Friday's Girl Read online

  ‘Imagine you, you of all people, waltzing off with a gentleman the likes of him,’ Becky murmured as she changed out of her loaned bridesmaid dress and back into her maid’s clothes, before in turn watching Edith change into her going-off costume of brown silk with blue-spotted velvet trimmings and cream lace ruffles.

  Edith shot her an anxious glance and then smiled at her with sudden, almost nostalgic affection from under her ostrich-trimmed hat.

  ‘Goodbye, Becky. You must come and see me in my new home in the country, when you can. Come to tea with me. I hope you will.’

  ‘I shall miss you so, Edith – really I shall. You’re the only one ’ere what’s been kind to me, I know that.’ Becky burst into instant tears.

  ‘Don’t cry, Becky dearest. We’ll see each other again, really we will. I shall make sure of it, truly I shall.’

  Edith patted Becky on her thin shoulder and hurried off to the top of the stairs, which led down to the hall and the small party waiting below to wish the newly-weds luck on their going-off.

  In the smart carriage that was taking them to the station, and so on to the honeymoon, which was to be spent at Napier’s country house, Edith turned and smiled at her bridegroom. It was a smile full of love and expectancy, full of hope for the future. Napier too smiled, but his smile was filled with something quite different.

  Napier’s smile was one of adoration, of worship. He took one of Edith’s newly gloved hands in his and raised it to his lips with such reverence that Edith, for some reason she could not name, found her heart contracting with a vague kind of fear. She knew that she did not know her bridegroom, that she still only thought of him as some kind of knight in shining armour, but now she realised, looking at his still bent head, that it would seem he did not know her either, for if he did, he would surely not be kissing her gloved hand as if she was some kind of grand lady?

  ‘Napier?’

  He raised his head, and as he did so Edith realised she had not called him by his Christian name before, but that, so little did she know him, she would not have been surprised if she had heard herself addressing him as ‘Mr Todd’.

  ‘Yes, Edith?’

  ‘Where are we going to, may I ask? I mean, to where exactly are we going?’

  Edith’s voice, untouched by years of being treated as a servant, was as light and refined as the day her mother had met her death so suddenly. She was not so naïve as not to know that this was reassuring to them both, but in the confines of the cab her voice had all of a sudden assumed an unreality, and she knew exactly why.

  When she had seen her mother for the last time she had been dressed in a beautiful street costume such as Edith was now wearing. Quite a different fashion, of course, but nevertheless, Edith realised with a rush, she must have looked and sounded just as her daughter did now.

  Edith remembered her mother turning and kissing her hand to her ten-year-old daughter. I will not be long, darling, not long at all.

  But she had been. She had been for ever.

  Edith turned away from Napier and stared out of the carriage window into the busy afternoon outside, at the streets always filled with steaming horse droppings, mud and stale vegetables, not to mention poorly dressed people tramping along not knowing where they were going, and, worse, not caring. From such sad figures her gaze transferred itself to smart carriages that were passing their own, to ladies carefully lifting their street dresses before crossing the roads, to the carters’ horses with beautiful brass fittings on their bridles, to coal being delivered outside the station, to other hansom cabs stopping to let their passengers alight, and she was filled with the kind of sad, nostalgic longing that so often accompanies intense happiness. Today at least her mother might have been proud of her. She might have helped to choose her trousseau, she might have calmed her nerves, prepared her for the days ahead – days and nights, the thought of which was already making Edith nervously aware of her innocence as far as the marriage bed was concerned.

  ‘Oh, Napier, do look. It has been made into a bower!’

  He had just handed her up into their private railway-carriage, which was beautifully arranged with flowers in holders on the wall, and a bucket with wine, not to mention silver salvers covering who knew what delicacies to keep them from starving on the journey to the country.

  ‘Did you arrange this, Napier?’

