Marta couldn’t hide her surprise that an English lady would talk to her as though passing time with a friend. “I’ve been away from home nearly two years, ma’am.”
“And your mother doesn’t miss you?”
She felt a stab of pain. “My mother died in January, ma’am.”
“Oh.” She looked dismayed. “Please accept my condolences. I don’t mean to pry.” The lady looked down at the documents on her lap. “Marta. A good Christian name. Mr. Reinhard writes you are a good worker, but Swiss girls always are.” Lady Stockhard raised her head and smiled. “I’ve had three in my employ over the years, and not one has disappointed me. I’m sure you won’t either.” She took a small silver bell from her side table and rang it.
A dark-haired, dark-eyed maid appeared. “Yes, Lady Daisy?”
“Honore, please show Marta to her quarters, and then introduce her to Enid and Melena.” She leaned over and put her hand on Marta’s knee. “English from now on, dear. It will be difficult at first, but you will learn more quickly that way.”
Enid, the rotund and loquacious cook, spoke German, English, and French. When Marta said she had never met anyone like Lady Stockhard, who treated a servant so kindly, Enid nodded. “Oh, our lady is someone very special. She’s not like so many others who look down their noses on those who serve them. Not like her daughter, who gives herself airs. Lady Daisy always hires foreign servants. She says it’s an inexpensive way to visit another country. Melena is from Greece, Honore comes from France, and I’m from Scotland. Now, we have you, our little Swiss maid. Lady Daisy says if people can get along, then countries can also.”
“And Welton?”
“British, of course. He served with Sir Clive in India. When Welton returned, he came to pay his respects to our lady. He had retired and needed work. Of course, Lady Daisy hired him immediately and gave him the room over the carriage house. Welton and my late husband, Ronald, became good friends. Enough talking in German. I find it exhausting. And we have much to do.” As they worked side by side, Enid pointed out objects, said the English word, and had Marta repeat it.
The next morning, the more reticent Honore taught Marta English phrases while they made beds, freshened rooms, and folded away clothing Miss Millicent had cast on chairs and floor that afternoon before going to call on a friend.
“Good morning, Miss Stockhard.” Marta repeated the phrase. “Do you wish the drapes drawn, Miss Stockhard? May I bring you breakfast in bed, Miss Stockhard?”
Even the taciturn Welton became Marta’s instructor. When Enid sent her out for fresh vegetables from the garden, Welton carried on with names posted at the ends of rows. “Lettuce, cucumber, string, pole, beans, gate,” he told her, then shouted, “Rabbit!” He followed the last word with a string of others Marta knew better than to repeat.
Every afternoon, Lady Stockhard rang her little silver bell, sat in her wheelchair, and waited for Melena to come and take her for an outing to Kew Gardens. Marta helped Enid prepare savories and sweets for high tea. As soon as Lady Stockhard and Melena returned, Marta wheeled the tea cart into the conservatory. She set a table with a silver pot of Ceylon or India tea spiced with cinnamon, ginger, and cloves and plates of cucumber sandwiches, Scotch eggs, and currant brioches.
“What would you like, Melena?”
Lady Stockhard never ceased to surprise Marta. “She’s serving tea to Melena, as though she’s a guest and not a servant,” she told Enid.
“She often does when Miss Millicent is out of the house. Sometimes, when her daughter goes traveling, Lady Daisy will even join us in the kitchen.”
Enid, like Warner Brennholtz, shared her culinary knowledge openly. She didn’t mind when Marta wrote notes in her book, even going so far as to read what she wrote and add tidbits Marta may have forgotten. Marta filled pages with recipes for crumbly scones, Scottish shortbread, Chelsea buns, Yorkshire pudding, steak and kidney pie, and Lancashire hotpot.
“I’ve got a dozen others to give you,” Enid told her. “Shepherd’s pie, toad-in-the-hole, and oxtail soup are a few of our lady’s favorites, but Miss Millicent would rather have rack of lamb and beef Wellington. When the young lady goes off on her next trip, we’ll have ourselves some plain English cooking again.” Enid rubbed seasonings into a hunk of meat.
“Miss Millicent must love to travel.”
Enid snorted. “She has her motives.” She shrugged and rolled the roast, rubbing more seasonings on the underside.
