One corner of the room held her easel, a box full of paints, and a set of real mink brushes. She spent hours painting. When she wasn’t pretending to be an artist, she spent her free time playing in the garden with the children from the neighbourhood. She longed for the life that had been so cruelly taken away from her. When her dad died, the house they lived in had gone to her uncle. He had his own family to support, and although he offered Annie and her mum a room for as long as they wanted to stay there, Annie’s mum moved into a house that she couldn’t afford. To save themselves from poverty, Annie’s mum had married, and now here Annie was.
‘It’s all right, my dear. Things will be fine,’ Miss Marie said, as if she read Annie’s thoughts. ‘It’s been a little difficult since cook left. Her husband had a heart attack and she’s tending to him. The agency has been sending over replacements, but Isobel has yet to find one that’s satisfactory. With Benton – that’s Mr Carlisle – working so much, we’ve just been making do. You’ll be helping me in the kitchen until we can find a cook that Isobel likes. Come down when you’re settled, and I’ll give you something to eat. Miss Isobel is very particular about how she wants things done. I’ve much to show you.’
Getting the job was one thing, but doing the daily work to Miss Carlisle’s satisfaction was another thing entirely. Annie discovered that Miss Marie’s real job was to serve as Miss Isobel’s secretary. Annie wasn’t really sure what that meant, except that Miss Isobel bossed Miss Marie around and Miss Marie said, ‘Yes, Isobel,’ and did as she was told. Sometimes Miss Marie called Miss Isobel ‘Izzy’ when no one else was around, which surprised Annie.
Miss Isobel had high expectations indeed. Miss Marie explained the best way to use the lemon oil to polish the furniture, and how to use the soft cloth to wipe the oil off and buff the wood to a high gloss. She explained how to wind the clocks every three days, and which vases Miss Carlisle liked to use for which flowers. Marie taught Annie the proper way to set out the towels in the bathroom, how to make a bed, and how to tidy the bedrooms and close the curtains at night. Mr Carlisle liked a carafe of cold water in the morning, while Miss Isobel liked hers at night. The house ran like a well-tuned engine, and it was Annie’s job to see that things went as smoothly as possible, especially on the rare occasions when Mr Carlisle was home.
Mrs Carlisle was a mystery to Annie. She smiled at Annie and spoke to her as though she were a friend rather than a servant. Only yesterday she offered to get Annie a cup of tea. Miss Marie was kind and gentle-natured, but Annie liked Mrs Carlisle the best. Mr Blackwell, a distant cousin with a tragic past, also lived in the house. Blackie was a sad old soul who had seen better days. He drank too much and often snuck Mr Carlisle’s good brandy of a morning, pouring it right into his tea when no one was looking. Annie had the impression he was scared to death of something or someone, but she was too busy to wonder what or who frightened him so. Annie didn’t see much of Mrs Carlisle or Mr Blackwell. The bulk of her work catered to the cares and demands of Miss Isobel Carlisle.
Annie had been nervous at first, afraid that some strange set of circumstances would allow her mother to find her. She scrubbed the front steps and polished the brass kick plate on the front door of the Carlisle home with one eye trained towards the square and the pavement, half expecting her mother and stepfather to come stomping up, demanding that she return home at once.
She didn’t want to think of the scene that would follow. Harold Green would act righteous and assert his influence as Annie’s stepfather, while her mother would nod in the background, afraid to disagree with the new husband who offered her financial security. They would insist Annie return home. A well-bred lady such as Miss Isobel Carlisle would have no choice but to give way to Annie’s parents. The thought of it brought Annie to her knees with fear.
But the days went by and Annie’s mother never appeared. As Annie settled in, her worries started to slip away. She took to her new job. She liked being busy. She polished and scrubbed and scoured and served until she fell into her tiny bed at night, exhausted from her efforts. She slaved her days away to forget the life she left behind, a happy life with her mum and dad and their lovely house.
After the first week, Miss Marie was so pleased with her work that she wrote up a list for Annie in the morning and left her to work on her own. Annie liked the idea that Miss Marie trusted her enough to let her work unsupervised. She did the tasks that she was assigned, and did other chores without being told to do so. Annie carried out her tasks while remaining appropriately in the background, unseen and unheard. None of this effort was lost on Miss Isobel or Miss Marie, who gave Annie a rise in salary after her third day.
By the end of her first week, the worry that her mother and Harold Green would find her started to fade. Annie’s mind was now free to notice things. And notice she did. With the artistic talent that had shown itself when Annie was a young child, she noticed the sunlight coming through the window in the entry hall, and the way the beams lit up the cut crystal vase that held the elaborate spray of roses. She noticed the long, dark shadows in Mr Carlisle’s office as she dusted, and the way the darkening shadows brought out the jewel tones in the thick rug that covered the floor.
She noticed the relationships between the members of the household. Miss Isobel bossed everyone around. She was especially bossy to Mrs Carlisle, who seemed to ignore Miss Isobel as though she weren’t there. Annie learned quickly to run the other way when it looked like the two women would meet.
On this particular day, Annie finished washing and putting up the breakfast dishes by eight a.m. She packed the wooden box that was kept in the cellar with a fresh bottle of lemon oil and a bundle of clean rags. She intended on polishing the wooden surfaces in Mr Carlisle’s office while he was at work. Annie opened the door and stepped into the room, surprised to find a camera in pieces along with a glass of brandy on Mr Carlisle’s desk.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, Annie,’ Mr Blackwell – who was down on his hands and knees, out of sight, behind Mr Carlisle’s desk – struggled to his feet. ‘I’ve dropped a tiny screw to my camera.’ He nodded to the camera that lay on the table with the back removed. Three tiny screws rested on Mr Carlisle’s desk.
‘Do you want me to help you look?’ Annie wondered if she should come back later.
‘No, no,’ Blackie said. ‘It’ll turn up. I can get a replacement at the shop. Carry on.’ He downed the last of the brandy, packed up his camera, and let himself out of the office.
Once Blackie left, Annie got busy. She worked for a good thirty minutes, dusting the wooden surfaces before she added a bit of lemon oil and polished until they gleamed. She was down on her knees, dusting the base of a side table when she found the tiny screw. She tucked it in her pocket, and moved on with her work. It wasn’t until she got to the sideboard behind Mr Carlisle’s desk that she noticed one of the drawers was left open. She pushed it shut and didn’t think any more about it.
Pleased with a job well done, Annie returned the box of cleaning supplies to the cellar and removed the apron that now smelled of lemon oil. She made her way upstairs, moving through the house with a deliberate soft-footed silence. She met Marie on the upstairs landing.
‘I’ve put a treat on your bed, Annie. You’ve been working so hard,’ Marie said. ‘You can take a few hours for yourself. I’ll call when we need to get started in the kitchen.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Annie hurried to her room. On her bed lay a sketchpad and a box of pencils. She delighted in it, and spent the afternoon curled up on her tiny bed, sketching the trees outside, secure in the knowledge that things would be okay.
Cat wandered aimlessly after her attack. Her eye throbbed. Her ego was bruised. She wanted to be angry – her usual response to life’s injustices – but the only emotion she experienced was a burning fear that took away her ability to think in a rational manner. She thought about going to the police, but soon realised that reporting the assault