A Pearl for My Mistress

She scarcely spoke of the other times, of the Dark Ages that started only several years after the joyful celebrations of Armistice. It was a picture Hester had to piece together by details, by curt comments, by throwaway remarks, usually accompanied by a wince.

For instance, how much land the Fitzmartins had to sell to pay the death duties for the late Earl. How the close-knit world of downstairs was chipped away bit by bit, until only a couple of women remained, dwelling in these enormous caverns. How Mrs Mullet agreed to take on the duties of the gone housekeeper in addition to her usual work – only temporarily, of course, until things get better. But they didn’t get better.

Sometimes, they had to pay little Lucy’s governess with milk and eggs from the estate farm.

Hester was often curious as to the whereabouts of enigmatic Mr Mullet amidst all these troubles. She even conjured up a romantic story about his brave sacrifice on the fields of Flanders. However, it turned out that he never actually existed: as years passed by, the cook merely added ‘Mrs’ to her surname as a sign of gravity.

Hester tried to picture her life, to piece together the scrapbook of the decades. Did she ever have a sweetheart? Did she ever have friends outside the servants’ hall? She certainly never had children; that went without saying.

She walked through this door when the Fitzmartins still rode horse-drawn carriages, and had never left since. She lived through the family’s triumphs and carried them through their hardships.

Was that her future fate, too?

No, Hester hastened to assure herself, of course not.

After all, these are different times.

No one would expect her to toil without rest now, and, if she decided to find a better place one day, no one would consider it to be some sort of betrayal.

Surely not.

***

The grounds of Hebden Hall greeted her with silence, as Hester made her way through wet snow. She secretly hoped for March to bring at least a hint of spring and pleasant change; however, the local weather stayed dauntingly predictable.

She was surrounded by unnatural stillness, as if the world was now encased in a giant bell. The only sound Hester heard was the sound of her own heavy breath. Her boots were already soaked, and she cursed the hour when she decided to spend this Sunday exploring the grounds.

The morning had been spent, as usual, in accompanying the family on their obligatory visit to the local church. There Hester sat, gazing at the effigies of the past Earls of Hereford, at their monuments and their plaques. She spent the time contemplating these remains of grandeur.

After they returned to the house, she should have used the chance to pass these rare free hours in warmth and contentment. She could have sat by the fire, written a couple of letters, lost herself in the pages of some good novel …

Hester was almost surprised to discover that she had, in fact, reached her destination.

A mock Roman temple: a folly, erected by one of the Fitzmartins of the past. White and serene, it seemed to have been transported straight from the lush, sunlit shores of Italy and trapped in the damp snow of the English countryside. Hester couldn’t suppress a grin, imagining this monument swishing through the air, like one of the new planes. She stepped inside and touched one of the pillars.

‘Beautiful place, isn’t it?’

Hester almost jumped, startled by the sound of this clear voice. She turned to see a petite figure seated on one of the benches inside the folly. The young woman was swaddled in a plain black coat, and her hand was still hovering over an open notebook. Her fingers, gloveless and starkly white, were visibly rigid with cold.

‘Lady Lucy, you should come back inside!’ Hester exclaimed with fervour she didn’t expect of herself. ‘You can catch a fever!’

‘You shouldn’t worry.’ Lady Lucy clearly didn’t share her anxiety. ‘I’ve been coming here for years on end, and I haven’t caught anything yet. In a way, I’ve spent more time here than I have in my own room. It used to be the only way to convince my father that I am, in fact, improving my health and pursuing the great outdoors instead of languishing in the library.’

Lucy’s smile was friendly, and her tone was nonchalant. However, she pressed the notebook against her chest as firmly as if it contained the secrets of the Empire.

‘Still,’ Hester said without the same conviction, ‘I’m sure there’re a lot of comfortable places where you could work …’

‘Oh, there are.’ The young lady shrugged carelessly. ‘But new thoughts seem to come quicker to me if I walk. The fresh air helps, too.’

