A Pearl for My Mistress

‘Will you write anything more about Amina?’

‘The Moorish lady? Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve more or less finished the story I wanted to write. She survives the Spanish invasion and goes into exile …’

‘But there must be something more,’ Hester persisted. ‘Some later story. She couldn’t have reached the English shores without any adventures at all!’

‘You are right.’ Lucy’s fingers drummed briefly against the vanity table. The same nervous melody. ‘What did we have in England? The Wars of the Roses was definitely over by then …’

‘Maybe she didn’t go straight to England at all! Maybe she stayed in France for several years.’

‘Why would she cross the Channel in the end, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hester confessed. ‘I’d just like to read about France.’

‘I know!’ Lucy all but jumped. ‘She was recruited to spy for the French. They needed to know more about the situation as the new dynasty stepped onto the throne. The Tudors, I mean,’ she explained clumsily.

‘But that’s grand! I mean, excellent! And she was an alchemist, wasn’t she? That means, she knew a lot about poisons and … and … other things!’

‘Yes!’ Lucy gripped her hands, her face glowing with excitement. ‘Yes, that would be splendid! But she would have to cross to our side in the end. By the end of the second book, at least.’

‘She can meet a lad, some fine young Welsh archer. He will have blue eyes …’ Hester said somewhat wistfully.

Lady Lucy waved the suggestion aside.

‘No, defecting for love won’t do. I mean, there are thousand stories like that written already, and almost none of them managed to convince me. I am not saying that such foolish women don’t exist, of course. It’s just that I am still yet to meet any. No, we’ll invent something more interesting. Something much, much more interesting …’

Again, that drumming. Again, that unnerving rhythm.

‘Oh, this is going to be champion. I mean, splendid,’ Hester breathed. ‘It will be so much better than all those spy stories about sinister Germans.’

‘Are they still around? I’ve noticed they’ve started to go out of fashion lately. Perhaps people are finally realizing that the war is over.’

‘Well, that’s the North for you,’ Hester joked. ‘We are slow to follow fashions. Some of our girls in the tailor’s workshop were still wearing Eton crops.’

‘Oh, speaking about the North – you should teach me this peculiar dialect of yours one day. It sounds very crisp.’

‘I would! But I’m afraid Her Ladyship will flay me alive for corrupting her daughter.’

‘Corrupting me!’ Lucy laughed. ‘No, Hester. I don’t think you will manage to corrupt me.’

‘Her Ladyship might think otherwise.’

‘My mother –’ Lady Lucy emphasized these words ‘– doesn’t need to know things that can distress her. I wouldn’t be a good daughter if I were to endanger her fragile nerves, would I? Unfortunately, my lady mother happens to be distressed by practically everything; therefore, I have to prevent all these things from reaching her delicate ears.’ She smiled a delightful, open smile. ‘I am a good daughter, after all.’

Hester didn’t find words to argue with that. Not that she tried particularly hard.

That afternoon, she left the room with a great stack of pages. Some of them were covered with a neat type, some with florid handwriting; some seemed to be almost fit for publishing, some were patched with ink stains and irritated cross-outs.

All of them promised sleepless nights.

Hester’s head was still slightly swimming from the exhaustion of the morning, but her hands were trembling with excitement. The future was great, splendid, champion, golden. It held irresistible new books she could be the first in the whole world to read. It held a service to … no, a company of her lady. It held the trip to the capital she had dreamt about since her childhood years.

She couldn’t imagine anything that could throw her from the Olympus of her happiness today.

***

The house was growing dark and sleepy. It was as if some complex mechanism was gradually coming to a halt, its intricate cogs slowing down.

The old silver downstairs was getting locked up. The kitchen maid was finishing the last of her chores, polishing the old pans with salt and lemon skins, so that tomorrow they would shine like burnished gold. The Countess’s own maid was brushing her mistress’s hair for the required fifty minutes, so they, too, would always shine like burnished gold.

Hester Blake tiptoed into the dimly lit library, a heavy tome under her arm. She had to return this anthology of adventure stories today; it wouldn’t do to keep other people’s books in her room for longer than was necessary. And, in any case, she now had plenty to read.

She would not start today. She had to sleep sometimes. But tomorrow evening … or, even better, Sunday. A whole day, spent away from the damp cold of the early spring, in the company of engrossing new stories that no one had ever read before her.

I’ll have to tell Abby I won’t be able to come with her this weekend.

But then, Abby would surely understand. She’d do just fine without her.

Hester carefully placed the old book in its usual place and threw an accustomed glance at her lady’s working table. The typewriter stood there silently, all the papers taken away. Hester couldn’t help but sigh: she wished Lady Lucy was just as careful and tidy with everything as she was with her clandestine writing. The magazines and newspapers were spread over the table rather chaotically.

Poor Abby, Hester thought. She must’ve been really tired today to forget to clean it up.

Yes, she remembered; there was a reason for that. The laundry had finally come back today, and it was up to Abby to check the state of the sheets.

These napkins, pillowcases, sheets, tablecloths, and towels – everything, that needed to be mended, patched, darned, and given a respectable appearance; it seemed to cover Abby’s life, like masses of snow.

Hester couldn’t now even breathe the velvety scent of beeswax, rising from the polished floors, without thinking of Abigail’s calloused hands.

She closed and folded the newspapers, arranging them into a neat stack. She couldn’t help but admire Lady Lucy’s diligence: here were, as far as Hester could recognize, most of the publications she either wrote for regularly or contributed to occasionally. Apparently, she tried to keep an eye on all the latest developments in the world beyond these walls.

The next title, unearthed by Hester’s efforts, made her stop and stare in a vague not-quite-recognition. The front page was adorned by a great symbol: a striking lightning bolt in a black circle. Beneath it was a similarly familiar, starkly printed name: The Blackshirt.

Hester strained her memory. Where could she have seen it? Definitely not here. Still in her hometown, perhaps? Did anyone she knew read it? Anyone in her family? No, she would’ve …

And then, it clicked.

Yes, of course.

An autumn evening, an eerie glow of gaslights on Northumberland Street. And a chant, sudden like a wind, cutting her ears like a knife.

‘Two-Four-Six-Eight-Whom-Do-We-Appreciate: Mosley! Mosley! Take a leaflet, Miss.’

She took it partly out of politeness, out of a perpetual desire not to offend; partly because she was too startled to argue. She didn’t remember the text on the leaflet now, but she remembered the word. The Blackshirt. No, in plural: the Blackshirts.

Yes, she’d heard that word, she’d heard it all right. It didn’t come up regularly in any discussions; however, it still managed to reach her every now and then, touching her ears like a draught of wind.

Hester remembered the brooding young men, gathering for the meetings outside the pub. She saw them sometimes, if she passed by on a Friday evening. She thought of the hunger in their eyes, of the gloom in their faces.

And her Lady Lucy was curious, after all. She wasn’t content with dedicating her attention to – how did she put it? – christening receptions and the length of women’s skirts. She knew about the Hunger Marches, about the Northern troubles. Moreover, she seemed to be able to recall every single instance when the protesters were spotted singing Red Flag.