“Very well, all things considered, Mr. Carter. And you?” It was a thin response, and both cook and Carter glanced at each other again. This was not the jovial, robust Frankie Dobbs they were used to doing business with. “I’ve brought a list of the best vegetables and fruit this week. If I take the order today, I can deliver tomorrow morning. The broccoli and sprouts are looking very nice indeed, and of course there’s some hearty cabbage at the market. I know Her Ladyship is partial to a nice bit of cabbage.”
“She certainly is, Mr. Dobbs.” Cook took the rough piece of paper from Frankie, and ran a finger down the list of vegetables. “I think we’ll need something of everything this week. Full house, you know.”
“Right you are.” Standing uneasily in the kitchen, Frankie fingered his cap.“I was wondering, Mr. Carter, if there was something I might discuss. With both yourself and Mrs. Crawford here.”
“Of course, Mr. Dobbs, sit down at the table. Cook, a cup of tea for Mr. Dobbs. What can we do for you?”
Carter faced Frankie across the heavy pine table.
“Well, it’s about my girl. She’s a bright lass, very bright . . .” Frankie faltered, looked at his shining boots and twisted his cap. “Since ’er mother died, well, we was going to send ’er on to the big school . . . and she got a scholarship and all . . . but there’s the money for the special clothes and books, and what with the doctor’s bills . . .”
Cook placed a cup of tea in front of Frankie, leaned toward him, and covered his hand with hers. “You’re a good man, Mr. Dobbs. You’ll do right by young Maisie.”
Frankie shrank at his daughter’s name, afraid of what he was about to ask.“I was wonderin’ if you had a place for my Maisie ’ere, like. In service. She’s a good girl. ’ard worker. Very bright. You won’t need to tell ’er anythin’ twice. She’s well mannered and speaks nicely—’er mother, God rest her soul, saw to that. I thought that after a while, she could go back to night school, you see. Take up where she left off. Loves learnin’, does Maisie.”
Carter and Cook glanced at each other once again, and Carter spoke quickly.“Mr. Dobbs, it seems you have come at the right time, and in answer to a prayer, hasn’t he, Mrs. Crawford?”
Cook looked at Carter and nodded her head in agreement. She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
“One of our more junior maids recently left service. Help is needed. Have your girl come to the house at five o’clock today—she can pick up the order for tomorrow’s delivery. I think you have to check quantities, don’t you, Mrs. Crawford?”
Cook nodded agreement, and looked at the list of vegetables again. They both knew that Frankie Dobbs never had to be told quantities, and always delivered exactly what was needed. Carter continued,“I’ll interview her, just to make sure that she is right for the position.”
Frankie breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Mr. Carter, Mrs. Crawford. I’ll be getting on now. Maisie will be here at five sharp.”
The grieving man left quickly, and before leading his horse away, put his head against the Persephone’s soft nose and wept. “It’s for the best,” he whispered. “It’s for the best.”
It was the nearest he had come to having “words” with his daughter. As Frankie broke the news to Maisie—that times were difficult, that he was only thinking of her, that he wanted her to be safe, and that the Compton household was a fine place to work—he watched the tears well up in her eyes, her jaw tighten with the effort of not giving in to the pressure to cry, and her fine, long-fingered hands clench into fists held firmly by her sides.
“But Dad, you know you need me here. I can help. I helped when Mum was ill. I can get another job, I can even do this job and come home at night, Dad.”
“Maisie, love, we’ll still see each other, you know that. Sunday afternoons we can go to the park, take a turn, have a cup of tea. We can go to see yer Nan and Granddad. But at least you’ll have a place, a good job. And later on, we can get you into night school, to catch up. I’m all out, love. There’s no money, and there’s bills to pay. I don’t even know if I can keep renting this house. Your mother going . . . .”
Maisie drew away as he reached out to her, turned her back to him, and looked out the window. They hadn’t been well off, not by any means, but there used to be enough for a few extras. Now there was nothing, and there was ground to be made up. Then they would be all right. She sighed deeply in resignation.
“Dad, if I work at Lady Rowan’s, and if I send you my money, and we make up the bills, then can I come back?”