  ‘I asked for it, dearest, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘It is all so pretty. You are so clever.’ Edith turned to thank her new husband, and raising her face to his she quite spontaneously kissed him, discovering as she did so that Napier had the prettiest mouth. His lips were not large, but nicely plump, and his mouth curved up at the corner, even before he smiled.

  He did not return her kiss, but smiled and lightly touched her cheek.

  ‘I should so love you to remove your hat . . .’ he murmured, his voice seeming to Edith to be throbbing with intensity.

  It was Edith’s turn to smile, and she put up both hands to her hatpin to oblige him, but Napier immediately shook his head.

  ‘No, dearest, no. You must not remove your hat now. It would be letting yourself down in front of the railway staff if they saw you bare-headed. Besides,’ he touched her cheek lightly once again, ‘besides, I want to save that moment for myself, for when we are alone.’

  Edith’s heart raced as she saw the expression in his eyes, and she felt quite faint as she knew that he was looking at her as if she was no longer wearing her beautiful brown silk travelling costume with its cream lace ruffled sleeves and long brown gloves. He was looking at her as he had looked at her on the very first day he had seen her, the day he had walked into the Stag and Crown, when she had been scrubbing the Monday morning floor, and he in search of a decent breakfast.

  It was as if he knew exactly how she was made, exactly how she was modelled; as if he already knew her intimately, which perhaps, being a portrait painter, he did. Perhaps that was what happened when a painter fell in love with you. Perhaps he knew you, heart and soul, long before he took you in his arms, long before he spirited you away from your father and stepmother to some new, strange land where you would love each other for eternity.

  Edith was no stranger to the taste of wine. From the time Aurelia had decided, really rather conveniently, that her stepdaughter was too stupid to do anything except help to clean, and run errands, the older servants had given her the ends of wine bottles to sip, if only to keep her warm, or to help her sleep. She therefore took the glass Napier offered her only too thankfully. It had been a long day, and she knew it would not do to fall asleep or look tired. The wine revived her spirits. More than that, she could tell Napier was almost relieved that she was quite as ready as he to drink wine and lift the covers off the serving dishes, and nibble at the refreshments so thoughtfully provided.

  ‘Tell me about your country house, Napier. I cannot wait to meet it.’

  The expression in Napier’s eyes changed from quiet passion to one of warm intensity.

  ‘Such a pretty way of putting it,’ he said, smiling. ‘For of course one does meet a house, or it greets you; there is always an introduction from one side to the other. Of course there is.’ He dwelt on this notion for a few seconds before continuing. ‘Helmscote Manor was first built by my father, but has been remodelled by me, with the help of Basil George Canford, a pupil of the great Augustus Welby Pugin. We both have a passion for the Gothic style, and not just the style but also the principles of Ruskin and his acolytes, the modern ideals of home and hearth.’

  Edith did not know who this Augustus Pugin could be, but she looked suitably impressed. She had certainly never heard anyone talk about ideals. Ideals were not something discussed by anyone at the Stag and Crown, where conversations had always centred round money, profit, and very occasionally that dread of all dreads – loss of regular custom.

  ‘Edith.’

  There was a long pause, as Napier’s look continued to become steadily more intense.

  �
�Edith, nothing matters more than the principles of art, bringing about the kind of warmth and the humane ways of living that have come about since the Industrial Revolution, since the population abandoned the countryside for the cities. Each man in himself, as we know, is equal to his fellow, but no man is more equal than the man who works with his hands: the labourer, and the artisan. The artisan fulfils God’s purpose by putting his God-given talent to carving or modelling, to the making of beautiful objects that are to be used every day, objects that we must never, ever take for granted – wooden spoons, carving boards, pitchers and beakers; just as the artist is put on this earth to glorify such things in his work.’

