picture the future very differently.

Only a year ago, she believed – indeed, she knew – that the only way out for her lay in marriage. That’s why she waited for her first Season with such impatience, such ardour. She believed – indeed, she was sure – that it would be enough for her to come out officially, to appear at a few debutante balls, and she would immediately catch the attention of some eligible young man. That was the whole point of the Season, after all.

She wasn’t particularly sure what this man should look like (although he must love books, otherwise life with him would be unbearable). But there was one vital, iron-wrought condition – he would marry her as soon as possible and take her away from this house.

These were all childish dreams, as she discovered soon enough.

Meeting someone suitable and interested enough to propose, despite her uncertain dowry, during her first Season was improbable all by itself. However, even if this fairy-tale-like encounter did occur, her family would never permit such a hasty union to take place. Several Seasons were an accepted norm, an approved time for seeking the most promising match. Early marriages reeked of scandal.

And if there was something the Fitzmartins strived to avoid at all cost, it was scandal.

Lucy knew it all too well.

Several Seasons – that meant several years. Several more years beneath this roof, several more years among these people. Several more years of degrading, sickening dependency used as a lead on her neck – a lead they could pull any second.

And did.

These short-term contracts she secured now were too unsure as a base (although they still brought her more than any allowance would, and it weakened the pull of the lead just a little). But if she proved herself – and, once again, if she played her cards right – they might as well lead to something more. An editor’s post in some small publication, for example, with a stable position and a stable income to match. Of course, it would most likely be some women’s magazine; she would have to write about garden parties and frocks all her life. But it was still much sweeter than the alternative.

The sound of hurried footsteps snapped her out of this reverie.

‘There’s a call for you, my lady,’ Blake said, clearly nervous. Had she ever used a telephone before? Lucy doubted it. ‘Mr Chesterton says he wishes to speak with you as soon as possible.’

Lucy rose to her feet sharply, all dreaminess forgotten.

‘Thank you, Blake.’

She almost had to restrain herself from running to the telephone. The maid followed her with unsure footsteps, her gaze tinted with concern.

Such a peculiar creature she was, this Blake. No, Lucy corrected herself, this had nothing to do with Blake herself; the situation itself was peculiar. She could never have guessed that their strained finances would allow her a maid of her own. That sale of outlying portions must have gone really well.

Outlying portions. The unused land on the margins of the estate. Disposing of it was all about rationalization and consolidation, as any struggling landowner would tell you; it had absolutely nothing to do with financial need.

Not for the first time, Lucy couldn’t help but marvel at the power of carefully chosen words. How well they could hide any unpleasant necessity under a cloak of respectability!

‘Mr Chesterton?’ Lucy asked breathlessly, finally clutching the telephone ‘candle’ in her hand. She was almost afraid he would somehow get tired of waiting and hang up. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ She winced at the reply. ‘I … I understand, yes. I am truly sorry for the delay. I absolutely had to find these numbers … The article will be ready in the next few hours. I will send it by the express post. It will be on your table tomorrow …’ She let out a breath. ‘Thank you for your understanding, Mr Chesterton. Me? Not, I am not nervous. What?’

For heaven’s sake, this telephone must have been installed before the Great War.

‘Thank you! I wish you a pleasant afternoon. A PLEA-SANT AFTER-NOON!’

Blake was waiting for her outside the room, a worried expression on her soft face. ‘Did everything go well, my lady?’ she enquired cautiously.

Lucy couldn’t help but smile. Poor girl, she really was concerned for her!

‘Yes, it was … Oh, never mind. It was just a little difficulty. If Mr Chesterton calls here in the future, or sends a telegram, or leaves any message at all, you will have to alert me immediately. It has to do …’ Lucy hesitated. Should she or shouldn’t she?

No. Blake might be sweet, but there were things she didn’t have to know.

‘It has to do with my work,’ she said finally. ‘Very important work.’

‘Of course, my lady.’

Lucy nodded briefly.

She would have thought her mother would find someone older and sterner to guard her virtue. But then, someone older and sterner would most likely ask for more money …

Guarding her virtue was, after all, the whole purpose. The events of the last Season must have convinced Her Ladyship that Lucy clearly needed someone to keep an eye on her conduct, especially when they were among the perils and temptations of the city.

The young woman walked back to the library as briskly as she could. She had already lost enough time daydreaming and battling with the veteran telephone. It was time to get to work.

Lucy replaced the sheet of paper in her typewriter. The old page, rippling with fresh black letters, now lay safely to her right. Now, the duty out of her way, she could finally approach the task she really wanted to do …

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