Of Moths and Butterflies

CHAPTER five





MOGEN AWOKE WITH a start to the sound of pounding on her door. Tired and shaken, she opened it to find Mrs. Hartup standing on the other side, her face red with exertion—and displeasure.

“Still in bed are you?”

Imogen rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She had slept well. Unusually well. “What time is it?”

“I haven’t the time to wake you every morning. I suppose next you’ll want your breakfast brought to you in bed.”

“Of course not. I’m sorry. I—”

“You can find your way to the kitchen, I expect?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’ll begin there this morning.” She held out a well-worn grey woollen garment. “See if this fits you. And don’t take too much time about it. You’re late enough as it is.”

Imogen dressed in the dark and could not quite see, but could sense that the fit was not right. A breeze could be felt about the ankles, and the bodice draped rather loosely.

It was not until she was standing in the gas lit corridor that she realised the true state of the matter. Not only had the garment been allowed to collect a good deal of dust, but during its time in storage it had also become the repository for a family of moths. As she made her way downstairs, she picked as many casings from her skirt and bodice as possible, making note, at the same time, of the several holes she would have to mend before she could give it a thorough washing. Still, it would do. She would not have to spoil her own clothes. For this she was grateful. She had only brought with her what she had deemed necessary. The black silk she had worn the day before, a few simple day dresses. That was all.

Imogen descended and upon turning at the second landing, was met by Sir Edmund. Uncertain what to do, she kept her eyes to the ground and waited for him to pass her by. In some houses, at least she had heard that it was so, the servants were expected to turn their faces to the wall and make as much room as possible, as if they didn’t exist at all. Her uncle had never made such demands of his servants, but neither had he paid them any mind. He simply ignored them, until they caused him displeasure, which they seemed inevitably to do.

Sir Edmund passed by without seeming to take notice of her. She sighed inwardly, but too soon. He turned again, and without quite looking at her, he spoke.

“You’ve come to us from Mr. Drake Everard, I think you said.”

She looked at him, but found she could not answer.

“He is recently deceased, if I understood you correctly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The news comes as a shock to me.”

How she dared to ask the question, she did not know. The words were formed and out of her mouth before she could think to stop them. “You knew him, sir?”

He looked at her then. “I knew him very well at one time, though I’ve not seen him in–” He stopped abruptly, as if remembering to whom he was speaking. He cleared his throat and drew himself up. “The servants’ stairs are in the cloisters. Did Mrs. Hartup not instruct you?”

“No, sir. I believe she must have forgotten.”

“I doubt it. Your time with Everard may have been difficult. I hope you won’t expect it to be much easier here.”

Her blood ran chill. What exactly could he mean? What exactly could he know?

“Mrs. Hartup will expect as much of you as did your former employer, despite what they say about country positions being less demanding.”

At this she felt a wave of relief. If the workload was all he had meant to imply, then she would accept any task expected of her, and do it gladly.

“And I like my servants to be seen as little as possible. Will you remember that?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered and looked down once more.

“You’ll go back and take the servants’ stairs.”

She curtsied and made her way back up, passing him as he watched her. He followed then, at a little distance, and when she turned down the corridor to the east wing, where the nearest entrance to the cloisters was situated, she glanced back to find him watching her still.

Shaped as a “U” as the house was, the cloisters lined the inner courtyard, providing a transition between the outdoor and indoor spaces. The upper floor was enclosed in leaded glass while the lower remained open to the formal garden by a series of columned arches. On each of the wings, east and west, the cloisters were public spaces, though little used, this being precisely what recommended them best for servants’ use. In the central transept they formed a part of the old library, now Sir Edmund’s private rooms. And so the servants could access the upper floors only by separate staircases situated at the extreme ends of the house. It was hardly convenient, unless one were a permanent resident and had a strong disinclination to knowing how one’s hot water arrived at one’s rooms.

Imogen presented herself in the kitchen, still bleary eyed from her sudden waking. Mrs. Hartup was there to meet her, and without preface or explanation, a can of blacking was placed into her hand, along with a pail containing various instruments of curious purpose.

“The stove,” the housekeeper offered by way of explanation. “And you’d best get it done before cook comes down or there’ll be a to-do.”

The fire had been lit already, and so the increasing heat served as further incentive to getting her work finished quickly. Still, Mrs. Hartup found it necessary to prod her at intervals, admonishing her to scrub harder, to remove that bit of soil there, and then to polish faster. And she did, finishing with only a minute or two to spare before the cook entered the kitchen.

“Who is this?” Mrs. Prim demanded, looking Imogen up and down. Clearly the paradox that was the new maid’s appearance was a difficulty for the cook. Imogen, with her fair skin and fine features, was nevertheless decorated in blacking and soot, wearing a moth-eaten and age-faded merino dress, a soiled apron and a pair of shoes made of the finest leather.

Before any questions could be asked of her, or explanations given in regards to her incongruous appearance, Mrs. Hartup sent her into the dining room to tend to the fireplace there.