  Edith’s heart sank as she realised that she did not really understand what Napier was talking about. It all seemed a little far-fetched to her, but of course she could not say as much to Napier, whose eyes were shining with fervour. She tried to imagine the kitchens of the Stag and Crown being inhabited by people who constantly reverenced their implements. She found herself struggling for a few seconds with a mental picture of Cook and her cohorts glorying in the lively shape of their wooden spoons, before using them to beat the kitchen boy about the head. She thought of the maids, and in turn tried to imagine them admiring the form of their buckets, rather than moaning about the freezing temperature of the cleaning water. In both instances she failed, but realising it was not the moment to ask for further enlightenment on this subject of the worship of ordinary things, she smiled at Napier.

  ‘It sounds very – religious.’

  Napier leaned forward and kissed her now ungloved hand. ‘It is religious, my dearest girl, it is exactly that. How clever of you to say so. It is entirely religious, and that is a further beauty of the Gothic style, which others, and of course I myself, naturally, find so irresistible. The Gothic style can easily incorporate religious paintings and stained-glass images from the Bible; they never look out of place. At Helmscote Manor you will see we have been able to use them with great effect.’

  The wine had not made Edith feel as dizzy as Napier’s ideals, artistic and otherwise. She put her glass down carefully on the receptacle provided, and gazed out of the window for a second. She was beginning to feel that she had not married so much as joined a monastic order, which she had to admit was a strange feeling. But as she turned back to Napier, she was instantly reassured by the look of passion in his eyes. She smiled at him. She could not wait to reach his house and be greeted by it, to see all his ideals put into practice, not to mention his paintings.

  ‘I am so looking forward to being in your studio with you, Napier,’ she told him.

  Napier breathed in suddenly with an intensity that was almost startling. ‘And I cannot wait for you to be in my studio with me,’ he murmured.

  Edith looked at him, warmed by the wine, and the knowledge that she must be the luckiest girl in the world. She knew now that she was longing to arrive at Helmscote Manor and to be taken to their rooms. To say that she felt she already worshipped Napier, and could not wait to give herself to him, was to say the least.

  The eagerly anticipated sight of the house waiting to greet her was finally something of a disappointment. It could hardly be anything else, since they did not arrive at the gates of the house until dusk, so Edith could only see the lights of the hall spilling out over the dozen or so stone steps outside, and nothing really of the house itself, except two towers to the side, and a black and white timbered first floor.

  However, after Napier’s eulogy about his artistic ideals, it was no surprise to find that the front door was carved in a classic Gothic shape, and that there were two or three rounded arch-ways beside it which did indeed give the house a cloistered, monastic air.

  ‘Welcome to Helmscote, Mrs Todd. I am Mrs George, Mr Todd’s housekeeper. My husband is Mr Todd’s estate manager. You will meet him later.’

  As she recited her obviously well-rehearsed greeting Mrs George executed a magnificent, and doubtless equally well-rehearsed, curtsy. Edith put out her hand to thank her, appreciating all too well the fuss and furore that must have preceded their arrival, the anxiety of keeping the fires stoked up, and the difficulty of preventing the flowers from drooping in the heat that those same fires were so busy providing, while in the kitchens the food would be having to be put on back burners, for the train had been late, owing it had been said to a suicide on the rails.

  ‘I do wish Mrs George would not do that,’ Napier muttered under his breath, turning away and frowning as his housekeeper arose from her deep curtsy.

  ‘Shall I show Madam to her room?’ Mrs George continued, smiling with pride as she saw the appreciation on her young mistress’s face as she took in the brightly burning fire, the flowers in their huge and complicated arrangements, and the gloss and glitter on every object in the simple but stylish hall.

  The brass vases seemed to be smiling down at the polished oak furniture, gaily determined to use the old, seasoned wood to see their reflections. The colours of the stained-glass windows, high above their heads, were muted in the early evening light, while at the same time undoubtedly welcoming the illumination coming from the vast wooden candelabra high above, as a performer might welcome the warm glow coming from the footlights.

  ‘Those are my ancestors,’ Napier told Edith, as he saw her staring up at the coloured glass. His voice became confidential. ‘My father had them designed when Garter king-of-arms confirmed that through my great-grandmother on my father’s side we are descended from King Edward and Queen Philippa, and of course our Anglo-Saxon ancestry is reflected in the Gothic style here. I always think, without my knowing it, that this must have greatly influenced my attraction to the teachings of Ruskin and my present thinking.’

