A Pearl for My Mistress

‘Sometimes he stayed with us over the holidays, and then we used to sit together in the library for hours on end. It was always the same way: he was talking, I was listening, asking questions and writing down everything I could. I was so afraid; you wouldn’t believe it now! I was afraid to forget anything, to lose anything.’

Lady Lucy stopped for a second. Her cheeks were glowing, her breath ragged, her eyes half-closed. Hester caught herself staring, transfixed by this strangely indecent sight.

‘It-it was chaotic, I know it now,’ the young woman continued, evidently trying to speak slower. ‘Everything in one great pile – languages and rhetoric, history and natural sciences. I didn’t think about some system, or about what am I going to do with it. I-I just devoured it all, I think, like some child let into a cupboard with sweets. I was so hungry for sentences, for stories, for information. I never knew before just how hungry I’d been.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps, I am hungry still.’

‘There are worse sorts of hunger in the world.’ Hester smiled slightly with only one corner of her lips.

‘Such as?’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t expect an earnest question. ‘Hunger for wealth, for instance. For fame. For power.’

Hunger for fame. The outlines of one face flared up in her mind, then faded away in the mist.

This isn’t the time.

‘But knowledge is power in its own right, don’t you think so?’ Lucy asked. ‘And power shouldn’t be wielded without good knowledge. Our politicians are the best example of that, I think.’

‘So what happened to your cousin, my lady?’ Hester swerved hurriedly, afraid to let the conversation stray again into that strange, dangerous territory Lady Lucy was oddly attracted to.

‘Ah. My cousin. You’d think, no doubt, that it must have been an awful chore for him – tutoring his little cousin in the dark library instead of spending his holidays in sunshine and games. But, believe me, he enjoyed it. I know it for sure. We’d been exchanging books for years, you know. Well, mostly it was he who sent me anything interesting he got his hands on. Once he even stole a book from the school’s library because he thought I might like it, and I only learnt about it from the news about his detention.

‘He used to say that I was the only one who didn’t laugh at his poems. And how could I laugh? How could anyone laugh? They were wonderful. I used to send him some of my writing as well. He didn’t laugh either. He said it was wonderful. He said I was the only one who understood him.

‘Such bizarre fantasies we used to share! But they were innocent. They were all innocent. Or, at least, we thought them to be innocent enough. We dreamed about getting married as soon as we grew up. We even talked about eloping together! There was no serious planning, of course, but we loved to imagine it from time to time. We pictured enjoying an idyllic life in some secluded cottage, surrounded by meadows. Something about walking hand in hand, exploring secluded groves and bathing in cold blue lakes.

‘He promised to dedicate poetry to me, to write it every waking hour. I promised to weave white flower wreaths for him. They would have looked so nice in his dark hair. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking about. It was as if I had been intoxicated. Perhaps, in a way, I truly had; he was my only friend, you see.

‘My father had always been a little Oriental in his desire to guard my purity – even his acquaintances said so. Male friends were out of the question for me, except the closest of kin. Female friends were … very, very much frowned upon. Sometimes I even think that he must have wanted me for himself.’

Lucy laughed briefly, and Hester thought she had never heard a laughter so brittle and hollow, so entirely devoid of mirth.

‘In other circumstances, Albert would’ve been a sweet companion, nothing more; but as it was, he seemed to be my soul mate, my heavenly twin, my star-crossed lover. I couldn’t imagine living without him. Nor did I want to.’

Lucy stopped to catch her breath, her face flushed and her voice trembling. And, even looking at her with ravenous attention, Hester couldn’t understand, whether it was a tremble of the coming tears or that of a long-buried rage.

‘When my mother read that letter … I would have said there was a scandal, but scandal is too mild a word. I was a little whore, a disgrace, a curse, a monster. I hoped against hope that she wouldn’t find other letters – that this silly parlourmaid wouldn’t confess – that her affection for me as a ‘sweet child’ would be enough to override my father’s authority. I was wrong. I was foolish.’

Hester could see that moment in all its awful vividness. A frightened, enraged child, her face red and wet with weeping. The fire, hot and furious and hungry, devouring the things she held dear. The desperate attempt to salvage one piece before someone’s strong hands dragged her away.

‘I think I kicked someone.’ Lucy’s voice was quiet, but the line of her mouth was set and hard and bitter. ‘And probably bit. I certainly screamed a lot about my hatred. I was overpowered quite easily, of course. Knocked to the ground. My head swam for hours later. I didn’t even realize how it happened – one second I was standing, and the next I was lying on the floor, my head hurting like it would break into pieces. But it forced me to keep quiet, which was just what they wanted.

