Little by little, in between the translating and the whisking and the heating and the grinding of coffee, she tried to find out more about what they assumed her to be.
"When did you send to the agency, Mrs Wilson?" she said during a lull.
"Only this morning. We had to dismiss the other girl. She drank."
"Oh, dear. . ."
"That's why I was surprised to see you. We wasn't expecting anyone till tomorrow."
That was a relief. There wouldn't be a genuine claimant turning up for a few hours yet, then.
"Er - no," Sally said. "It just happened that I was there at the time, sort of thing."
"Where d'you come from?"
Sally was glad her voice had decided to be Yorkshire; any deficiencies in her accent wouldn't be spotted so quickly by Londoners. Again she had to think quickly.
"From Bradford. But I was in service with a lady and gentleman who did a lot of travelling, and I spent some time abroad, one way or another."
"Lady's maid?" said Mrs Wilson. "We sent for a general housemaid."
"I was a lady's maid, yes. But I'm happier with the general work."
"Good thing. No ladies in this house."
"Oh?" Sally thought she might realistically be a little curious now. "Who's the master?"
"A gentleman called Mr Lee. Ever so wealthy. Paralysed, you know. He can't move a muscle."
"Really? How awful. . ."
"And there's two sorts of servants here, you'll find. There's us, under Mr Clegg the butler, and there's the master's own personal servants. His valet, especially. Mr Michelet. He attends the master everywhere."
Her voice was non-committal, but her dislike of the valet was easy to read. Sally thought it sounded like a fine recipe for resentment and discord.
She was about to probe a little deeper when the kitchen door opened, and an austere-looking man came in. He had an expression of distaste that seemed to be built in to the bones of his face. From his clothes, she took him to be the butler, and if her interpretation of things was correct, he would be feeling as put out by the influx of new, superior servants as Mrs Wilson was.
"So you're the new girl. Name?"
"Louisa Kemp, Mr Clegg."
"Character?"
Sally was ready for this. No servant could get a situation without a character, which was a reference from her previous employer.
"My last situation was with Lord and Lady Islip, and if the master here was to write, I'm sure they'd supply a copy, Mr Clegg. It's my own fault, I'm sure, but all my things was in a fire. It was only 'cause I'd been with the agency before and they knew me, and when this come up. . ."
"Lord and Lady Islip," he said, making a note. "Address?"
Sally told him. Lord Islip was the older brother of Charles Bertram, Webster Garland's partner; Sally knew he'd cooperate, but it meant writing - or telegraphing - to him first thing tomorrow. Solve that problem when the time came - for the moment, be modest and helpful.
Mrs Wilson was telling the butler about Sally's command of French, and Mr Clegg nodded.
"Could be useful," he said. "All right, you're here now. Foster there -" nodding to the kitchenmaid - "will take you up to your room after supper. Supper, by the way, we take after the master's personal servants have had theirs. So we all have to wait. No doubt it's good for the soul. Rules: most importantly, you never go near the master, not unless he sends for you personally. All his wants are seen to by Mr Michelet, his valet. So everything that needs doing - cleaning and suchlike - has to be done while he's nowhere near. If you're sent for, if you answer a bell or some such, you don't knock and enter, you knock and wait. Mr Michelet will tell you more about that, I dare say. Remember - the master don't want to see you. He's a gentleman with a huge burden - Mrs Wilson will have told you, I expect. He suffers considerably. Don't add to it."
Sally nodded, trying to look respectful and humble.
"And you can speak French, eh? Well, that'll be useful. I dare say Mr Michelet will enjoy having a conversation with you."
She couldn't interpret that remark; she took it to be another example of the tension between the household and the court, as she thought of them.
Supper was a brisk, plain meal, which was served to them by the kitchenmaid and the youngest footman. There were eleven servants altogether. She thought that although they were a little formal and distant with her, they all seemed honest enough. They knew nothing, or said nothing, about their employer's business; all she could gather was that he did a lot of travelling, and was in this house about one month in three.