“Oh, love. Then what would you do? I was thinking you might go on from there. Maybe get out of the Smoke. She’s got a place in the country, you know. Down in Kent. She’s got contacts, woman like that. You do yer classes at night, you might get yerself a private teaching job at one of them big ’ouses. You don’t want to be back ’ere. Yer mother and me wanted so much for you, love.”
Her father was tired beyond reckoning. They were both tired beyond reckoning. Too tired for this talk. But she would go to Lady Rowan’s to see this Mr. Carter. And so help me, I’ll work my way out of that place, thought Maisie. And on my own. I’ll work so hard I’ll take care of Dad. He won’t have to get up at three in the morning by the time I’ve finished. Maisie bit her lip and looked up at nothing in particular on the wall. You’ll see, I’ll show him who can take care of herself. Maisie sighed, then reached out and put her arms around her father’s waist.
“Dad, I’ll go. You’re right. Annie Clark down the road is in service now. So’s Doreen Watts. Lot of girls are. It’ll be all right. I’ll see Mr. Carter. I won’t let you down, Dad.”
“Oh, love. You could never let me down.”
Frankie Dobbs hugged his daughter close for a moment longer, then pushed her back.“Now then, this is where you go.”
Maisie Dobbs watched her father as he took a short pencil from his waistcoat pocket, licked the lead, and began to scribble directions on the back of a scrap of paper.
CHAPTER NINE
Days after securing the position of in-between maid, Maisie returned to the white four-story mansion in London’s Belgravia, at the southern end of Ebury Place. Before reporting for work, Maisie stood in front of the building and looked up, wondering what it might be like to enter such a house through the front door. Transferring the canvas bag containing her clothes, hairbrushes, and several books from her right hand to her left, Maisie took a handkerchief from her coat pocket and wiped her eyes, hoping that no tell-tale marks were left from the tears shed on the bus from Lambeth. She sighed and, making her way to the left of the house, braced her shoulders and held on to the wrought iron banister to steady herself as she walked down the stone steps that led to the kitchen.
Once welcomed by Carter and Mrs. Crawford, Maisie took her belongings to the top floor of the house. The very top floor, the attic reached by “back stairs” from the kitchen. She shared the room with Enid.
Enid was a worldly sixteen-year-old, with pressed rouge on her cheeks and a hint of color on her lips, who had now reached such a high position of authority that she would be called upon to serve in the breakfast room come tomorrow morning. A thin, gangly girl, Enid was friendly enough to Maisie, who felt that circumstances would never give her cause to laugh again.
“That’s your bed over there,” was Enid’s welcome to the shared bedroom. “Make yourself at home. We’re up early in the morning. Half past four, five at the latest, so I hope you don’t snore and keep me awake.”
She grinned at Maisie, her freckled nose crinkling over the teasing remark. Enid was concentrating on her pronunciation, convinced that if she was to get anywhere in the world, she had to work quickly to introduce aitches into her spoken language. Thus every word beginning with the letter h was overpronounced, with a breathy start and a rapid completion. Huh-ome, huh-ouse, huh-ope. In fact, Enid’s rather zealous pursuit of something better resulted in the occasional h where h had no place.
“H-ave you b
in in s-h-ervice before, or is this your first poshishun?” asked Enid.
“No, this is my first. My mother passed on and my father thought it better . . . .”
Enid nodded. She never did know what to say when confronted by loss.
“Well, I reckon you’ll do all right. You’re tall, not as tall as me, mind, but taller than some of them short girls. They reckon the tall ones always do all right, get promoted quickly to serving, being as we look better in the uniform, more, you know, suited to the h-occasion. And you won’t find them upstairs doin’ any little tests to see if you’re an h-onest sort—like puttin’ a farthin’ under the carpet to see if you take it or leave it on the side. Anyway, come on, Dobbsie, I’ll show you where the facilities are. Come along with me.”
Enid put her hand on Maisie’s shoulder and led her along a dimly lit hallway to the “fac-hilities.”