  He looked around him once more as if to reassure himself that his mentor, the genius Ruskin, the philosopher and thinker, would approve of his hall and his kinship with medieval kings and queens, and sighed with contented gratitude that he was once more at home.

  Edith followed Mrs George, her eyes taking in the order, the beauty, and the cleanliness of everything that surrounded them. The rush matting in the corridors, the oak furniture, every handle, every sconce seemed to her innocent eyes in some way to reflect Napier’s personality.

  ‘It is all so beautiful.’ Edith turned to the housekeeper, her eyes sparkling in the gaslight of the bedroom, her whole slender young body exuding confidence and happiness.

  Mrs George nodded. ‘This house was built for Mr Todd the elder, Mr Napier’s father, and it is not just beautiful, it is also practical,’ she said, and she pointed proudly to the ventilation system.

  ‘I hope I will be able to be of practical use in the kitchens—’

  ‘And I hope you will not,’ Mrs George rejoined crisply. ‘You are here to be decorative in the morning room and the drawing room, Mrs Todd. We don’t want you busying yourself in the kitchens, making your hair and your clothes smell, do we now?’

  For a second Edith looked taken aback, and seeing this the housekeeper continued in a more kindly voice. ‘If you don’t mind me reminding you, madam, you’re naught but a bairn. Hardly had time to flutter, let alone fly, and here you are a married woman. You’ve been snatched from the cradle, we can all see that, and for that reason you don’t want to keep worrying about the kitchens and the running of the place. That’s my business. Yours is to please the master, and that I am quite sure you will,’ she ended, staring with concentrated appreciation at Edith’s brilliant auburn hair, which she was now shaking out as she removed her going-off hat.

  ‘You are quite right, Mrs George. I do see that. And how very silly of me to even mention the kitchens. Of course you have been running the place for probably as long as I have been in this world. Why on earth would you need me under your feet?’

  She laughed, and Mrs George turned away, looking relieved. She had to get that one sorted out before they all started running into trouble. After all was said and done a house had to be run on certain lines, like the railways with their main l
ines and their branch lines, and if there was any kind of confusion there would be crashes. She had seen it happen.

  ‘I have arranged for you and Mr Todd to dine alone tonight, madam,’ Mrs George murmured discreetly. ‘Now I will have one of the maids bring up a tub and place it in front of the fire, for I am sure you will not want to bath the way Mr Todd is in the habit of bathing. On the balcony outside his dressing room, and in freezing water!’

  ‘No, you are quite right.’ Edith pulled a little face. ‘I wonder why he does that?’

  The expression on Mrs George’s face could only be described as purposefully blank.

  For her first dinner with her husband at Helmscote House, Edith chose to wear a pale green taffeta evening gown, bought second-hand from Mr North, on the recommendation of Miss Bagshaw, who had whispered to Edith that it had once belonged to ‘a Countess of A’.

  As she dressed herself, Edith remembered with gratitude how Miss Bagshaw had been assiduous in the extreme in providing a proper trousseau for her. For some reason that Edith could not understand the vendeuse had gone out of her way to provide her young customer with everything she could possibly want for her new life.

  ‘And do not, I beg you, Miss Hanson, as I can see you are about to do, do not fret that your father will be infuriated by the accounts that will be sent to him,’ she had told the astonished Edith as she packed the treasured items in tissue paper, adding with a calm smile, ‘I have managed to lose a great many of your trousseau costs in your stepmother’s summer wardrobe, not yet paid for, and in other ways too, to be sure.’ Seeing Edith’s very evident embarrassment, she placed a cool hand on her arm to reassure her. ‘I may be speaking out of turn, but I judged it only fair, after all, for I dare say you have never once been paid for all your years spent scrubbing the floors at the Stag and Crown?’