Little by little the relationship between these servants and the others became clear. WhileMr Lee was in residence, his valet took over the use of Mr Clegg's private sitting-room, so the butler had to sit with the lower servants in the kitchen. That, she thought, was the source of their stiffness; he was the sort of frowning, austere man no one can relax with, even when he's trying to be friendly. The other housemaid whispered to Sally that he had a ferocious temper, and she'd have to mind how she spoke to him.
She knew little of the formalities and routines of a servants' hall, and she had to remind herself constantly to be careful to be modest and retiring and polite to everyone. It seemed to be working; they took little notice of her, apart from the interested glances from the menservants, the frank stares at her figure. She knew that if she'd come into this house as a guest, they'd never have dared to look at her in that way.
She found out more after supper, when the other housemaid, Eliza Foster, took her up to the room they were to share to find her a uniform from the servants' linen-cupboard. Eliza was a plain, dumpy girl with freckles. As soon as they left the kitchen, Eliza carrying a candle, she whispered:
"Watch out for that bloody valet, Mr Michelet."
"Why? What's he like?"
"His hands go all over the place. Not only hands, either. That was why Lucy had to go."
"The other maid? I thought Mrs Wilson said she drank?"
"She wouldn't tell you straight off, would she?"
They were on the first-floor landing of the back stairs. Eliza stopped and listened. Her eyes widened, and she put her finger to her lips. "Sssh! He's coming now. . ."
A door had opened below, and someone came up carrying a lamp. Eliza hastily set off upwards, but a voice from behind said:
"Aha! Who is this?"
Eliza stopped. Sally could sense her reluctance. She turned and waited as the man came up to them, but kept her eyes modestly on the floor till he said, "And what is your name?"
"Louisa Kemp, sir," she said.
"Ah! Not sir! Mr Michelet," he said. "Or, if you like, Monsieur Michelet. Look at me, child."
She looked up. He had a plump, greedy face, somehow soft and hawkish at the same time. He held out his hand. She shook it, and he retained hers, bringing it up close to his face.
"Soft hand," he said. "You are a housemaid, Louisa?"
"Used to be a lady's maid, s - Mr Michelet."
"Ah. Very soft hand. Very pretty face. Well, Louisa, I am glad to make your acquaintance. We will talk together, I hope."
"Yes, I hope so, Mr Michelet."
But he wouldn't let go of her hand for some seconds. When he did, she made a little bob that might have been taken for a bashful girl's embarrassed half-curtsy.
"Come on," said Eliza.
Sally followed her, conscious of his eyes on her as far as the turn in the stairs.
When they were in the bedroom, a poky little place under the roof with two narrow beds and one chest of drawers, Eliza made sure he was nowhere near before saying, "I hate him. It's only cause I ain't pretty like you or Lucy that he never does more than touch me. Poor Lucy - I dunno where she is now. . ."
"What happened?"
"The usual thing. I tried to warn her, I really did. She'll have her baby and then she'll have to leave it in the Foundlings' Home or summing. She won't find it easy to get another situation without a character. But you daren't say no to him, that's
the trouble. He'd go to the master and then you'd be out on yer ear anyway. It's so much better when he's not here."
"What's he like? The master?"
"He gives me the creeps. The way he just sits there looking. I ain't seen him much, mind you, 'cause he likes us to keep out the way. Poor man though, being paralysed. And having to depend on that bloody monsewer for everything - washing, dressing, all of it. No, it's him you want to watch out for."
So it was clear that Sally's route to the Tzaddik had to lie through Michelet. One step at a time, she told herself in bed, shivering under the thin blankets. She felt like a soldier on campaign; like the man she'd grown up thinking was her father. Coolness under fire. Keep your powder dry.
She slept dreamlessly and woke up at once when Eliza shook her at six o'clock. The uniform she was to wear was a little loose, but by tightening the apron she managed to make it fit.
