lump of masonry?’ said the butler, who had served as a footman on that estate. ‘Unlikely The master’s valet says madam’s family is refusing to pay out half of her dowry – and that is what would have furnished your room, along with most of the others in the house. It’s lucky that Mr Chichester has his aunt to lend him this place.’
‘Some luck for me. How am I supposed to run a house of this size with just eleven servants?’ said Mrs Holland.
Harriet had remained melancholy all day, refusing to go out. She wrote a letter, and read listlessly, casting various books aside. In the afternoon, Joanna had sent a note to the master, telling him of Harriet’s state. She had thought he might come, to calm Harriet’s agitation. But he had not.
He had gone out at eight o’clock. At the window of Harriet’s room, Joanna had watched as Mr Chichester had left the house, descending the front steps without looking back. She glimpsed his pale face, moon-like at the window of the carriage, and sought some meaning in his look. But the uneven pane of glass in the carriage door had shifted the light of the flaming torch that blazed, suspended from the front wall of the house, and she was unable to make out his expression, or report back a moderated version of it to her mistress.
It had taken her hours to get Harriet to sleep. Like a fractious child, the girl kept rising up from her bed, fighting unconsciousness. Now that she slept, Joanna regretted the promise she had made to sit with her until the master came home.
She had listened all evening to the sounds beyond the house; horses’ hooves as riders rode hard around the square; the carriages; the distant voices of the London night: imagining revellers and street sellers, drunks and vagabonds. She thought that the watch must have already done several circuits of the square, and the noise had been damped down now these two hours. From the distant chime of the clock in the hallway she knew that it was long past midnight. The carriage had returned to its mews; the link-boy would guide the master home through the London streets, carrying his blazing torch before him. The only light in the room was the flickering illumination provided by a small fire dying in the grate.
Joanna got up and, bending over the fire, lit a half-burnt candle in a chamberstick taken from the dressing set. In her hand, the silver felt like ice, its ornate surface reminding her of Monsieur Renard, for it had come from his shop. A sardonic smile twitched her lips at the thought of him. He was full of sugared words, so much so that the master had taken to sending him straight to Harriet rather than suffering his compliments. Whenever Joanna thought of Renard’s narrow, handsome face, she remembered that strange curl his lips had, as though whatever he saw was a dumb show for his own amusement, and other people merely his puppets. It was for this reason that Joanna didn’t care much for him, even though he had slipped her a trinket here or there, to ensure her favour. She didn’t bother to tell him that she never promoted any tradesman’s cause. When he had invited her to his house on Bond Street to partake of a dish of chocolate, she had gone, but only out of curiosity, for she had wished to see his wife, a woman she knew a little of.
She put down the candle and watched the flame, remembering an argument of long ago: her first employer, an old woman who had reprimanded her for burning too many candles. It seemed that her life since then had been a construction of small lies, excuses and alibis to make it bearable. She thought of her lover, dead long ago. Stephen, you promised you would always work in the world for me, even though you are with God. It was too much to think of, all at once; in the darkness, the grief blindsided her. It was because she had felt weak today, foggy-headed; tomorrow, she would be her old self, sharp and clear-sighted.
Her eyes were closing in the gloom and her head was
‘Some luck for me. How am I supposed to run a house of this size with just eleven servants?’ said Mrs Holland.
Harriet had remained melancholy all day, refusing to go out. She wrote a letter, and read listlessly, casting various books aside. In the afternoon, Joanna had sent a note to the master, telling him of Harriet’s state. She had thought he might come, to calm Harriet’s agitation. But he had not.
He had gone out at eight o’clock. At the window of Harriet’s room, Joanna had watched as Mr Chichester had left the house, descending the front steps without looking back. She glimpsed his pale face, moon-like at the window of the carriage, and sought some meaning in his look. But the uneven pane of glass in the carriage door had shifted the light of the flaming torch that blazed, suspended from the front wall of the house, and she was unable to make out his expression, or report back a moderated version of it to her mistress.
It had taken her hours to get Harriet to sleep. Like a fractious child, the girl kept rising up from her bed, fighting unconsciousness. Now that she slept, Joanna regretted the promise she had made to sit with her until the master came home.
She had listened all evening to the sounds beyond the house; horses’ hooves as riders rode hard around the square; the carriages; the distant voices of the London night: imagining revellers and street sellers, drunks and vagabonds. She thought that the watch must have already done several circuits of the square, and the noise had been damped down now these two hours. From the distant chime of the clock in the hallway she knew that it was long past midnight. The carriage had returned to its mews; the link-boy would guide the master home through the London streets, carrying his blazing torch before him. The only light in the room was the flickering illumination provided by a small fire dying in the grate.
Joanna got up and, bending over the fire, lit a half-burnt candle in a chamberstick taken from the dressing set. In her hand, the silver felt like ice, its ornate surface reminding her of Monsieur Renard, for it had come from his shop. A sardonic smile twitched her lips at the thought of him. He was full of sugared words, so much so that the master had taken to sending him straight to Harriet rather than suffering his compliments. Whenever Joanna thought of Renard’s narrow, handsome face, she remembered that strange curl his lips had, as though whatever he saw was a dumb show for his own amusement, and other people merely his puppets. It was for this reason that Joanna didn’t care much for him, even though he had slipped her a trinket here or there, to ensure her favour. She didn’t bother to tell him that she never promoted any tradesman’s cause. When he had invited her to his house on Bond Street to partake of a dish of chocolate, she had gone, but only out of curiosity, for she had wished to see his wife, a woman she knew a little of.
She put down the candle and watched the flame, remembering an argument of long ago: her first employer, an old woman who had reprimanded her for burning too many candles. It seemed that her life since then had been a construction of small lies, excuses and alibis to make it bearable. She thought of her lover, dead long ago. Stephen, you promised you would always work in the world for me, even though you are with God. It was too much to think of, all at once; in the darkness, the grief blindsided her. It was because she had felt weak today, foggy-headed; tomorrow, she would be her old self, sharp and clear-sighted.
Her eyes were closing in the gloom and her head was
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