Marta received a letter from Rosie.
Elise is buried in our favorite meadow. Spring flowers are in bloom. I have not gone to church since Elise died, but I sit on our log and pray for her soul every day.
Father John came up yesterday afternoon. He told me he would rather lie beneath a blanket of flowers with a view of Thunersee and the mountains than be under six feet of dirt in the confines of stone walls inside town. When I cried, he held me.
He said the church must have rules, but God is Elise’s Maker and God is just and merciful. He said the Lord promised not to lose any of His children. His words helped me, Marta. I hope they will help you, too.
Marta wished she could feel at peace, but she couldn’t shake the guilt. Had she gone home, Mama might still have died, but surely Elise would have lived. How dared she go on making plans for herself when it had been her dream that made her leave them behind—vulnerable, unloved, and unprotected? Though she despised her father, perhaps he was right after all. She did think of herself first; she did think she could do better than her brother. She was ambitious and unrepentantly disobedient. Perhaps he was also right in saying she deserved nothing more than to serve in someone else’s household. But before God, she swore it would never be his.
When Melena went home to Greece, Marta found herself assigned to new responsibilities.
Dear Rosie,
I have become Lady Daisy’s companion. She is a most unusual lady. I have never known anyone to discuss so many interesting topics. She doesn’t treat her servants like slaves, but is genuinely interested in our lives. She had me sit with her in church last Sunday.
Often, during their outings to Kew Gardens, Lady Stockhard talked about books. “Feel free to use my library, Marta. I can only read one at a time, and books shouldn’t gather dust. It’s lovely in spring, isn’t it? Of course, the gardens are always lovely, even in winter. The holly leaves look greener and the red berries redder against the snow. You must need to rest by now. Let’s sit awhile by the pond.”
Waxy purple and yellow lilies rose on thick stems above the huge, green, plate-shaped leaves floating on the murky surface of the water. Mama would have loved Kew Gardens with all its varied beauty, birds flitting and fluttering from tree to tree, and rainbows in the misty spring rain.
Marta pushed the wheelchair along the walk through a wooded glen. It reminded her of the lush green of Switzerland. Flowers popped bright faces up among the green grasses. Marta felt suddenly homesick for the Alpine meadows covered with spring blossoms. Grief welled up as she thought of Elise sleeping beneath a blanket of spring green and flowers and Rosie sitting on the fallen tree, praying for her soul. Wiping away tears, she pushed Lady Daisy along in the wheelchair.
“Do you miss your mother?”
“Yes, ma’am.” And Elise, though she never spoke of her.
“I know what it is to mourn. I lost my husband to fever in India twenty years ago, and there isn’t a day that passes that I don’t miss him. Millicent was six when I brought her home. I wonder sometimes if she remembers her father or India with all its exotic scents and sounds.” She laughed sadly. “We rode together on an elephant more than once, and she loved to watch the local snake charmer.”
“No one would ever forget such things, Lady Daisy.”
“Not unless they wanted to forget.” Lady Stockhard smoothed the blanket covering her legs. “We grieve for those we’ve lost, but it’s the living that cause us the most pain. Poor Millicent. I don’t know what will become of her.”
/> Marta didn’t know how to boost Lady Daisy’s spirits.
“Don’t worry about Lady Daisy,” Enid told Marta that evening. “She gets like this sometimes after Miss Millicent leaves on holiday. She’ll be herself in a few days.”
“Why doesn’t Lady Daisy travel with her daughter?”
“She did for a while, but things never worked out when our lady was along. Miss Millicent prefers going alone. She sees the world differently than our lady. And who’s to say who’s right. The world is what it is.”
None of the staff had any fondness for Miss Millicent, especially Welton, who stayed to the garden as much as possible whenever Lady Daisy’s daughter was home. The air grew colder in the house when Miss Millicent was present. When summoned, Marta went quickly to wherever Miss Millicent might be, curtsied, received her instructions, curtsied again, and departed to do what she had been told. Unlike Lady Stockhard, Miss Millicent never addressed a servant by name, asked how she felt, or discussed anything.
After six months in Lady Stockhard’s employ, Marta had learned enough English to follow whatever instructions might be given.
