want to be? Forever?” Tess looks over at Annie. “Am I right?” she says.
Annie has no idea what is happening, why Cook has turned into a water-bearing statue on the kitchen stoop, why Tess’s opinion is required on this. Mad, she thinks. They’re all mad here. Every last one of them.
“Annie!”
Annie looks back, stops hurrying along the path to the glasshouse, and waits for Tess to catch her up.
“Where are you going?” Tess is puffing, bends forward to catch her breath. Her face, when she looks up, is red from being in the laundry all morning and from sprinting up the path after Annie.
“Mrs. Dashell wants me to model for her again today.”
“You haven’t stripped the beds.” Tess stands up straight.
“I know.”
“I’m supposed to wash those sheets today. Now.”
“I’ll do it when I get back.” Annie glances down the path to the glasshouse. She doesn’t want to keep Isabelle waiting. “Just leave them.”
“I can’t do that.” Tess works to a strict schedule. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday are for washing and rinsing. Thursdays and Fridays are for mangling, starching, and ironing. She washes linen on Mondays, muslin, coloured cottons, and woollens on Tuesdays, bed sheets and kitchen cloths on Wednesdays. Today is Wednesday. If something isn’t washed on the correct day, it changes the entire week’s schedule and throws the household management into confusion. “I’ll have to do it myself, then,” she says, waiting for Annie to change her mind. Annie says nothing. “Well, then,” says Tess. “I’ll do it myself, but I’m none too happy about it.” She turns and stomps back down the path towards the house. Annie watches her go, feeling regretful. Tess has enough work of her own to do without taking on extra. They have been getting along so well together, too. Annie enjoys the companionship at night in their attic room, how they talk to each other when the lamps are blown out, lying in their beds, calling softly across the dark. Stories of Mrs. Gilbey’s meanness, of Tess’s family struggles in the north of England.
Annie resumes her journey to the glasshouse. She needs to speak to the Lady about how she is to do her duties and do this modelling, too. Annie has only been here a few weeks. She cannot let Tess do work for her again. It is not fair.
But when Annie gets to the glasshouse, there is no talking to Isabelle about her maid-work. Isabelle is fussing around, all quick and cranky.
“What took you so long?” she says, when Annie hurries into the studio. “I sent for you ages ago. We’re losing the good light. Here.” She shoves a wooden box into Annie’s arms. “Carry this. And follow me.” She has folded up the legs of the box camera, clasps the length of it to her bosom, and pushes through the door of the glasshouse, out into the afternoon sun.
Annie struggles to catch up as Isabelle strides through the orchard. “Where are we going?”
“To drown you,” says Isabelle. She doesn’t sound as though she’s joking and Annie has to tell herself that it can’t really be the truth. Maids are useful. They aren’t just casually disposed of by murder. Still, she has never found out what had happened to the last housemaid, the one whose place she has taken.
They walk through the orchard, across a field, and down a wooded slope. There, at the bottom of the slope, flows a small brook, pale with sunlight.
“All right,” says Isabelle. “This will do.” She lays her camera gently on the bank. “This is a good spot to drown you.” She takes the box from Annie, smiles when she sees the look on her face. “Ha! You’re frightened. You think I’m serious.”
“No, ma’am.” Annie can feel herself blush.
“You’re lying,” says Isabelle.
Annie is lying. She feels a fool. “Well,” she says defensively, “I thought that you wouldn’t. But I felt that you might.”
Isabelle laughs. “Good girl,” she says. “Now go and sit on those rocks over
Annie has no idea what is happening, why Cook has turned into a water-bearing statue on the kitchen stoop, why Tess’s opinion is required on this. Mad, she thinks. They’re all mad here. Every last one of them.
“Annie!”
Annie looks back, stops hurrying along the path to the glasshouse, and waits for Tess to catch her up.
“Where are you going?” Tess is puffing, bends forward to catch her breath. Her face, when she looks up, is red from being in the laundry all morning and from sprinting up the path after Annie.
“Mrs. Dashell wants me to model for her again today.”
“You haven’t stripped the beds.” Tess stands up straight.
“I know.”
“I’m supposed to wash those sheets today. Now.”
“I’ll do it when I get back.” Annie glances down the path to the glasshouse. She doesn’t want to keep Isabelle waiting. “Just leave them.”
“I can’t do that.” Tess works to a strict schedule. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday are for washing and rinsing. Thursdays and Fridays are for mangling, starching, and ironing. She washes linen on Mondays, muslin, coloured cottons, and woollens on Tuesdays, bed sheets and kitchen cloths on Wednesdays. Today is Wednesday. If something isn’t washed on the correct day, it changes the entire week’s schedule and throws the household management into confusion. “I’ll have to do it myself, then,” she says, waiting for Annie to change her mind. Annie says nothing. “Well, then,” says Tess. “I’ll do it myself, but I’m none too happy about it.” She turns and stomps back down the path towards the house. Annie watches her go, feeling regretful. Tess has enough work of her own to do without taking on extra. They have been getting along so well together, too. Annie enjoys the companionship at night in their attic room, how they talk to each other when the lamps are blown out, lying in their beds, calling softly across the dark. Stories of Mrs. Gilbey’s meanness, of Tess’s family struggles in the north of England.
Annie resumes her journey to the glasshouse. She needs to speak to the Lady about how she is to do her duties and do this modelling, too. Annie has only been here a few weeks. She cannot let Tess do work for her again. It is not fair.
But when Annie gets to the glasshouse, there is no talking to Isabelle about her maid-work. Isabelle is fussing around, all quick and cranky.
“What took you so long?” she says, when Annie hurries into the studio. “I sent for you ages ago. We’re losing the good light. Here.” She shoves a wooden box into Annie’s arms. “Carry this. And follow me.” She has folded up the legs of the box camera, clasps the length of it to her bosom, and pushes through the door of the glasshouse, out into the afternoon sun.
Annie struggles to catch up as Isabelle strides through the orchard. “Where are we going?”
“To drown you,” says Isabelle. She doesn’t sound as though she’s joking and Annie has to tell herself that it can’t really be the truth. Maids are useful. They aren’t just casually disposed of by murder. Still, she has never found out what had happened to the last housemaid, the one whose place she has taken.
They walk through the orchard, across a field, and down a wooded slope. There, at the bottom of the slope, flows a small brook, pale with sunlight.
“All right,” says Isabelle. “This will do.” She lays her camera gently on the bank. “This is a good spot to drown you.” She takes the box from Annie, smiles when she sees the look on her face. “Ha! You’re frightened. You think I’m serious.”
“No, ma’am.” Annie can feel herself blush.
“You’re lying,” says Isabelle.
Annie is lying. She feels a fool. “Well,” she says defensively, “I thought that you wouldn’t. But I felt that you might.”
Isabelle laughs. “Good girl,” she says. “Now go and sit on those rocks over
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