Imogen, assuring herself that the room was empty first, approached the fireplace and prepared to do as she had seen done by others. She laid the dust cloth over the carpet and knelt down upon it. She spread dampened tea leaves over yesterday’s coals to keep the dust down, then swept it all out very carefully. She then cleaned the grate, irons and fender before blacking them as she had done the range in the kitchen. Having finished this task, the next thing to be done was to lay the new fire.

Coal, inherently temperamental, had always proved a difficulty for her, and she found she could only get a fire well and truly going if she used a great deal of kindling or newspaper and some used coals from the day before. No kindling had been given her, neither did she know where to look, but she had noticed, upon entering the room, that a stack of newspapers had been laid on the table. No doubt they had been placed there for a purpose, but the fire must be lighted and burning steadily before the master should come down to breakfast.

She arose and wiped her hands before carefully examining the newspapers. There were seven in all, beginning with a week before and continuing up to the current date. Surely a paper a week old would not be missed, and she began to slip this out from the bottom of the pile. She stopped suddenly upon realising just what this morning’s paper, or even the one of the day before, might contain. Very carefully she opened the most recent and scanned it as quickly as she could. Nothing in it caused her any alarm and so she went to the one of the day before. And there it was. The notice of her uncle’s death, and, with it, mention of herself as a survivor and dependent. Nothing was said of her disappearance, or of her inheritance. Not yet, at any rate. She exhaled in audible relief. Still, Sir Edmund had questioned her already. He might think to question her again.

She took the paper, replacing the others so that the one would not be easily missed, and returned to her place at the fireside, where she quickly turned the paper to tinder. She sighed again as these transformed into unrecognizable ash. The cinders soon caught and began to glow, and more coals were then put on top of the others. Finished, she cleaned up her things and returned to the kitchen where she was directed into the scullery. Here she found a half dozen or more scuttles ready to be sifted so that the cinders might be separated from the ashes, saved and used again. It was dirty work but not difficult, and she soon began to realise how futile her desire for clean clothing had been. She might wash her dress, certainly, but the work she had accomplished in the last hour and a half would have laid all such efforts to waste.

“Gina!”

She emerged from the scullery. “Yes, ma’am?”

It was Mrs. Hartup and she was not pleased. “You were to lay the fire in the dining room.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s gone out. Do it again. And hurry!”

Imogen bobbed her head in acknowledgment and took up her things. She was stopped at the door.

“The master’s down now. You’ll have to wash first.”

Imogen turned to the sink, where she attempted to wash away as much soot as could be removed from her person with cold water and no soap.

“We haven’t time,” Mrs. Hartup continued, “to do our work twice and thrice over. If you can’t lay a proper fire, I’m not sure what good you are to me.”

She went on as Imogen inserted a “Yes, ma’am,” at appropriate intervals.

Imogen returned to the dining room and began again, sweeping out the hot ashes and cinders. Yet she was uncertain how she was to progress now she had no paper with which to start again.

Behind her she heard Sir Edmund enter the room, followed, presumably, by his valet. She heard his chair being drawn from the table, heard it scoot back in. And heard, as her anxiety mounted, the crinkling and rustling of paper. A slap was heard as the stack hit the table again.

“Fetch Mrs. Hartup, will you?” he said to his man.

Mrs. Hartup soon appeared.

“I asked for the past week’s papers. There are six here.”

“There were seven this morning when I placed them there.”

“You’re getting old, Mrs. Hartup. Perhaps the position is too much for you.”

“Sir, I assure you, there were seven brought to me this morning. Charlie fetched them from the station himself. He counted them. I counted them. And I placed them here.”

“Perhaps we’ve been robbed,” he suggested.

“Gina.”

Imogen stood and turned, wiping her soot begrimed hands on her apron and holding her gaze to the floor.

“Do you know what has happened to Sir Edmund’s papers?”

“No, ma’am.” It was a lie, a shameful, sinful thing. But her whole life was now a lie. What was one more?

“There were a week’s worth of papers here on this table. You were the only person in this room from the time I left it to the time Sir Edmund entered.”

She dared to glance up and saw Sir Edmund looking at her, curiosity plain on his face. No accusation, no anger, only patent and alarming curiosity.

Mrs. Hartup went on with her interrogation but Imogen stood firm.

“That’s enough, Mrs. Hartup. It was a newspaper not the plate. Perhaps there were seven. Perhaps there were six. It’s not important.” He stood. “I’ll take my breakfast in the library.”

No sooner had Sir Edmund turned his back to leave than Mrs. Hartup was upon Imogen. A finger held before her, the woman opened her mouth to speak, she was stopped again before the first syllable was uttered.

“That’s enough, Mrs. Hartup. Not another word on the matter.”

Imogen glanced up, projecting a look of gratitude in Sir Edmund’s direction, which he either ignored or failed to see as the door closed between them.

