Her Ladyship's Girl by Anwyn Moyle Page B

Mrs Hathaway, I’ve already dined.’
    He looked down at me with an ominous glare. I thought I’d better stand too, so I did.
    ‘This is Miss Moyle, the new lady’s maid.’
    He looked me up and down for a moment, as if he was judging a heifer at a cattle fair.
    ‘How old are you, my dear.’
    ‘I’m eighteen.’
    ‘Rather young . . .’
    He mumbled this last remark to himself and shot a raised-eyebrow glance at the other women. Mr Biggs then poured himself a cup of tea and we all sat down again.
    The other three spoke amongst themselves about household matters and largely ignored me for a while, until I eventually interrupted them.
    ‘Excuse me . . .’
    They all stopped talking and turned to look at me.
    ‘What am I supposed to be doing?’
    Mrs Hathaway spoke first, in an offhand, sarcastic way.
    ‘Don’t you know?’
    ‘Not really . . . I mean, I know what my duties will be, but I expected some sort of agenda . . .’
    Mr Biggs swallowed the last of his tea and stood up.
    ‘Mrs Bouchard is away today, so you should take the opportunity to settle in. I’m sure she will instruct you tomorrow.’
    The others stood too and it looked like lunchtime was over. I returned to my room and read for the rest of the day, interrupted only by Heather bringing me a supper of mackerel fillets with
lemon and coriander, a mixture of mashed carrot and potato and some roast figs with honey – along with another pot of tea. I left most of it and fell into a fretful sleep later in the
evening, when it was dark and forsaken outside in the groomed garden below my window.

Chapter Eight
    I was already up and dressed when Heather brought my breakfast at 8:00 a.m. next morning. She was more subdued today, and there was no sniggering
behind her hand. At about 8:30 a.m., Jacob came and knocked on the door.
    ‘Madam Bouchard will see you in half an hour.’
    He was about to leave, but I jumped up and grabbed his arm. He looked startled, like he’d just been bitten by an uncivilised dog and he pulled himself away from me.
    ‘Jacob, please . . . wait.’
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘I want to know about Mrs Bouchard.’
    ‘Then you should ask her.’
    ‘I’m asking you. Please, Jacob . . .’
    My big eyes and girlish guile must have softened his heart. He came back into the room and closed the door.
    ‘You mustn’t say I said anything.’
    ‘Upon my apostate soul.’
    His voice was a low whisper, as if someone might be listening, and he told me what he knew about Madam Bouchard, as he called her. Her maiden name was Brandon and she held the title of
‘Lady’. Her family went all the way back to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who married Mary Tudor, one of the daughters of Henry VII. They had several children, one of whom, called
Frances, married Henry Grey, who was also Duke of Suffolk, and their daughter was Jane Grey, who was queen of England for nine days, before being executed by Bloody Mary when she was sixteen. But
Madam Bouchard’s ancestors were from the more obscure branch of the family tree of one of Charles Brandon’s illegitimate children and couldn’t claim any entitlement to the throne.
The Madam herself had a younger brother who would inherit her father’s title and also the country estate in Warwickshire. He had a separate house in London and he rarely visited Chester
Square.
    Jacob didn’t want to go on, but I knew there was more to it and I stood inside the door and wouldn’t move out of his way until he told me. More recently, Mr Brandon senior was
involved in military intelligence during the Great War. He was attached to MI3d, which apparently handled Scandinavia. Mr Brandon junior was too young to be involved in the war, and he didn’t
really do anything these days, but follow his adventurer father round the world on his trips to out of the way places. The Brandons kept their cards close to their chests and that’s all Jacob
knew about them. Madam Brandon, as he called her, was the black