Lost Among the Living(9)

“Then it’s likely done,” he replied, turning back to his slice of beef. “If there’s a newspaper somewhere in this backwater, please have it brought to me. I’d like to know a little of what goes on in the world.”

Dottie stood in strangled silence. Months apart, and her husband already found his plate more palatable than his wife. I could almost feel sorry for her. But then she turned to me, her cheeks flushed, and barked, “Why are you standing here? Go find the housekeeper and make sure everything is done, for God’s sake.”

I turned on my heel without a word and retreated down the hall, to the room where I’d seen the maid. She was not there. Instead, sitting in one of the chairs was a girl. She had dark blond hair tied up neatly at the back of her head, the pins of which I could see clearly, as she was angled away from me. She wore a dark gray dress and a string of small pearls around her neck. When I approached the doorway, she turned and looked at me through calm blue eyes. Her face was long, her forehead high, but she was strangely attractive. She looked about seventeen.

“Oh,” I said in surprise. “I beg your pardon.”

“Miss?”

I turned. The maid stood in the corridor behind me, duster in hand.

“Is there something I can assist you with?” the maid asked me, tilting to look over my shoulder.

“Yes, I just—” I turned to the girl in the chair again, confused, but the girl was gone. The chair stood empty, as did the rest of the room.

“Miss?” the maid said again.

“Where did she go?” I asked. “The girl. The one who was just here.”

“I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know quite what you mean?”

The room was certainly empty. So was the corridor, when I spun on my heel to look. There was no sound of footsteps. But I had seen her.

“I don’t—” I stuttered. “I—”

“Perhaps you mean me, miss?” the maid asked. “I was dusting in that room not long ago.”

I paused. It hadn’t been the maid I’d seen—there was no question. I could still see the girl’s face, the expression in her blue eyes beneath the high forehead as she regarded me. But to insist on it would make me sound like Mother, talking of her imaginary viscount. So I said, “Perhaps that’s it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing at all,” the maid said, and she gave me a smile that was tentative and curious at the same time.

I pushed what I had just seen forcefully from my mind. “I’m Jo Manders, Mrs. Forsyth’s companion,” I said. “Can you tell me where the housekeeper is?”

Her smile relaxed a little. “Mrs. Bennett is in the kitchen, I believe, dealing with the wine. She was there half an hour ago.”

“Are there other maids here besides yourself?” I asked, shakily remembering Dottie’s directive.

“Two others, ma’am. All of us arrived the day before yesterday.”

So there was no constant staff of loyal servants kept on at Wych Elm House while the family was not in residence. The entire staff seemed to be newly hired. I thanked the maid and found the door that led downstairs to the kitchen, but as I approached it, for some reason I heard the maid’s steps behind me. I turned to tell her there was no need to follow me, but I found she was gone, and there was no one there at all.

In the kitchen I came upon two women over sixty, one of them sorting through a box of wine bottles and the other sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. When I entered, they dropped silent in embarrassment, and the seated woman made to rise.

“Please,” I said. “I’m only Mrs. Forsyth’s paid companion.”

The woman promptly sat back down, and the two exchanged a brief look of surprise. It seemed Dottie had not bothered to tell anyone about me. As it was, I was stuck halfway between being a servant and a member of the family, which made everything awkward.

The woman with the wine bottles was Mrs. Bennett, the housekeeper, and the woman sitting down was Mrs. Perry, the cook. Both had tidy hair under caps and strong, rough hands. They were women of England’s servant class, brisk and unshakable, who had likely been sweeping and dusting and pounding dough into pie crusts since they were thirteen. A class that was quickly vanishing into a world of tinned suppers and carpet-sweeping machines. They were wary at first, given my uncertain status, but since I had no desire to go back to Dottie after the nasty scene in the dining room, I pulled back a chair and sat at the kitchen table instead.

“I suppose you know Mrs. Forsyth very well, then,” Mrs. Bennett said to me. Her tone was casual, but I knew she was fishing for information.

“Yes,” I replied, thinking that as of today, I did not know Dottie at all.

“I’ve heard she can be a difficult mistress,” Mrs. Perry said bluntly. “It doesn’t frighten me. I’ve dealt with difficult mistresses before.”

“So have I,” Mrs. Bennett said. “In my last place, the mistress lost two children, one after the other. Both died at birth. She was never the same after that. It hits them hard, some women harder than others.”

“I suppose,” I said. She must be referring to queer cousin Fran.

“I’ll never believe the things they say.” Mrs. Perry lifted her chin disapprovingly. “I don’t take to gossip.”

Mrs. Bennett closed the box of wine bottles and made a dismissive shushing noise. “Tales to frighten children, that’s all it is.”