‘How many times have I said,’ Mina continued, ‘that a woman in my position should have a lady’s maid?’
Almost every time I come in here, thought Sarah.
‘I can’t be expected to dress myself.’
‘Mrs Simpson seems to manage it,’ Sarah suggested.
Mina’s eyes flashed and Sarah immediately knew she had spoken out of turn. She was about to apologise, but Mina had begun to speak and it would compound her transgression to interrupt.
‘My sister is a married woman and in mourning to boot. Her choice of attire is an entirely straightforward matter.’
Sarah thought of Mrs Simpson in the heavy black bombazine she had been wearing for months, pale and wan from prolonged time spent indoors.
‘But Sarah, you really must refrain from giving voice to your every thought. Your opinions, unless specifically requested, should be kept to yourself. I was indulgent of this when you were new to the position, but I might have done you a disservice by not reining you in. I fear you will misspeak before someone less understanding and find you have talked yourself onto the street.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Sarah replied, casting her eyes down in contrition.
‘There is much to commend the simple discipline of holding one’s tongue. I have to do so often enough when I disagree with how my sister wishes to run her household. I am merely a guest here, and grateful for that, as you should be grateful for your position. We each have our duties, and dressing well is an essential one for a woman of my station.’
Mina gestured towards the mountain of clothes on the bed, indicating that she required Sarah to help her choose what she should wear.
‘What about this?’ Sarah held up a modest grey silk dress with a lace collar which she had starched and pressed only the day before.
Mina looked at it for a few minutes, assessing its suitability.
‘Oh, it will have to do,’ she said, ‘although I fear it is a little too plain to have men reaching for their pens in order to write me a sonnet.’
Sarah glanced in response towards Mina’s writing table. As always there was a letter in progress, and beside it a novel.
‘What are you reading?’ Sarah asked, knowing the subject of literature would reliably serve to put her recent impertinence from her mistress’s mind.
‘A novel called Jane Eyre, by Currer Bell. I have just finished it. I was not previously familiar with the writer.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘That is a complex question in this case. I would prefer to discuss it with an informed party, so please feel free to take it for yourself.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Sarah slipped the book into her pocket alongside the other slim volume she had just procured from the library.
Now that an acceptable gown had been selected, Mina stepped into her corset and stood with her hands on her hips as Sarah grabbed the laces and pulled.
‘Tighter,’ Mina demanded.
‘You’ll be unable to breathe,’ Sarah said as she hauled on the laces again.
‘Nonsense,’ said Mina. ‘I haven’t fainted yet, despite the fact that all the ladies of my acquaintance swoon with great regularity. Sometimes with an element of stagecraft,’ she added, a hint of a smile playing upon her lips
Once Mina was suitably clothed Sarah then had to style her hair. This took considerably longer than tying a corset. A starch bandoline had to be applied to ensure that the hair, once wrestled into place, would remain there throughout the course of the day. The hair was then parted in the centre at the front, braided and looped round the ears. A second parting was made across the top of the head, from ear to ear, and the hair swept up in a tight bun at the back. The task required patience and precision, two qualities when it came to styling hair that Sarah seemed to lack.
‘This is why I need a lady’s maid,’ Mina said to her reflection, her lips pursing at Sarah’s efforts. ‘I know that you do your best, Sarah, but I will never attract a husband without the right kind of help.’
‘I could not agree more, Miss Grindlay,’ Sarah replied, gratefully laying down brush, comb and hair pins.
‘The problem is that good, reliable help is so hard to come by. Look at the difficulties Mrs Simpson has had trying to find a suitable nurse for the children.’
The rapid turnover of nursery nurses was no mystery to Sarah. The Simpsons had three children: David, Walter and baby James. David and Walter were rarely confined to the nursery at the top of the house, their natural curiosity at all times indulged, and previous incumbents had baulked at the behaviour that was not just permitted but encouraged. Another factor was that Mrs Simpson seemed reluctant to fully hand over responsibility for her children to anyone else, presumably as a consequence of having already lost two at a young age.
‘The Sheldrakes have just lost one of their housemaids,’ Mina continued, turning in her chair to address Sarah directly.
‘Which one?’
‘I think her name was Rose. Do you know her?’
‘Only in passing. I know the other housemaid, Milly, a little better. What happened?’
‘Absconded. Just like that. Though there are rumours that she was seeing a young man. Actually the rumours are that she was seeing several.’
Mina turned back to the mirror and applied a little rouge to her cheeks. Sarah made it for her using rectified spirit, water and cochineal powder. She wondered why it should be considered so wrong for a housemaid to court male attention when it seemed to be Mina’s predominant purpose.
‘I met her just last week,’ Sarah said. ‘Outside Kennington and Jenner’s.’
‘How did she seem?’ Mina asked, turning in her chair again.
‘Fine,’ Sarah replied, ever aware that duty obliged her to give a neutral answer.
In truth Rose would have seemed fine to anyone who had never met her before, but Sarah had been struck by the sullenness of her demeanour. She had come upon Rose and her mistress as they were exiting the shop on Princes Street. Mrs Sheldrake stopped to exchange pleasantries with an acquaintance, allowing Sarah and Rose to do the same, albeit more awkwardly. As Sarah had told Mina, she was more familiar with Rose’s colleague Milly, and was easier in her company. Rose was ‘vivacious’, according to Milly, a politer way of describing a girl Sarah regarded as flighty and full of herself, and of whom she was instinctively wary.
Rose had seemed uncharacteristically reserved that day, as though weighed down by a heavier burden than the packages she was carrying. She was pale, her eyes puffy, and she said little in response to Sarah’s gentle enquiries as to her health.
Sarah had glanced across at Rose’s mistress, a heavy-set woman around the same age as Mrs Simpson but who seemed considerably older. This was partly due to her physical appearance, about which she did not seem to take the greatest care, and partly because of her austere countenance. Sarah wondered uncharitably what her husband must look like, never having seen Mr Sheldrake.
It was well known that Mrs Sheldrake had a temper, of which the young women in her employ frequently bore the brunt. Rose was doubtless on the receiving end more than most, but this lifeless despondency seemed more than the result of a hearty dressing down. Perhaps it was cumulative, Sarah had thought gloomily, worrying for her own future. If life in service could dull the light in someone like Rose, what might it do to her?
‘Well, don’t just stand there, Sarah,’ Mina said, the subject of Rose’s disappearance quickly forgotten. ‘I’m sure you must have other things to attend to.’
Thus dismissed, Sarah left the room and made her way downstairs,