A Pearl for My Mistress

Yes, she was closer to her dream than ever before. And she would reach it one day; yes, she would reach these enigmatic shores, the exotic and the urbane. Whatever cold nights and mind-numbing efforts it took.

The stack of letters, tied with a pretty red ribbon, was the last thing she unpacked.

***

Hester couldn’t have imagined the stairs to be so long.

The breakfast tray was a deadly weight in her hands. She watched her every step, bathing in cold sweat every time the precarious balance of cups and plates seemed to be threatened.

Please, please, please, don’t let the door be heavy …

Her prayers were left unanswered.

When all the dangers were finally overcome, and the threshold of her mistress’s bedroom was safely behind, Hester discovered two surprises waiting for her.

The first was the room itself. Hester had somehow expected the bedchamber, belonging to the daughter of the house (and the only daughter at that) to be the epitome of silken luxury. However, it was quite as gloomy and almost as austere as Hester’s own, if admittedly grander in size. The stark white walls and sparse pieces of furniture seemed to have been left untouched since the first Earl of Hereford won his fortune in some medieval adventure.

The second surprise was the fact that all her tiptoeing and worrying was for nothing. Lady Lucy Fitzmartin, the daughter of the ninth Earl of Hereford, was already fully awake, with her head propped on a pillow, her night-black hair spread across it like a net.

And she was smiling.

‘Why, good morning!’ she said, turning her head to the newcomer. Her eyes were wild with delight, as if she had awaited this visit for hours. ‘I hope I didn’t startle you.’

‘Not at all, my lady,’ was all Hester managed to say.

‘Good.’ Lady Lucy nodded. ‘The rainfall must have wakened me, and then I simply couldn’t fall asleep again. My thoughts never allow me to.’ Was her tone apologetic? ‘You are Blake, aren’t you?’

No smart new name for her, Hester remembered. Only a surname.

‘Yes, my lady.’ She set the tray down, dutifully careful. ‘I arrived yesterday evening.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard about it. And how do you like Hebden Hall so far?’

Hester hesitated. It wouldn’t do to lie to her young mistress, of course. And, in any case, she was a terrible liar.

‘It’s … very impressive, my lady,’ she said at last.

‘It certainly is.’ Lady Lucy grinned again, and Hester felt as if she had seen through her clumsy politeness clearly, as if the truth was written on Hester’s cheeks. Surprisingly, this was not a discomforting feeling; her mistress’s smile held no maliciousness.

Or, perhaps, it was all merely a fruit of Hester’s overanxious imagination.

She ran through her next duties as quickly and efficiently as possible. While Lady Lucy dedicated her full attention to the breakfast tray, Hester picked up the clothes she had worn on the previous evening and set about preparing her morning bath. With soothing timeliness, it was ready just in time as the lady finished her tea. So far, Lady Lucy looked friendly; however, making her mistress wait was the last thing Hester wanted to do on her first day.

Lady Lucy climbed out of bed vigorously, as if the duvet had held her captive. She wore a long, thick nightgown, which could have belonged to her Victorian grandmother (and, in all probability, it did). Hester wondered if it truly saved her during the cold Northern nights; after all, even now she could feel the chilly draughts seeping into the room through a thousand unseen cracks.

The lady’s skin was still breathing with the warm languor of the bath, while Hester fastened the hooks of her blue morning dress. An ardent blush still bloomed on her cheeks.

Lady Lucy probably blushed very easily, Hester reflected. After all, her skin was so fair; her veins could have been painted in vivid blue upon the ivory surface of her wrists. Her fingers were so thin that Hester found herself catching her breath in fear.

What if she had an accident? They would be so easy, so painfully easy to break …

Some ladies, Hester had heard, enjoyed the daily ritual of having their hair brushed and arranged. However, her new mistress clearly wasn’t counted among them. She frowned into the mirror, turned her head in discontent, and drummed her fingers on the table tirelessly, as if performing some unnerving melody.

‘Have you arrived from far away?’ she finally asked, clearly aiming to fill some time.

‘No, my lady.’

The name of her hometown was unlikely to tell Lady Lucy anything; however, she made a courteous nod of recognition upon hearing it.

‘To be honest, I imagined you to have come from some distant clime,’ she noted. ‘You have such lovely olive skin, after all. Most local girls look as if they’ve spent their youth and childhood in Château d’If.’

‘Well, some of my ancestors might have come from those distant climes,’ Hester replied, her tone tinted by pleasure at the compliment. ‘There is even one family story … Although, strictly speaking, it’s more of a family legend.’

She stopped, as if her speech had been cut away with a knife.

You are not bantering with your friends now. She isn’t interested in your family legends. Or stories, for that matter.

She must remember; she must mould herself into this new role.

‘Do tell!’ Lady Lucy’s blue eyes, lucid and unnervingly clear, now shone with curiosity. She looked at Hester, unaware of her painful thoughts. ‘I love legends.’

As she moved her hands, Hester couldn’t help but notice a scar cutting across the lady’s right palm. It resembled an ugly stitch, made by an indifferent apprentice upon transparent white satin.

‘Well …’ Hester lowered her eyes, continuing to brush her mistress’s fine hair. The strands flew between her fingers, like water. ‘It says that my family actually came here from Spain many centuries ago, fleeing the wrath of Queen Isabella. They were Moors, I mean. From Granada,’ she hurried to explain, belatedly. ‘Isabella captured it …’

‘I am familiar with the events of the Reconquista, thank you.’ Lady Lucy’s voice grew harsher for a second, before melting into genteel neutrality once again. ‘It is quite fascinating. Do you believe it, Blake?’

Hester paused. Was she supposed to tell the truth or to play along with her lady’s evident wanderlust?

Of course, she must nod and agree; it would have been obvious for any servant, Mrs Mullet wouldn’t even think …

‘To be honest, my lady, I don’t. I am not sure how these things work; but, I think, if my ancestors came here in the fifteenth century and married the locals ever since, there wouldn’t be any traces left by now. Not even the olive skin.’

It was still only a half-truth. Hester didn’t trust the exact facts of the story, of course; she wasn’t that fanciful, whatever her mother might say. However, the lure and enigma of the legend never failed to capture her imagination. Ever since she had heard it for the first time, she was entranced by these visions of the sun-soaked lands. She closed her eyes, daydreaming in the warmer afternoons, and saw the bright shawls of dark-eyed beauties, the orange trees blooming in March.

Hester was still unsure about this latter image, though. She suspected it to be at least an embellishment. How could anything bloom in March, let alone oranges?

Her hometown was a practical place, built around shipyards and factories. Lady Lucy’s Victorian grandmother must have seen it rising. It was sturdy; it was sensible; it was part of the backbone of the industrial empire. It wasn’t a gloomy place, either; there were teashops, and Saturday dances, and even a park. But no oranges or lemons bloomed there in March. Or in any other months, for that matter.

‘Still, it’s a splendid story,’ Lady Lucy concluded, as if answering her thoughts. ‘And, as I’ve said, I love legends. Speaking of which, we have quite a good selection in the library. Have you already been there?’

‘I can use the library?’ Hester blinked.

‘Of course you can.’ The young woman turned and stared at her, slightly frowning. ‘All upper servants can. Didn’t Mrs Mullet tell you?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ Hester confessed.

She said it as quietly as she could, as if trying to drown the evidence that it was her first time in service, and she only knew the barest of rules.