Whatever words Mrs. Hartup had prepared to utter, she replaced them with silence and a cold look, and soon she, too, quit the room.

Imogen went back to her work, but was now at a loss as to what to use as kindling. So intent was she on the problem before her, she did not hear the approach of footsteps.

“You’re new.”

Imogen looked up to see a slight and fair haired young woman, a few years younger, perhaps, than herself.

“I’m Harriet,” she said.

Imogen smiled tentatively. “Gina.”

“You have no tinder.”

“No,” Imogen answered. “I didn’t know where to get it.”

“It ought to have been given you. She smiled a stiff smile that Imogen supposed was meant to be sympathetic. “You’ve done the blacking well.”

Imogen glanced at her work in recognition but said nothing.

“I hate the stuff, myself. I can never quite get it off my hands again. See?” she said and presented the evidence. “Perhaps…if you’ll do the blacking…I can lay the fires?”

“Yes,” Imogen answered. “All right.”

“Start in the drawing rooms. I’ll follow you behind.”

By mid-morning the downstairs grates were all blazing. The upstairs fires were left to the care of the other housemaid, whom Imogen met when breakfast was at last served to the staff. Becky, it seemed, took to Imogen’s arrival as readily as had Mrs. Hartup. The cause of her resentment Imogen could not begin to guess, but it did not appear that the girl’s displeasure was for her alone. She seemed generally of a petulant nature, her fiery red hair a symbol of that obstinacy of spirit she threatened always to display.

After the ritual of laying fires, it was the floors and bedrooms that were attended to next. A different section of floor was assigned to them each day so that in a week’s time, the entirety of the walking space had been scrubbed clean on hands and knees. It was gruelling work even so divided. With the water excruciatingly hot, the soap harsh (the acid harsher) and the scrubbing intense, it wore on Imogen faster than the work could be completed, holding the other girls up and fuelling Becky’s already healthy resentment.

In the afternoon, Becky and Harriet went upstairs to turn the mattresses, make the beds and clean whichever bedroom had been assigned to them that day, while Imogen returned to the scullery to attend to the morning’s dishes, which, by midday, had piled up into an alarming height. Again the water was nearly too hot to bear, and the cleansing powder seemed determined to slough off what little tender skin remained on her already chafed hands. But she did it uncomplaining, glad for the opportunity to prove herself—something she knew she had not yet done, for so far Harriet had covered for many of her mistakes.

Each afternoon, one of the state rooms was assigned them and they worked together, the three of them, cleaning the ornaments, the mantles, every stick of furniture, the carpets, the curtains, the walls. And though Imogen became more proficient in her work as the days drew into weeks, Becky’s resentment increased.

“I’d’ve supposed another pair of hands to help’d make our work go faster,” Becky remarked one day, breaking from her usual reticence.

“I am sorry,” Imogen said, recalling herself from her meditations and returning to the spot of soot above a gas jet on the drawing room wall. “I will try harder.”

“You’re slow enough, to be sure, but we’ve got more to do each day besides.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re not used to keeping so many fires going, nor to being so thorough,” Harriet tried to explain. “Especially in the state rooms, for they’re never used.”

“Next it will be the halls and spare bedrooms, I suppose,” said Becky. “The house is far too big for three maids and a housekeeper to maintain. Sir Edmund knows that. It’s like he’s trying to make a point of some kind. Or Mrs. Hartup is.”

“There is Mrs. Barton, remember,” Harriet added.

Becky rolled her eyes and continued on with her work.

“Who’s Mrs. Barton?”

“Mrs. Barton is Sir Edmund’s fiancé,” Harriet answered.

Becky scoffed. “Mistress, you mean. There’s no need to sugar-coat it.”

Imogen said nothing. Truly she had no reason to be surprised. It was a common enough practice among the men she had known.

“He does intend to marry her,” Harriet explained, “but the house isn’t quite fine enough for her, and so he must prepare it first. So far he’s been reluctant to do it.”

“Why is that?”

“Money,” Becky said. “There isn’t enough of it. Mrs. Barton’s been keeping him, so to speak. If he marries her there’ll be enough to put the Abbey to rights. But she’ll want it done her way.”

“He will marry her though? When do you think it will happen?”

“I have my doubts it will ever happen at all,” Becky answered.

“Sure he will,” Harriet said. “If he wants the money.”

“If I were her, I’d not be too quick to give up control of it. She’s better off as they are.”

“But surely she would wish to marry rather than–” Imogen had begun the question but did not dare form the words to finish it.

“She wants the status—the respectability. That’s what will make it worth it to her. As for him he’ll have the money, but I don’t think he’d like to bring her home to live with him. They get on like oil and water. But if you ask me, he’s got a grudge against women in general.”

“He’s been very kind to me.”

Becky laughed. “That won’t last long. You interest him. We all have done at first.”

Harriet shook her head, and Imogen took it as permission to dismiss the idea. And she tried very hard to do it.