Her Ladyship's Girl Page 9

  ‘So sorry I wasn’t here yesterday, Anwyn. Shall I call you Anwyn? I think so, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Madam.’

  ‘And you must call me Miranda.’

  I didn’t think I’d be able to call her that. Nobody ever called the toffs by their Christian names, or any other name except their title.

  ‘Are you sure, Madam?’

  ‘Of course. You do know who Miranda was, don’t you?’

  ‘From Shakespeare’s The Tempest, I think .’

  ‘Yes, the motherless magician’s daughter. Quite analogous to myself, really.’

  She finished eating and indicated for me to remove the trestle, which I did and just stood there holding it, not knowing what to do next.

  ‘Just put it on that table.’

  She reached for a packet of cigarettes and lit one. I placed an ashtray close to her on the bed.

  ‘You’re a very literate young lady, Anwyn. Do you know what the name Bouchard means?’

  ‘No, Madam . . . sorry, Miranda.’

  ‘It means big mouth. So, let’s talk, shall we?’

  Over the next hour or so, Miranda Bouchard smoked half a dozen cigarettes and outlined what my duties would be. I’d have to help her dress and undress, although she said she was no invalid and wouldn’t require to be treated as one. I wouldn’t need to bring her breakfast, as one of the parlourmaids would do that, but she wanted me to eat with her in the dining room for lunch and dinner, except when she was entertaining guests.

  I was too inexperienced to select her wardrobe and jewellery, but I knew a fair bit about fashion and she was prepared to listen to my advice, if I wanted to give it. And I’d be expected to learn this aspect of the job, through observation, as I went along. She had a hair stylist who came down from Carlisle Street for the big jobs, but I’d be required to tend to her hair on a day-today basis and maybe learn enough to take over from the stylist in time. I’d also be required to apply and remove make-up and perform manicures and pedicures. I’d have to clean and tidy the master bedroom, her dressing room and her bathroom, as these places were where she kept her most intimate possessions and she didn’t want the other servants handling them. Well, cleaning and tidying a few rooms would be no bother to someone like me who’d spent the last year or so scrubbing and shining and sprucing.

  I wouldn’t be required to mend clothes, as that was a specialised job, but I would be required to deliver and collect items to and from a seamstress in St Martin’s Lane. Miranda Bouchard didn’t usually rise until 9:00 a.m. and I’d have to be ready when she did. She suggested I continue as I did that morning, with breakfast being served to me at 8:00 a.m. and for me to come find her when I was finished. She couldn’t be as precise when it came to going back to bed in the evening – her hours were erratic and she might want me at any time. On such occasions, if I wasn’t accompanying her, I should go to bed when I wanted and she’d wake me or have me woken if she needed me. I’d also have to tend to her if she was ill, administering medicines prescribed by her doctor and, if necessary, sleeping in the master bedroom with her. But probably the most important of my duties would be to circulate with other ladies’ maids whenever I came into contact with them and to extract as much information as possible about who would be wearing what and who was having a liaison with whom and all the other little secrets of Mrs Bouchard’s social group.

  In 1935, the heyday of the socialites was over. Estates were being sold off left, right and centre. I’d heard Mr Harding and Mr Ayres discussing it once at Hampstead and they said that only a third of the families listed in Burke’s Peerage actually held land any more. Mr Harding wasn’t bothered about that because he was an industrialist, not an aristocrat. With the decline of the aristocracy came the decline of what was called the social calendar. But the London season was still happening, though maybe not in such an extravagant way as before. And the picture of the Mitford sisters in all the papers, posing with the Nazi stormtroopers at that Nuremberg rally, didn’t endear the toffs to the ordinary people who were suffering the effects of the Great Slump. It all seemed so objectionable, these people swaggering and flaunting, while the rest of the country were tightening their belts. But the shrunken social scene meant there was even more gossiping and backstabbing than before and everyone wanted to be one step ahead of everyone else.

  ‘It’s a very claustrophobic world, Anwyn, but one I have to live in.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  She said I’d also be expected to travel with her. There would be Cheltenham in a few weeks’ time, and Ascot and Epsom in June, Henley Regatta in July and Cowes week in August. I’d also be required to accompany her to spas and vapour treatments and restaurants and department stores and cinemas, unless she was accompanied by someone else. There would also be all the London events, like the Chelsea Flower Show, tea parties in May, the Garter Service in June, the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition and the West End theatre scene. There would be the many balls and champagne parties during the summer season – the May Ball at Grosvenor House, the Cavalry and Guards Club Ball and other private soirees, up to the end of the season in September. The house in Chester Square would then be closed up and put into the hands of the caretakers, while we’d all travel up to Warwickshire to spend the winter on the Brandon family’s country estate.

  There was no ‘summoning’ bell in my room and I wondered how Mrs Bouchard would call me when she wanted me. She said she’d either come and get me herself or send someone for me.

  ‘There are strict rules of behaviour that we’ll have to adhere to, Anwyn.’

  ‘I’m sure there are, Madam.’

  ‘Miranda.’

  ‘Yes, Miranda, sorry.’

  I was going to find it difficult to get used to calling her by her Christian name.

