the watermarks were few, but unfortunately the paper reeked. What on earth Mother would make of this I hardly dare imagine. I was certain she would ascribe to the belief that only ‘women of a certain sort’ used perfumed paper. I was sniffing the paper when Merry came in behind me.
‘Is there a problem?’ Her voice was peppery with indignation.
I turned and smiled. ‘I was thinking how cleverly you had perfumed these sheets.’ And this wasn’t a lie. It wouldn’t have been easy for Merry to both make and use the lavender water.
‘Cook said I could.’
‘Could what?’ I asked mystified.
‘Take lavender from the garden.’
‘Of course. I didn’t think anything else.’
‘Oh yes you did,’ said Merry dumping the envelope down on my desk. ‘You’ve been setting yourself above the rest of us.’
I blinked at the vehemence in her voice. ‘Merry,’ I said gently. ‘I know this is a terrible time for you.’
She cut me off. ‘I’ll have to ask you to replace what you use.’
‘Of course,’ I said coldly. ‘I would not dream of trespassing on your kindness.’
Merry gave me a look of pure loathing and flung out of the room. I tried to clear my brain and write a few short lines to Mother.
Dearest Mother,
I hope you are well and that the new cottage is to your liking. I have had to borrow this paper from another maid. I shall procure proper paper soon. I have been fortunate enough to be able to do the master of the house a personal service and have a half-sovereign which I shall shortly send to you. The lamentable thinness of this stationery precludes the possibility.
I hesitated. She might hear of the murder. For all I knew it was already in the papers.
If, by any chance, you had heard news of the unfortunate occurrence at this house, please be assured that I am well and under no suspicion. The cook at this house, Mrs Deighton, is a most respectable woman, as is the butler, a Mr Holdsworth. Both have taken me under their wing and I am quite getting into the swing of working in such a big house. There are adequate servants and I do not find the work hard.
At the first opportunity I will return home for a short visit to assure you of both my health and my good fortune in securing this position.
Your loving, dutiful daughter
Euphemia
Post script: Much love to Little Joe
Post post script: I hope the new pigs are proving obedient and fattening quickly.
I read over the letter, before adding:
Post post script: Mr Holdsworth is, of course, a man, but still quite respectable.
I hesitated.
Post post script: Please forgive the post scripts, but this letter was written in haste as I only have a short time to reach the post office before it closes.
It was less than a pattern card letter, but then I had only the two sheets, little time and I knew Mother hated reading a scored-through letter. At least I would not be present to hear her strictures on my lackadaisical correspondence. I fitted the letter into its envelope, collected my outdoor things and hurried down the back stairs.
The air was sharp with an impending frost and the winter light weak, but already the turning of the year at midwinter meant daylight lasted a little longer.
I had had more than adequate opportunity to mark the way from my slow arrival on cart and had a fair idea of where the village lay. I also have a remarkable sense of direction, so despite the confusion of corpses of trees on both the left and then the right side of a crossroads and the exceedingly bad lettering on the sign, I soon found myself heading down the hill towards the pretty little village green with its crop of cottages and small shops.
The sun was levelling off on the horizon, sending the bare trees with their angular black limbs into sharp relief. A smooth white frost crept across the fields; the white line practically rising before my eyes as if dragged by invisible hands. The air caught at the back of my throat in a not unpleasant manner. The cold
‘Is there a problem?’ Her voice was peppery with indignation.
I turned and smiled. ‘I was thinking how cleverly you had perfumed these sheets.’ And this wasn’t a lie. It wouldn’t have been easy for Merry to both make and use the lavender water.
‘Cook said I could.’
‘Could what?’ I asked mystified.
‘Take lavender from the garden.’
‘Of course. I didn’t think anything else.’
‘Oh yes you did,’ said Merry dumping the envelope down on my desk. ‘You’ve been setting yourself above the rest of us.’
I blinked at the vehemence in her voice. ‘Merry,’ I said gently. ‘I know this is a terrible time for you.’
She cut me off. ‘I’ll have to ask you to replace what you use.’
‘Of course,’ I said coldly. ‘I would not dream of trespassing on your kindness.’
Merry gave me a look of pure loathing and flung out of the room. I tried to clear my brain and write a few short lines to Mother.
Dearest Mother,
I hope you are well and that the new cottage is to your liking. I have had to borrow this paper from another maid. I shall procure proper paper soon. I have been fortunate enough to be able to do the master of the house a personal service and have a half-sovereign which I shall shortly send to you. The lamentable thinness of this stationery precludes the possibility.
I hesitated. She might hear of the murder. For all I knew it was already in the papers.
If, by any chance, you had heard news of the unfortunate occurrence at this house, please be assured that I am well and under no suspicion. The cook at this house, Mrs Deighton, is a most respectable woman, as is the butler, a Mr Holdsworth. Both have taken me under their wing and I am quite getting into the swing of working in such a big house. There are adequate servants and I do not find the work hard.
At the first opportunity I will return home for a short visit to assure you of both my health and my good fortune in securing this position.
Your loving, dutiful daughter
Euphemia
Post script: Much love to Little Joe
Post post script: I hope the new pigs are proving obedient and fattening quickly.
I read over the letter, before adding:
Post post script: Mr Holdsworth is, of course, a man, but still quite respectable.
I hesitated.
Post post script: Please forgive the post scripts, but this letter was written in haste as I only have a short time to reach the post office before it closes.
It was less than a pattern card letter, but then I had only the two sheets, little time and I knew Mother hated reading a scored-through letter. At least I would not be present to hear her strictures on my lackadaisical correspondence. I fitted the letter into its envelope, collected my outdoor things and hurried down the back stairs.
The air was sharp with an impending frost and the winter light weak, but already the turning of the year at midwinter meant daylight lasted a little longer.
I had had more than adequate opportunity to mark the way from my slow arrival on cart and had a fair idea of where the village lay. I also have a remarkable sense of direction, so despite the confusion of corpses of trees on both the left and then the right side of a crossroads and the exceedingly bad lettering on the sign, I soon found myself heading down the hill towards the pretty little village green with its crop of cottages and small shops.
The sun was levelling off on the horizon, sending the bare trees with their angular black limbs into sharp relief. A smooth white frost crept across the fields; the white line practically rising before my eyes as if dragged by invisible hands. The air caught at the back of my throat in a not unpleasant manner. The cold
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