She disliked Miss Millicent almost as much as she liked Lady Daisy. The young woman treated her mother with contempt. “One might think you prefer the company of servants to that of peers, Mother.”
“I like everyone.”
“Everyone is not worthy. Did you have to talk to the gardener in the front yard?”
“His name is Welton, Millicent, and he’s part of the family.”
“It’s about time tea arrived!” she complained. “The point is, everyone in the neighborhood saw you. What will people think?”
“That I’m talking to my gardener.”
“You’re impossible.” Miss Millicent treated her mother like a recalcitrant child. Leaning forward, she looked at the tiered dishes and groaned. “Egg and watercress sandwiches again, Mother. Cook knows I prefer spicy chicken and currant brioches. And it would be nice to have chocolate éclairs more often than once a month.”
Marta positioned the trolley and set the silver tea service on the table, closer to Lady Stockhard than her daughter, turning the handle so her lady could easily grasp it. She felt Miss Millicent’s cold glare. When Marta put the tiered dishes within easy reach as well, Lady Daisy smiled at her. “Thank you, Marta.”
“The girl doesn’t know how to set a table.” Miss Millicent rose enough to reach across and grasp the teapot. Pouring herself a cup of tea, she returned the pot to where Marta had placed it. Then she proceeded to fill her plate with sandwich wedges, sponge drops with jam, and cream-filled strawberry meringues. “No one needs to talk to a gardener for longer than a few minutes, Mother, and you were outside for the better part of an hour. Do you have any idea what people will say about that?” She sat and put an entire sponge drop into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged as she chewed.
Lady Stockhard poured her own tea. “People always talk, Millicent.” She added a bit of cream and two scoops of sugar. “If they have nothing to talk about, they’ll invent something.”
“They won’t have to invent a thing. It doesn’t even occur to you how I feel, does it? How can I show my face outside the front door when my mother is the scandal of the neighborhood?”
Fuming, Marta returned to the kitchen. “Miss Millicent wants spicy chicken sandwiches tomorrow.”
“If I make spicy chicken, she’ll want something else. There’s no pleasing her.”
“I’m surprised Miss Millicent receives so many invitations.”
“She can be quite charming when she has reason to be. And I understand she can be quite pleasing to young men.” Enid shrugged. “I’ll be needing more carrots and another onion. Why don’t you go on out to the garden? You look like you could use a breath of fresh air. But don’t be long. Her Highness will be wanting the tea things removed from the parlor. She’s invited guests for dinner.”
Miss Millicent stayed home for two months, then left again.
“She must love to travel.”
Enid gave a snort. “She’s gone hunting. And I don’t mean foxes.”
“What, then?”
“Miss Millicent is off on another one of her husband-hunting expeditions. It’s Brighton this time because she heard a friend has a brother who’s eligible. She’ll be home in a few weeks, disappointed. She’ll be moody and disagreeable, and she’ll stuff herself with scones and marmalade, cakes and spicy chicken sandwiches. Then, she’ll start writing letters again, and she’ll keep writing until someone invites her to come for a visit on the Continent or in Stratford-upon-Avon or in Cornwall. She meets people everywhere she goes, and she keeps their names and addresses.”
Enid’s prophecy proved true. Miss Millicent came home after two weeks, and she stayed in her room for another, demanding that all her meals be brought to her. Marta would find her propped up in bed, reading Jane Austen romances. After exhausting the staff with constant demands, she went off to Dover to visit a sick friend.
“I heard her tell Lady Daisy the lady must be on her deathbed,” Marta told Enid. “The vicar comes to visit several times a week.”
“A vicar, you say? Well, maybe Miss Millicent is beginning to see the light and lowering her standards. But if the man has a lick of sense, he’ll heed the apostle Paul’s advice and remain unmarried!”
Miss Millicent returned in a foul temper.
Lady Daisy ordered beef Wellington. Enid clucked her tongue as she iced a chocolate cake. “Things must not have gone well in Dover. No big surprise there. Miss Millicent will be off again soon enough, to Brighton or Cambridge.”
Millicent didn’t spend a week in her room this time. She lounged in the conservatory, regaling her mother with complaints. “It’s a perfectly horrid place, Mother. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in that cold, dreary place.”