  ‘They aren’t my rules, please understand that. They’re society’s rules.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Things are changing, Anwyn, but some of these rules still can’t be challenged, especially by a woman.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  By now, the bedroom was full of cigarette smoke. She pulled back the bed sheets and revealed that she was wearing nothing but her underwear – no nightdress nor robe nor chemise of any kind and I must have appeared a little startled.

  ‘I got used to sleeping naked in Algeria, so now I just can’t abide a lot of clothes on me in bed.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘You don’t have to agree with everything I say, Anwyn.’

  ‘I know that. But you haven’t said anything I disagree with yet.’

  She laughed a little and discarded the underwear and walked naked to the bathroom.

  ‘You’ll need to draw my bath for me after breakfast. But I’ll do it myself today. I like the water to be about thirty degrees . . . not too hot. And just clear water, no salts or soap suds of any kind.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You can use the other bathroom, you know where it is?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  I opened the windows to let out the smoke while she was bathing. I stripped the bed of its sheets and found replacements in a linen cupboard in the hall. I also found Beatrice and asked her to bring me some paper and kindling and coal and, while I was waiting, I tidied up the bedroom and selected what was for washing and cleaning and which clothes could be put back into the huge wardrobes. Miranda was in the bathroom for almost an hour and, when she came back out, the bedroom was tidied and the windows closed against the springtime chill and a lively little fire taking hold in the grate.

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘Mrs Staines never lit the fire.’

  I wondered about Mrs Staines and why she left. It was none of my business, but I thought I might as well ask, just in case there was something I should know about.

  ‘She got married. The best ladies’ maids are single, so they’re available all the tim
e and can travel at short notice.’

  Mrs Bouchard said she wasn’t going out that day and just wanted to read and take care of some household matters with Mrs Hathaway. So I helped her dress in some casual clothes and did her hair for her in a brushed-back tutorial style and, as she didn’t want to wear any make-up, she was ready to leave the room. When she did, I cleaned up the bathroom and put everything back in its place. Then I emptied the ashtray and cleaned it and also the hairbrushes and made sure everything on the dressing table was where I thought it should be. I realised that the cigarette smoke in the room would eventually discolour the curtains and bedspreads, as well as the walls and ceilings, and I resolved to talk to Miss Mason about getting them cleaned. By the time I was finished, it was almost midday and I went back to tidy up my own room. I’d only just finished when Jacob knocked on the door again.

  ‘Madam Bouchard requires your company in the dining room.’

  I followed him downstairs and he held a chair for me while I sat close to Miranda at a long, highly polished teak dining-table.

  The housemaids served us lunch of leek and mustard soup, followed by coronation chicken with sultanas and pineapple and spring onion and a seasonal salad, with home-made vanilla ice cream for pudding. Miranda didn’t speak until the ubiquitous tea pot was on the table.

  ‘You think this is decadent, don’t you?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘All these servants for just one woman.’

  ‘It is a bit excessive, I must agree.’

  ‘My family insists, for the sake of appearances.’

  One of the strict rules of society she spoke about earlier, no doubt. And I did think it was decadent – all the food that would have fed half the poor in London and the frivolous waste of money that could have paid to improve the lives of working-class families like Lucy’s. But I’d learned to ‘know my place’ to a degree that was mutually acceptable – to me and those I was serving – and I didn’t know Miranda Bouchard well enough to expose my inner feelings to her.

  ‘I agree with you, Anwyn. We had no servants in Algeria. The servants in this house make work for themselves. They cook for each other and clean up after each other for the most part. Very little of their time is devoted exclusively to me. In that respect, you’re unique amongst them.’

  She lit another cigarette and offered me one from the packet. I declined. She sat back puffing it and observing me, as if she was assessing whether she could trust me or not.

  ‘I’m sure you know something of my background, don’t you?’

  ‘Not much, Madam . . . sorry, I can’t get used to Miranda.’

  ‘You mustn’t lie to me, Anwyn. Above anything else, I must be able to trust you. You must always be totally honest with me.’

  ‘I know you were married and your husband was killed in Algeria.’

  She smiled, inwardly, to herself. It was a smile that was meant for the memory in her head, and nothing else.

  ‘Dear Emile . . .’

  ‘It’s not my business to know . . .’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  She stood up and walked to the window and looked out over Chester Square – and spoke with her back to me. There was a slight quiver to her voice and I wondered if there was a tear on her cheek.

  ‘I loved him so much. But he died . . . got himself killed.’

  I said nothing, just listened – giving her time to compose herself. After a moment or two, she returned to the table and lit another cigarette and I realised for the first time how utterly lonely this woman was – how desperately isolated, despite being surrounded by everything. And I also realised she wanted more than a lady’s maid – she wasn’t all that bothered about the cleaning and the dressing and the hair-doing and the strict rules of society – her society. Above all, she wanted a companion – someone to talk to. Someone who could understand what was in her soul. And I wondered why she had picked me, out of all the women in the waiting room that day. Did she see something in me that was lacking in the others and, if so, what could that something have been?