Carter had chosen to introduce her at breakfast. Maisie knew that in some houses the staff weren’t introduced until they had reached a higher position, if at all. The practice changed at the Compton residence when Lord Julian had asked a maid to inform Lady Rowan that he would take tea with her in the drawing room, to which the maid had answered,“Yes, Sir. And who shall I say is calling?” Lady Rowan was appalled, and since that time had insisted upon meeting whoever was under her roof, even if the meeting was a short one.
“Your Lordship, Your Ladyship, may I introduce our new downstairs member of staff, Miss Maisie Dobbs.” Carter held his hand out toward Maisie, who took one step forward, curtsied, and stepped back to her place alongside Carter.
Lord and Lady Compton were cordial, welcoming Maisie to the household, saying they were absolutely sure that she would be happy there. After a brief encounter, she left the dining room with Carter, to go down to the kitchens and receive her instructions for the day.
“My word, Julian, what a striking girl.”
Lord Compton looked over a folded edge of The Times toward his wife. “Striking? Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Very young.”
“Yes, very young. Very . . . there was something about her, wasn’t there?”
“Mmm? About whom?” Lord Julian continued to read the newspaper.
“About Miss Dobbs. Something quite different about her, don’t you think? Julian, are you listening?”
“Hmm? Oh, Rowan. Yes. Miss Dobb, Dobbins . . . what was her name? Dobbs?” Lord Julian looked out of the window to recall the conversation. “You know, Rowan, I think you are right. Could be those eyes. Very deep blue. Don’t see that very often.”
“Julian. I don’t think it was the color of her eyes. It was nothing I could put my finger on.”
Lady Rowan spread a thin slice of toast with butter and marmalade as Lord Julian turned to the next page of the morning paper. “Yes, Darling, probably nothing.”
Within a few days, most people agreed that Maisie Dobbs had indeed settled in well to life at the Compton residence. Her day started at half past four, when she rose and poured cold water from the pitcher on the washstand into a large china bowl. She splashed her face and moistened a cloth to wash her body before hurriedly dressing, then tiptoeing down to the lowest level of the house to fill the coal scuttles.
Her first job was to take heavy coal scuttles to the breakfast room, the drawing room, His Lordship’s study, the morning room, and to the hall. Kneeling by each fireplace, she pulled back the black iron grate cover, swept out yesterday’s ashes, and placed them in an old empty scuttle. She rolled sheets of yesterday’s newspaper, placed them in the grate, then carefully positioned dry kindling on top and lit the newspaper with a match.
As flames licked up and caught on the wood, Maisie leaned forward and balanced bricks of coal, one by one, on the spitting wood. Sitting back, she watched for just a few seconds as the fire crackled and flared into life. Satisfied that the wood and coal had taken the flames, she brushed splinters, coal dust, and ash under the grate, replaced the cover, and put a few more pieces of coal onto the mound before giving the fireplace a quick dust. She was ready to move on to another room.
When she had finished lighting fires in each of the rooms, it was time to fill the scuttles again and feed the fires so that the rooms were ready to warm those who had time to sit by a fire—people who had the time to be warmed by something other than hard work.
Throughout the day Maisie cleaned, ran errands for Cook, and generally served at the bidding of anyone above her in the pecking order, which was almost everyone in the household. But the duties of her waking hours brought a calm to Maisie’s life that she had not known since before her mother became ill. She had only to follow the direction of others, and in the rhythm of her daily round, whether blacking the fireplaces, sweeping the stairs, or polishing furniture, there was room for thought—thought of what might be.
Maisie’s “day off ” was Sunday afternoon. As soon as the heavy clock on the mantelpiece over the kitchen stove struck a single chime at half past eleven, Maisie waited for Cook to look up at her and nod toward the door.
“All right, lass, off you go. And mind you’re back by a decent hour!”
It was a feigned warning, because Maisie had nowhere to be at an indecent hour.
Untying her pinafore as she hurried from the kitchen and up the back stairs toward the servants’ quarters, Maisie thought that her legs would never carry her as fast as her mind wanted to travel. She quickly changed into a long black skirt that had belonged to her mother, and a clean cotton blouse. She checked her reflection in the mirror just once, pushed her hat onto her head, and reached for her coat and coin purse before rushing through the bedroom door again. She was off to see her father, knowing that at twelve noon he would pull the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and smile to himself. Frankie Dobbs couldn’t wait for his girl to come home so they could spend a few hours together, a precious respite from a work-weary week.