"We got to make up all the fires, all through the house," Eliza told her, "same as a normal house, except that he has 'em all burning all day. Shocking expense in coals. Just had this new lift thing put in to take his chair up and down - you'd think they'd put a lift in for the coals, but oh, no. Up and down the bloody stairs, same as anywhere. We got to clean extra thorough - he's that fussy - a speck of dust and there's all kinds of trouble. You do the dining room first, then the drawing room. I'll do in the library and the hall and then we'll do the upstairs. Breakfast at half past seven."
Having washed in cold water and cleared and refilled four fireplaces, Sally was feeling dirty and uncomfortable by the time the servants sat down to their breakfast. However, it had given her time to think what her next move should be, and she said quietly to Mrs Wilson as they sat down to the porridge and tea:
"Mrs Wilson, ma'am? Could I ask a favour? I know I ain't been here for five minutes, but it's me old mum - I said I'd let her know directly I had a situation - she's waiting for a bit of money - and if I slip out for five minutes, I can catch the half past eight post around the corner - I'll make the time up, ma'am. . ."
Mrs Wilson looked doubtful. Sally dreaded her saying that someone else would post it later, but she just nodded and muttered, "Mind Mr Clegg don't see you. It's your own risk."
"Thank you, Mrs Wilson," Sally said.
She bolted the porridge, which was palatable enough, though thin, and waited for Mr Clegg to leave before slipping out. There was a good deal of coming and going, breakfast not being so formal a meal as supper, and within five minutes she had run through the rain and was standing at the counter of the post office around the corner. Again her luck held. Not only did they accept telegrams here, but there was no queue. It didn't take long to write on the telegram form the words AT ALL COSTS SEND FAVOURABLE REPLY TO FORTHCOMING REQUEST FOR SERVANTS' CHARACTER NAME OF LOUISA KEMP STOP DESPERATELY IMPORTANT STOP EXPLAIN LATER STOP SALLY LOCKHART.
She handed it in, paid the fee, and ran back to the house.
That left the other problem: what to do when the girl turned up from Pethick's, the agency. Well, there was no point in holding back. She waited till she knew the valet was alone in the drawing room, and then slipped in and shut the door.
"What are you doing - ah! Louisa! But you must not be in here after this hour -"
She held her finger to her lips. His eyes glistened. He came closer, and she said softly, "Monsieur?"
"Vous parlez francais? Mais -"
"Only a little. Please, Mr Michelet, can you help me?"
"What do you want?"
She was looking up at him, she hoped appealingly. He came still closer. She smelt his eau-de-Cologne.
"I shouldn't be here. The thing is, I don't come from Pethick's - the staff agency. I was only in there when the message came from here, and I was desperate, so I came last night. They said they'd send someone today. Another girl. I don't know what to do. . ."
"Ah. . . You want me to send this other girl away?"
She looked up at him, and then down, and then shyly up again. He licked his lips. Then he traced the outline of her cheek with his finger.
"Well, Louisa. The household staff are not for me to arrange. It will be difficult. However. . ."
"I'll do something for you one day, monsieur."
"Yes," he said. "You will."
He twisted his hand slowly into the short hair on the back of her head, and began to pull her towards himself - and then something screamed on the ceiling.
She started and looked up. He let go with a curse. There, leaping from cornice to cabinet to bookshelf to mantelpiece, was the monkey she'd heard about: a little grey flash of malevolence, screeching with hatred, and gnashing its yellow teeth. It leapt - clung - swung on - leapt again - and it had something with it in one arm, a little brown bundle -
Michelet reached up and snatched it out of the air like a cricketer catching a ball.
Immediately it fell quiet and lay motionless in his hand. The object it was carrying had dropped unregarded beside the wall. He brought the creature slowly, threateningly, to his mouth as if he would bite it, and it lay as limp as a rag doll, its eyes closed.
Then he dropped it to the floor. Like a cat, it twisted the right way up in mid-air and landed on its paws, and scuttled away through the door and out. She could hear it chittering with hatred in the hall.
"Oh, Louisa," Michelet said softly, "you must be very wicked for the creature to hate you so much! You saw how she was making with her teeth? Very sharp teeth, Louisa. She would like to bite you. . . But I can control her. She is afraid of me. You mustn't be frightened, Louisa. You have to be cruel, and then they are afraid."