She gestured to the bench.

‘Come, sit down.’

Hester obeyed, not without some relief. She got much more tired than she expected while wandering these endless frozen paths.

‘Have you decided to explore the grounds?’ Lady Lucy asked. Her unblinking blue stare always imbued even the most innocent questions with menacing depths.

Hester nodded. ‘There’s so much to see. To be honest, I am still getting lost from time to time.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I was born here, and I still sometimes manage to find myself in an abandoned Elizabethan pantry. There is certainly much to see,’ she continued. ‘The house resembles a dying beast now, but there’re such fascinating stories lurking behind every tapestry. Although, I must say, not all of them are as smooth and stately as you might be led to believe.’

It was an invitation. Lady Lucy might have looked as composed as ever, but beneath her skin Hester sensed a smouldering desire to share some tale.

‘For example?’ She played along.

‘For example, let’s take the story of origin. The story of how the Fitzmartins even got to inhabit this place.’

The Fitzmartins. Not ‘my family’.

‘It happened during the reign of Good Queen Bess,’ Lady Lucy started. ‘The threat of the Armada had been dispelled only recently, and the country still stood in the grip of fear. People were looking for Spanish spies under their beds. It just so happened that the local landowners secretly kept to the old beliefs and celebrated the Mass in their estate. Some say, they even helped the Catholic priests to escape through their tunnels, although this part was never proven. Not that I find it unlikely,’ she added. ‘After all, these nooks and crannies should have been used for something. Through some efforts, Sir Hugo Fitzmartin – he wasn’t made an Earl of Hereford yet – found out about their secret allegiances and made haste to inform Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster.

‘As I’ve said, the atmosphere in the country was heady; the family was arrested and tried for their supposed treachery and links with the Catholic powers. Later, they managed to escape to France. Their estates were confiscated, and one of them was used to reward the loyal servant of the Crown, the one who had done so much to avert the danger …’

‘Sir Hugo Fitzmartin.’

‘Precisely. It’s even funny, when you think of it. The history of the noble house, the legacy they preen about so much, started with the story of betrayal and opportunism,’ Lucy’s eyes shone with wicked glee, as if she saw her enemy committing a blunder. ‘If life was as neat as a novel, one day it might even have ended the same way.’

Hester nodded, feeling uncomfortable. Lady Lucy’s speech cracked with such fire, it was impossible not to lean closer.

Hester felt the touch of some unknown grievances, secrets and stories, as one could feel the touch of warmth thrown by a flame.

‘So … are you working on something, my lady?’ she asked, following an association as much as wanting to change the topic.

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’ Lady Lucy barely nodded at her notebook. ‘There is a contract for ten articles, you see, and now I am struggling to find a topic for the seventh one. Such a shame December is long gone – there are endless lists of what one can write about Christmas.’

Hester nodded compassionately. Lucy’s grip on her notebook relaxed almost imperceptibly.

‘Well, strictly speaking, I do have an idea. I’m not sure, however, whether it will interest anyone. Something about the most picturesque Northern sites for motor excursions. What do you think, Blake?’

‘Me? I am not sure I know a lot about motor excursions …’

‘Oh, there is nothing complicated in that.’ Lady Lucy waved her hand. ‘One packs some tinned food, takes some friends, jumps into the car, rides away, and returns in the evening. The difficult part is to decide where to go. Everyone knows about Brighton and Bath, but people tend to imagine the Northern counties as one endless grey plain.’

‘Well, they’re wrong!’ That wasn’t probably the most thought-through thing to say, but Hester couldn’t check the hot prick of irritation. ‘There are so many lovely places. I know. I used to cycle everywhere.’

‘Splendid!’ Lucy’s eyes lit up as she moved slightly closer to her maid. ‘You should tell me all about it. Perhaps, I could write about your hometown as well.’

‘I doubt that, my lady. There isn’t much in my hometown that could rival Bath, or even Brighton.’