On Sundays, Frankie was always to be found at the stable where he kept his mare, under the dry arches that were part of the Southern construction of Waterloo Bridge. Sunday was the day to clean the horse from head to hoof, to oil the leather traces, polish the brasses, and make sure the cart was ready for another week’s work. It was an easy morning, a morning made sweeter by the knowledge that soon Maisie’s footsteps would clatter against the cobblestone street leading to the stables.
“Love, you are a sight for sore eyes. How are you, my girl?”
“Well enough, Dad. I’m well enough.”
“Let me just finish this, then we’ll go home for a cuppa.”
Together they worked in the stable, finally leaving the horse to the remainder of her day at rest. After a cup of tea, Frankie would dress in his Sunday best, and father and daughter would catch a bus to Brockwell Park, where they walked together before stopping to eat a packed lunch.
“You should see the library, Dad! I’ve never seen so many books. Walls of them. About everything.”
“You and your books, girl. You keeping up with your reading?”
“Yes, Dad. I go to the public library every week on a Wednesday afternoon. Mrs. Crawford sends me with a list for her and Mr. Carter, and I get books for myself as well. Mind you, Enid says she can’t sleep with the light on, so I can’t read for long.”
“You watch your eyes, my girl, you only get one pair, you know.”
“Dad!”
“I know, I’m naggin’. So, what about the other folk downstairs, what’re they like, then?”
Father and daughter sat down on a wooden bench overlooking a flowerbed.“Well, you know Mr. Carter and Mrs. Crawford.”
“That I do. Good people, both of them.”
“Well, anyway, Mrs. Crawford is called ‘Cook’ and ‘Mrs. Crawford’ without any—well, without any method to it.”
“What do you mean, love?”
“I mean that sometimes she’s called ‘Cook’ or sometimes ‘Mrs. Crawford’ and there’s no rule—sometimes it’s both names in one sentence.”
Frankie chewed on a sandwich, and nod
ded his head for Maisie to continue.
“There’s two footmen, Arthur and Cedric, and there’s Her Ladyship’s maid, Nora—she’s a bit quiet. Apparently, at the big house, in Kent, there’s more staff and a housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson. There’s some scullery maids—Dossie, Emily, and Sadie—who help Mrs. Crawford in the kitchen, and of course there’s Enid.”
“What’s she like, then?”
“She’s got hair the color of a blazing fire, Dad. Really red, it is. And when she brushes it out at night, it goes right up like this.”
Maisie held out her hands to indicate a distance away from the sides of her head, which made Frankie laugh. Something he couldn’t understand—how she could look like a child one minute, and like a mature woman the next.
“She nice to you, love?”
“She’s all right, Dad. Blows hot and cold, though. One minute she seems full of the joys of spring, and the next, well, I just keep out of her way.”
“I might’ve guessed. Your carrottops are always the same. Remember, love, the more you’re yourself, the more it’s like you’ve just put iron shoes on yer feet—they’ll ’old you to the ground when that ’ot and cold air comes rushing from ’er direction. That’s the key with that sort.”
Maisie nodded, as if to take in this important advice, and continued with her story. “The other thing about Enid is that I think she’s sweet on Master James.”
Frankie laughed again. “Oh! I see it didn’t take you long to get wind of the goings-on! What’s ’e like, then, this James? Bit old to be called ‘Master,’ in’ ’e?”
“Well, apparently, so I heard Cook saying, His Lordship gave instructions that Master James should be called Master until he proved his worth. Or something like that. He comes into the kitchen sometimes, you know, of an evening, after dinner. I’ve watched him. He comes in to see Cook, and as he walks by Enid, he always winks at her. She goes all red in the face and looks the other way, but I know she likes him. And Cook pretends to tell him off for coming into her kitchen, as if he was still a little boy, but then she brings out a big plate of ginger biscuits—which he gets stuck into while he’s standing there in the kitchen! Drives Mr. Carter mad, it does.”