  In the afternoon, Mrs Bouchard disappeared into the library with Mrs Hathaway and I busied myself by doing the washing that I gathered from the bedroom and bathroom that morning, and cleaning out and re-setting the fire in the master bedroom. Then I read for a while, until I was summoned to the dining room for dinner at 7:30 p.m. Again, Miranda and I ate alone. The parlourmaids served an appetiser of smoked salmon slices with cream cheese, then roast beef with steamed asparagus and butter dressing, followed by English trifle. This time, instead of tea, they served dinner with a red Bordeaux wine and Miranda insisted that I have a glass, even though I told her I didn’t drink much alcohol.

  ‘You’ll have to lose that bad habit if you’re going to travel with me, Anwyn.’

  I let her pour a glass and sipped it slowly through the meal. Again, she didn’t try to converse while there was food on the table, and I always thought the toffs prided themselves on their clever dinner conversations. But I was learning that Miranda Bouchard wasn’t just any aristocrat. She was very different.

  This time I didn’t wait for her to speak first.

  ‘I meant to say, there are still some of Mrs Staines’ s clothes in the wardrobe in my room.’

  ‘They’re not Mrs Staines’s, they’re mine . . . yours now.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s a traditional perk of a lady’s maid’s job, Anwyn, to get the cast-offs of her employer. Unless, of course, you think it’s an impertinence on my part?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all.’

  ‘And they’re mostly new. I’ve hardly worn any of them.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But nothing. You’re a big girl for your age and I’m a small-boned woman. They should fit well enough, after some slight alterations.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  This was, to be sure, a perk of the job. I was worried about going places with her in the few tattered clothes I’d brought with me from Wales. Now I had a complete new wardrobe and, from what I’d seen of it, it was all very fashionable couture. Miranda finished the bottle of Bordeaux while I was still sipping at my glass. She asked for another one and then dismissed the maids, so that we were alone.

  ‘Have you wondered why I chose you above the other candidates, Anwyn?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘It’s because all the others were vetted by my family.’

  ‘Vetted? How?’

  ‘Why, through Mr Peacock, of course. He works for my father, not for me.’

  I was confused. Mr Peacock had interviewed me as well and he made it clear he knew all about me. She seemed to read my mind.

  ‘Of course, he interviewed you as well, but you have no history like the others.’

  ‘History?’

  ‘Yes, all the others have history, Anwyn. They can be bought or blackmailed.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To spy on me, of course.’

  She was well into the second bottle of Bordeaux by now and I imagined this was the drink talking – and the large dining-room was already filling with cigarette smoke.

  ‘Since Algeria, they need to keep me under control, so I don’t disgrace them again. Mrs Staines was their spy, handpicked by them, and they wanted to replace her with another of their spies. But you’re a virgin . . . not in the biblical sense, Anwyn . . . what I mean is, you can’t be bought or threatened. Peacock didn’t want you, but I insisted. He only relented because he thinks you’re an ignorant country girl and he can easily manipulate you. But I’ve got to you first and you must promise never to betray me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The maids came back in to clear up at 9:00 p.m. and the second bottle of wine was empty by then. Miranda said she wanted to go to bed, so I helped her upstairs to the master bedroom, undressed her to her underwear, and tucked her into the big bed. I was just about to leave when she turned towards me.

  ‘There is
another reason why I took you on.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘William Harding asked me to.’

  Chapter Nine

  I was a quick learner and Miranda was easy to get along with. I liked being a lady’s maid and the duties were a lot easier than the work of a scullery skivvy. I was Mrs Bouchard’s companion as well as her maid and some of her sophistication was soon to rub off on me. Being with her took the rough edges off my small-village ways and I began to see things with a broader view – a more open outlook. Even though I wasn’t yet eighteen, I was tall for my age and her clothes fitted me well. My hair was shoulder-length and a chestnut colour and my figure was filling out nicely. I wasn’t bad-looking either and, with make-up on, I could easily pass for an elegant twenty. We made a very classy couple, lady and lady’s maid, and we turned heads wherever we went.

  But things were changing in the world around us. Europe was in turmoil, both from the lasting effects of the Great War and the rise of the new, right-wing politics. I didn’t pretend to know everything, but I was as aware as anyone in my position could be about what was going on – and more than some. Miranda didn’t seem to notice. At least, she gave the impression of not noticing, of ignoring it all. And it was impossible not to notice. Almost every time we went out, the streets would be full of people protesting about one thing or another – marching with banners and bands – Communists and Socialists and Fascists and Blackshirts and Greenshirts and every other colour shirt as well. It was all very noisy and passionate – even threatening sometimes. I loved the urgency of it and it felt to me like I was living through an important period. But it all seemed to just wash over Miranda Bouchard, as if she was in another world and it didn’t affect that world – and was never going to.

  After I’d been at Chester Square for a few weeks, she told me after lunch that she’d like me to accompany her to a dance club that evening and asked me if I could recommend somewhere. This took me by surprise, because the upper classes had their own private clubs and wouldn’t be caught dead in the dives that us service people frequented. It would be social suicide. But Mrs Bouchard didn’t seem to care, so I gave her the benefit of my limited experience.