‘It could have been worse, I suppose. I suppose. They shipped off me to Devon, to live with my aunt for a year. It’s a beautiful place, Devon. And my aunt wasn’t as strict as I feared she would be. But she kept no books, and I wasn’t allowed to take any of mine. Naturally, I harboured some plans of revenge.’ She didn’t change her tone. ‘I even thought about burning the house down – in Gothic novels it always seemed to help. But then, I decided it wouldn’t solve anything in the long term …’

Lucy’s voice trailed off. Her face was now rigid with exhaustion, her eyes gleaming with long-forgotten hatred.

Or not quite forgotten.

Hester felt a lump in her throat. ‘That’s awful.’

There were some more phrases she could use now. However, they ventured very, very far beyond the invisible border of politeness. Too far even for this strange hour in a secluded folly.

Lady Lucy turned away. ‘Thank you, Blake.’ She stared down at her hands, her grip on Hester’s fingers stiff.

Looking out of the corner of her eye, Hester couldn’t help but notice that her lady was blinking unnaturally fast.

‘Forgive me if I’m imposing on you. I am too sensitive …’

‘Not at all!’ Hester hastened to assure her.

However, Lucy continued, her tone monotonous, like a rain-swept plain: ‘Perhaps, it runs in the family. Yes, it must run in the family. My grandmother used to weave bracelets out of the hair of her dead children. Actually …’ She didn’t look up, but something stirred in her voice. ‘It feels tremendously strange, calling you Blake. It sounds a little like a boy’s name, and you look nothing like a boy.’

‘I hope not!’

‘Then, I hope, you wouldn’t object to telling me your Christian name? I promise not to use it in front of anyone. Certainly not my family.’

Of course, Hester thought. By now, Lady Lucy must have adopted a firm policy of not saying absolutely anything in front of her family. Or, at least, anything that could possibly be used against her later.

‘My name is Hester.’

‘Hester.’ Lucy repeated it softly, as if recalling a dream. ‘It sounds like dry leaves in autumn. Were you born in autumn?’

‘No, my lady. I’m afraid my birthday is in May.’

‘Still, it was worth asking. I promise to prepare a good present for you.’ Lady Lucy smiled, her face mellowing for the first time since she’d mentioned Albert’s name. ‘Hester.’

Glancing down, Hester noticed that their hands were still linked; moreover, her finger was still trembling, moving in a futile attempt to smooth over the old scar.

***

You shouldn’t worry about me. Everything is going peachy (crossed out) very well. I even have my own room here, and, believe it or not, a maid comes every morning to light the fire and prepare a bath for me. It feels very strange, almost as if I had a servant of my own. I hope you won’t think I am getting wrong ideas! She is a very sweet girl, in fact; her name’s Abigail. We usually spend Sundays together; we are going out to the nearest town this Sunday, if the weather isn’t too bad.

The house is freezing; the very stones seem to seep with cold. I’m getting used to it, though …

Hester put her pen away for a moment and gazed upon the smooth lines, stretched before her on the white plain of paper. A plain, that seemed endless.

She’d never imagined having to choose her words so carefully while writing to her mother.

Hester remembered the Saturday dances of her hometown, the ones she used to reminisce about with Abby. The giddy evenings, her hair tense in the painstaking (but so elegant!) Marcel wave, the entrance fee clutched in her wet palm. The lively sounds of the foxtrot; for some reason, the band always started with the foxtrot.

There will be a dance tonight, Hester thought dreamily. I wonder, will the orchestra be brave enough to play a tango, or will they stick to waltzes again?

These were exactly the kinds of silly questions she would not dare to put in the letter.

Not now. Not after she’d spent several years all but shouting from the rooftops about her dream to become a proper lady’s maid.

Naturally, becoming a factory girl or a shop girl would have been much easier. But a factory girl or a shop girl spent her life shut in the same little town – one could say, in the same little room. She would never see either great houses or exotic shores, except in magazines.

With a pang of regret, Hester saw that she couldn’t expect straight away to find a job in some magnificent household, serving the lady of the house, who could travel the world as much as it pleased her. It didn’t mean, of course, that Hester didn’t secretly hope for that kind of outcome. But, in the end, reality won: an inexperienced girl with an awkward accent could only hope for a junior post like this.