He slipped out quickly.
She leant on the back of a chair and took a deep breath. There was worse to come. Well, let it. She could face it. But she had her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, she saw the object the monkey had dropped; so she reached down automatically to pick it up, and found herself holding Harriet's toy bear, Bruin.
He was unmistakable. His left ear was torn, and Sally had mended it with scarlet thread once when Sarah was on holiday and she couldn't find anything else. Her heart leapt with recognition and love, and she clutched the battered little thing to her breast helplessly. But this was proof. . . They had stolen it. . . She wasn't wrong, the trail did lead here, it was all true - but to give it to a monkey. . .
Michelet opened the door. She put Bruin down at once, and he took the toy from her.
"She must not have this," he said. "She hates it. She was going to destroy it, and the master would not want that to happen. A good thing we saved it, no?"
And he took it and left.
What did they want with Bruin if he wasn't for the monkey? It must be for Harriet. It must be to make her feel at home when they brought her here. No, don't think about that; one thing at a time.
But she'd crossed two bridges this morning, and now she was safe for the time being. She'd better act like a housemaid, though, or she'd be dismissed for incompetence - and that would be ironic, to say the least.
So for the rest of the day she laboured diligently wherever Mrs Wilson sent her: polishing silver, ironing linen, replacing all the candles in the great chandelier in the dining room, dusting, fetching coals. . .
In the late afternoon she was sitting down for five minutes in the kitchen when a bell rang. She looked up at the row of little bells beside the door and saw the one labelled Library still bobbing on its spring. There was no one else in the kitchen; it was her job to answer it.
She stood up, smoothed her apron down, made sure her cap was on straight, and hurried up the stairs and through the green baize door.
Don't knock and enter - knock and wait, she thought. She expected that Michelet would open the door, but instead a deep voice called, "Come in."
She entered and gave a little curtsy to the man in the invalid chair, keeping her eyes modestly on the floor. There was nothing she wanted more than to look at him, but she managed not to. She had the impression of a dark still bulk, and saw another man there ou
t of the corner of her eye, standing by the window.
"Some tea for us," said the deep, cracked voice of the man in the wheelchair.
Something profound stirred a long way down in Sally's memory, but only for a moment, like a great slow fish moving a fin; and then it vanished.
She was about to turn and go when he said, "Wait. You are new. What is your name?"
"Kemp, sir."
She looked up then, because at the sound of her voice something made a chittering sound. She looked into his vast moon face briefly, registering only his impassive eyes, and then to the imp-like malevolence perched on his shoulder, baring its monkey teeth at her.
"Kemp. Very well. Go."
She curtsied again and turned to go, and as she did so the man at the window turned around, and she found herself looking into the eyes of Arthur Parrish.
He didn't react, apart from casting the usual automatic glance at her figure. Then he looked away, ignoring her, and she managed to get out without shaking.
It works, she thought triumphantly. They can't see me!
It was either the hair or the servant's dress, or both, or the fact that it was the last thing they'd have expected. She felt jubilant as she walked back to the kitchen. And she thought of Parrish's glance. When I was a lady, she thought, no one looked at my body so openly. Now I'm a servant, they all do. . .
Mrs Wilson was in the kitchen when she got back. She explained that the master liked his tea placed on the low table near the fire; the guest would pour for him.
When Sally took the tray back, the two men were talking. They took scarcely any notice as she set the tray down carefully on the low table.
She curtsied, and heard Parrish say, "No, sir. I'm afraid she'd flown the coop. We got there just too late."
"What was this place?" said the Tzaddik.
"Some kind of socialist settlement in Whitechapel. There's no doubt she was there, with the kid as well. But we're working on another lead at the moment. The Jews. . ."
She couldn't stop to hear more. As it was, she feared that her shaking hands would give her away. When she shut the door, she pressed her ear against it; but all that came through was a confused mutter, and then she heard Mr Clegg coming. She smoothed her apron and went back to the kitchen.