can we’ll put it by up here .
My Grace, what sort of man is he you are working for? If he bothers you in any way, you must leave, promise me that. It’ll all be fine if your name’s still good and a girl can lose her name by being bothered. Does he have a wife and children in the house? A housemaid, too? You mustn’t let them ask you to do even light dusting. Or that will be the start of it .
Don’t go out after dark unless you must. Miss Sand says she can send you some books for the evenings .
Your father and I are glad you go to church with Michael on Sundays .
With my love ,
Your Mother
I’m proud of you, girl. Best love, Da .
Thirty shillings a month. That’s as much as she earns and half again.
Grace pushes so hard on her thumbs that the paper begins to tear.
6
BEA IS LYING ON HER BED WITH JOHN’S VOICE FILLING the room. She didn’t hit her head, he is saying, just slumped … shaken … carried her back … I’m so sorry.
‘Sorry for what, John? You’ve been a hero,’ says a female voice.
‘Oh, I can’t imagine being that.’
More female voices are saying that what she needs is rest, and she wonders how many of them are in the room. Thank God you found her, John … But until she’s better … She’s fine … Thought you said earlier you had to go back up to town … Don’t get into trouble … We’ll cable you. A few minutes later she hears his footsteps leave the room, in that oh so measured pace.
Only they’re not John’s footsteps, it’s a servant knocking at the door, and she’s not down in the country at Beauhurst, she’s in Park Lane. Her room is empty; she must have fallen asleep again after ringing the bell, if it can be called sleep when your dreams are memories, not good ones at that. Oh, Beatrice, it’s February, she tells herself. That’s two months, and you still can’t get that man out of your head.
They’d been down at Beauhurst, Bea had invited a crowd for a few days and they were in the drawing room with the dregs of coffee after lunch. Bea was sitting on one of the window seats with John, looking over his shoulder as he made cartoons of their friendsaround the room. Halfway through one of Edie, he put his pencil down and turned around to look at Bea. Let’s go for a walk, he whispered, his eyes full of something he wanted to say. Yes, she replied, her heart in her mouth. She stood up, excused herself from the room on the grounds of needing a nap, and near dashed upstairs to change into a walking dress. She pulled a couple out on to the bed but they looked such passion-killers, so she took a coat better suited to Mayfair than the country, but at least she looked like the girl of someone’s dreams.
She met him at the gate to the walled nursery garden and he led her away up into the woods and pine air, their feet sinking into the dead leaves underneath as they walked. For five beautiful minutes they walked hand in hand until they came to the curved white lovers’ seat by the little waterfall. They sat on either side of the bench, leaning across the divider so that their noses were almost brushing. John took her hand again, and squeezed it.
‘Beatrice,’ he said, ‘I’ve something I want to say to you.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, wondering why he was saying and not asking.
‘Beatrice, I can’t marry you.’
She remembers feeling as though she were a stone that would sink into the earth if she didn’t stand. So she did, and moved away from him, she thinks, and then she fell.
It is Susan who comes into Bea’s room in Park Lane. Good Lord, Bea isn’t sure she’s up to Susan this early. Right now she’d like a tender hand, not one that looks as though it would sooner whip your face.
She has pointed this out to Mother, who pooh-poohed her. ‘She’s first housemaid. If anyone should help you dress it should be her. At least she’s honest; it’s such a bore when servants steal. You feel you never know where you’ve put
My Grace, what sort of man is he you are working for? If he bothers you in any way, you must leave, promise me that. It’ll all be fine if your name’s still good and a girl can lose her name by being bothered. Does he have a wife and children in the house? A housemaid, too? You mustn’t let them ask you to do even light dusting. Or that will be the start of it .
Don’t go out after dark unless you must. Miss Sand says she can send you some books for the evenings .
Your father and I are glad you go to church with Michael on Sundays .
With my love ,
Your Mother
I’m proud of you, girl. Best love, Da .
Thirty shillings a month. That’s as much as she earns and half again.
Grace pushes so hard on her thumbs that the paper begins to tear.
6
BEA IS LYING ON HER BED WITH JOHN’S VOICE FILLING the room. She didn’t hit her head, he is saying, just slumped … shaken … carried her back … I’m so sorry.
‘Sorry for what, John? You’ve been a hero,’ says a female voice.
‘Oh, I can’t imagine being that.’
More female voices are saying that what she needs is rest, and she wonders how many of them are in the room. Thank God you found her, John … But until she’s better … She’s fine … Thought you said earlier you had to go back up to town … Don’t get into trouble … We’ll cable you. A few minutes later she hears his footsteps leave the room, in that oh so measured pace.
Only they’re not John’s footsteps, it’s a servant knocking at the door, and she’s not down in the country at Beauhurst, she’s in Park Lane. Her room is empty; she must have fallen asleep again after ringing the bell, if it can be called sleep when your dreams are memories, not good ones at that. Oh, Beatrice, it’s February, she tells herself. That’s two months, and you still can’t get that man out of your head.
They’d been down at Beauhurst, Bea had invited a crowd for a few days and they were in the drawing room with the dregs of coffee after lunch. Bea was sitting on one of the window seats with John, looking over his shoulder as he made cartoons of their friendsaround the room. Halfway through one of Edie, he put his pencil down and turned around to look at Bea. Let’s go for a walk, he whispered, his eyes full of something he wanted to say. Yes, she replied, her heart in her mouth. She stood up, excused herself from the room on the grounds of needing a nap, and near dashed upstairs to change into a walking dress. She pulled a couple out on to the bed but they looked such passion-killers, so she took a coat better suited to Mayfair than the country, but at least she looked like the girl of someone’s dreams.
She met him at the gate to the walled nursery garden and he led her away up into the woods and pine air, their feet sinking into the dead leaves underneath as they walked. For five beautiful minutes they walked hand in hand until they came to the curved white lovers’ seat by the little waterfall. They sat on either side of the bench, leaning across the divider so that their noses were almost brushing. John took her hand again, and squeezed it.
‘Beatrice,’ he said, ‘I’ve something I want to say to you.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, wondering why he was saying and not asking.
‘Beatrice, I can’t marry you.’
She remembers feeling as though she were a stone that would sink into the earth if she didn’t stand. So she did, and moved away from him, she thinks, and then she fell.
It is Susan who comes into Bea’s room in Park Lane. Good Lord, Bea isn’t sure she’s up to Susan this early. Right now she’d like a tender hand, not one that looks as though it would sooner whip your face.
She has pointed this out to Mother, who pooh-poohed her. ‘She’s first housemaid. If anyone should help you dress it should be her. At least she’s honest; it’s such a bore when servants steal. You feel you never know where you’ve put
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