Mary Reilly by Valerie Martin Page A

slowly at first, until I could see the big bed, empty and neatly made up, as I had done it that morning. In a moment I entered the room and closed the door behind me. I know every inch of Master’s room, for I have cleaned it often enough, yet it seemed to me I was in a strange place full of secrets. Perhaps it was the light, which was very dim, though I could see my way about easily enough. The windows was open and the lace curtain puffed in a little from the breeze, which was warm, very damp. Soon it would be raining, I could smell that in the air.
    How odd I felt! How odd I was! I went to Master’s shaving mirror and looked at my face in the glass. Myhair was down and wild around my face, which looked very pale and vexed to me, and my eyes seemed bright, no doubt from being washed by tears. I saw there was two lines in my forehead and I rubbed at them. I dropped my cloak on the carpet to look at my neck and shoulders—also, it seemed to me, too pale even against the white of my night shift. But my shoulders and arms are strong, from the heavy work I do, especially getting the coal up, and it gave me a little pleasure to see that though I am small, I do look strong and healthy. I would have looked in the cheval glass but it is gone to Master’s cabinet where even now, I thought, perhaps Master is looking up from his work to see himself, or Mr. Edward Hyde who has come running in with a cheque. That fancy vexed me so that I turned away from the glass and stood looking at Master’s bed. It is a fine piece—heavy, dark, carved with strange fruits and flowers across the headboard, which is high, and the footboard, also higher than most, I think, with feet that look like a bird’s claw holding onto a ball of gleaming wood. Whenever I am polishing it, or making it up, or turning the mattress, I cannot but admire it. I felt so bold then that I went over to it and smoothed the coverlet, then rested my cheek against it. All my fear was vanished, and even it seemed most of my sense, for at the thought that Mr. Poole might come in and see me in my shift, swooning over Master’s bed, I had to hold down a laugh.
    Then I stood up still, thinking I might be heard, that even my bare feet on the carpet must give me away if I so much as made a move for the door. I leanedagainst the bed, looking at the room around me, Master’s shaving basin, the fireplace—cold now, for it had not been lit since the day before—the wine-coloured chair he sometimes draws up before it, the pictures on the walls, all drawings and paintings of scenes, all in heavy, dark frames, the heavy, winy curtains with the lace beneath rustling in the breeze. Then a sadness come over me and I felt I was sinking very low, from my fear on the stairs and the memories stirred up of being hunted and noplace to hide. I thought, I cannot live if I am not to feel safe in
this
house, with
this
master, who has cared for me and talked to me, who values me as no one ever has. If I must cringe and weep in
this
house, then what will become of me?
    I put on my cloak, which I wrapped around me tight, for I felt cold of a sudden and weak, and went out as quiet as I could, down the hall and up to my room. Annie was asleep and in a moment I slipped in beside her, where I lay still but not sleeping, until a long hour had passed and it was time to get up and go about my work.
    W e all of us spent the morning in a bad temper, airing rooms, polishing silver, brushing clothes, cleaning pots, keeping a house for a master who is not there. Mr. Poole went out and came back with Master’sdinner tray which had not been touched. It is warm and the fires in the hall and drawing room has been down these two days, so I made up my mind to take advantage of it. After lunch I dressed in my oldest apron, took up my brushes and polish, and set to cleaning and blacking the grates, getting out all the ashes in scuttles, a job which makes me as black as a sweep. I was halfway up the chimney in the hall