‘Sit down, Essie,’ Lady Alice said in a bored tone. ‘And Fielding, that child should be working below stairs. I expect better from you.’
Fielding bowed and backed towards the door. ‘Be careful, Miss Chapman,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I’ve got your mark, and yours, too, Dixon.’
‘What is going on?’ Lady Alice demanded angrily.
Fielding stood to attention. ‘My apologies for Dixon, my lady. I’ll report her behaviour to Mrs Dent. She’ll deal with the girl.’
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ Essie protested. ‘This man is a bully.’
‘That’s enough.’ Lady Alice said coldly. ‘If anyone is to speak to my housekeeper it will be me. Tell Mrs Dent I want to have a word with her, Fielding.’ She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and he shooed Dixon out of the room, closing the door behind them.
Essie had a feeling that Fielding would make the poor child suffer, but there was nothing she could do to protect Dixon from his wrath.
‘That young man needs a lesson in manners. This would never have happened if I hadn’t sent my butler to the country house.’ Lady Alice picked up the coffee pot. ‘I won’t allow bullying in any shape or form amongst my servants, but you would be wise to hold your tongue, Essie. You need to be invisible as far as the rest of my staff are concerned.’
‘Yes, my lady. I’m sorry.’
Lady Alice reached up to tug on a silk-tasselled bell pull. ‘I’ll send for someone to show you where to go and give you instructions, Essie. You can say that you’re a distant relative of Moffatt’s, and it was she who recommended you. There’s no need to elaborate, just try not to offend Mrs Dent when you meet her. I can’t afford to have a rebellion in the servants’ hall.’
Essie glanced longingly at the tiny cakes and pastries that were arranged so prettily on the cake stand, but she did not like to take one, and Lady Alice had apparently forgotten about food. Essie had barely sat down again when a maid answered her summons.
‘Take Miss Chapman to the sewing room, Morrison. She’ll be replacing Miss Moffatt.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Morrison eyed Essie curiously. ‘Follow me, miss.’
The sewing room on the third floor of the town house overlooked the garden and the mews. Flies wandered tiredly up and down the glass panes, as if giving up all hope of escaping from their prison. Dust had settled on the work table and the seat of the upright wooden chair where Essie was to sit. The small space was hot and stuffy and she opened the window, releasing the captive insects. A waft of fresh air filled the room with the smell of the stables mingled with the scent of flowers from the well-tended beds below. A gardener was scything the grass into a velvety lawn, and in the small back yard a housemaid was beating a rug as if punishing it for disobedience. The household seemed to run on well-oiled wheels and Essie felt like an interloper. Morrison had been less than friendly and Fielding had been suspicious of her from the start, and now he held a grudge against her. Life in Hill Street was not going to be easy.
She turned with a start as the door opened and a middle-aged woman dressed in black bombazine entered the room. Even the smallest movement was accompanied by the jingling of a large bunch of keys attached to a chatelaine at her waist. She looked Essie up and down.
‘I am Mrs Dent, Lady Alice’s housekeeper.’
Remembering her manners, Essie bobbed a curtsey. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’
A shadow of a smile flickered across the housekeeper’s even features. Her smooth skin was unrelieved by laughter lines or furrows on her brow, but it was obvious from her shrewd expression that she missed nothing, and her firm chin suggested a steadiness of purpose and a stubborn nature. She placed a bundle of cloth on the table. ‘These garments need mending. I hope you’re more competent than poor Miss Moffatt. She should have retired years ago.’
‘I’ll do my best, ma’am.’
‘I hope so.’ Mrs Dent folded her arms, head on one side. ‘I gather you won’t be living in.’
‘No, ma’am. I’ll return home when I’ve finished my duties here.’
‘And where is home?’
Essie realised that she was being gently cross-examined and she did not want to give too much away. ‘I live in Limehouse, Mrs Dent.’
‘That’s a long way to travel each day. Why would you do that?’
‘My pa injured himself in a fall,’ Essie said truthfully. ‘I have to go home to look after him, and we need the money.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Dent turned as if to leave the room, but she paused in the doorway. ‘You won’t earn very much here. I wouldn’t have thought it worth your while. The cab fare would be very expensive, more than you could hope to make for a few hours’ work.’
‘I walk part of the way and then I catch a bus,’ Essie said, improvising wildly. She had no idea how much the fare would be, but it sounded reasonable and it seemed to convince Mrs Dent, who smiled vaguely and left, closing the door quietly.
Left to her own devices, Essie found needles and thread in a chest of drawers and a pair of scissors, and she settled down to work. Sewing was not her most favoured occupation, but it was easier than working the river in all weathers. It was the silence that was hardest to bear, used as she was to the constant noise both at home and at work. The house in Hill Street might have been deserted for all the sounds that could be heard on the third floor. No doubt the kitchen was buzzing with activity and chatter, but even the birdsong was muted at this level and the neighbours might have been a million miles away, not yelling and bawling at each other at the tops of their voices, as they did at home. If there were babies in the nurseries their nannies kept them from crying, and older children must be fully occupied in their school rooms, or perhaps taken out for long walks in Hyde Park by their tutors and governesses. Essie found herself in a different world – one where she did not feel at all comfortable.
She had no idea of the time, but judging by the position of the sun, it was well past noon and she was feeling hungry. The memory of the cake stand, laden with dainties, came back to haunt her and she wished that she had had the forethought to tuck one in her pocket before Morrison spirited her away. If this was how things were Up West, Essie decided that she preferred the rough and tumble, privation and poverty of the East End. At least you knew where you were with Miss Flower – you could smell her bucket of pure a mile off, but she always had a kind word and a smile. Josser the tosher was also less than fragrant, but he would give you his last farthing, if he had one, and Ben would be wondering where she was. Essie tried to forget her rumbling belly and stitched away, storing all her experiences up to tell Ben when she saw him next.
A timid tap on the door brought her back to earth and she jumped, pricking her finger and yelping as a tiny bead of blood broke surface. ‘Come in,’ she murmured.
Dixon put her head round the door. ‘I brought you some grub, miss. I think they must have forgot you below stairs.’ She glanced over her shoulder as if to ensure that the coast was clear before slipping into the room. She had her apron folded into a bundle, from which she produced a chunk of bread and a couple of slices of ham. ‘I managed to nick this off the kitchen table.’ She put her hand in her pocket and took out an apple and a piece of cheese. ‘Sorry it ain’t much, but you was kind to me earlier. No one has ever stood up for me before, so I wanted to do something for you.’
‘You are very kind, Dixon.’ Essie stared at the girl, frowning. ‘I can’t keep calling you that. I’m Essie – what’s your name?’
‘It’s Sadie, Miss Essie.’
‘Just Essie will do nicely.’ Essie gazed at the food and her mouth watered. ‘I hope this won’t get