“Did you attend church with Susanna?”
“Of course, but I didn’t like the vicar at all. For all his kind attention to Susanna, he was quite dull.”
Back in the kitchen, Enid sighed. “More likely she tossed out her line and didn’t even get a bite.”
Another letter came from Rosie. She had married Arik, and she expected to be blissfully happy for the rest of her life. She wished the same to Marta, who felt a sense of loss and envy. Ashamed she could resent such happiness, Marta prayed God would bless them and spent a month’s salary on white lawn, Irish lace, satin ribbons, silk embroidery thread, needles, and a hoop. While others slept, Marta sat in an alcove with a candle burning and made a dressing gown fit for a princess. It took two months to finish it.
I have never worn anything so beautiful in my life! Even my wedding dress could not compare. I have wonderful news. Arik and I expect a baby to arrive just before our first anniversary.
I can’t express to you how happy I am. I pray God will bless you with happiness, too, Marta. I pray you will meet someone you can love as much as I love Arik.
Marta folded the letter away and added it to the growing bundle. Love could be a two-edged sword. What guarantee was there that it would be returned? Solange and Rosie had been blessed by the men they loved. Mama had not been so fortunate. Marta began work on a christening gown and bonnet.
10
A strained ambivalence took hold of Marta. She continued to save money, but she stopped making grandiose plans about having her own boardinghouse. She tried to follow Mama’s advice and count her blessings. She had grown deeply fond of Lady Daisy and enjoyed being her companion. She respected and had great affection for Enid. She liked Welton, and she had befriended Gabriella, the new girl from Italy. Marta set herself the task of learning Italian while teaching her English. Life was good enough in Lady Stockhard’s household. Why change things?
Marta had collected the best of Enid’s recipes and tucked away the book Rosie had given her. She didn’t write letters to Rosie as often as she had during her first three years away from Steffisburg. Rosie’s letters still arrived with regularity, filled with glowing
words about Arik and going on and on about every little change in baby Henrik. And now she expected another. Rosie had always been a wonderful friend, but there was an unconscious insensitivity in the way she shared her joy. Each time Marta read one of her letters, she felt as though salt were being poured over her wounds.
She could almost empathize with Miss Millicent’s increasing frustration over not finding a suitable husband.
Every Sunday when Marta went to church, she imagined Mama sitting beside her. She prayed God would have mercy on Elise’s soul. Although the dreams had stopped after a year, she sometimes longed for them to return, afraid she was already forgetting Mama’s and Elise’s faces. The ache remained like a heavy stone inside her. Occasionally, unexpectedly, the grief would swell up and catch hold of her throat until she felt she was choking on it. She never cried in front of anyone. She waited, searching desperately for something to do to keep her mind occupied. At night, she had no defenses. In the dark, she felt free to release the pent-up pain inside her.
When she couldn’t sleep, she borrowed another book from Lady Daisy’s library.
Time passed most pleasantly when Miss Millicent was off on one of her hunting expeditions, far less amiably when the miss languished at home. Marta liked having Lady Daisy all to herself. She thought Miss Millicent the most foolish girl she had ever met to take her mother so for granted. Lady Daisy had entered her declining years. Someday she would be gone. Who would love Miss Millicent then?
A year passed and then another. Marta took comfort in her routine. She got up early every morning and helped Enid prepare breakfast, then did housekeeping chores with Gabriella. Every afternoon, rain or shine, she took Lady Daisy on an outing to Kew Gardens. If Miss Millicent was home, Gabriella did the running to and fro. Marta wrote once a month to Rosie, though she had less and less to tell her friend.
Often after everyone had gone to bed, Marta would sit in the library and read. One night Lady Daisy found her standing by the shelves. “What have you been reading?” She held out her hand, and Marta handed over the book she had intended to return. “The Battle for Gaul by Julius Caesar.” She chuckled. “Rather grim reading, don’t you think? Certainly not something I would ever choose.” She smiled at Marta. “It was one of Clive’s favorites.” She handed the book back to Marta, and Marta slid it back into its place. Lady Daisy pulled a slim volume from a shelf. “I prefer Lord Tennyson’s poems.” She held it out to Marta. “Why don’t you take this with you tomorrow when we go to the gardens?”