she said, holding me fast with her unyielding gaze. ‘Did I not distinctly say that I would need you at seven o’clock?’
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘And what is your excuse?’
I told her straight out that I had none.
‘Good. To have prevaricated would have done you no service. You took the honest course, as I hoped you would. But it must not happen again, Alice, no matter what the circumstances are, or there will be consequences. When I name a time, I expect it to be kept. I hope that is clear?’
‘Perfectly clear, my Lady.’
‘I am displeased with you, of course,’ she continued, walking over to the dressing-glass, ‘for I expected better from you, and I distinctly told you that certain standards must be observed. I shall not punish you this time, however, but you must do a little penance.’
Moving away from the glass, she seated herself at her dressing-table and began fingering through a box of jewellery.
‘Penance, my Lady?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it is nothing,’ came the consciously careless reply. ‘A walk, on this fine September morning, that’s all. To Easton, to take a letter. That will not be too arduous, I suppose?’
‘Not at all, my Lady.’
‘You may go after my toilet is completed – I think I shall wear the blue taffeta today.’
I dressed her hair in the way she liked, and helped her into the day-gown she had indicated, which, following Mrs Beeton’s instructions, I brushed and gently smoothed with a silk handkerchief as my mistress stood observing herself in the glass. When she was satisfied, she went back to her dressing-table and opened the box containing the tear-shaped locket on its black velvet band, which she then placed round her neck.
‘You are curious, are you not, Alice,’ she asked, ‘about this locket of mine, and why it is so precious to me?’
‘A little, my Lady,’ I confessed.
‘Well, I shall tell you about it, but not at present, for you have your penance to perform, and I have more letters to write. The one I wish you to take is on the escritoire. You are to go to the Duport Arms, in the Market Square, and leave it at the desk for collection – for collection, mind. Do not, under any circumstance, give it to the recipient yourself. Then you must come back directly. Of course there is no need to mention this little penance of yours to anyone – for your own sake.’
Then, to my surprise, she announced, almost as an afterthought, that she must take the express-train to London, on an urgent matter of business.
‘It is so tedious,’ she sighed, ‘and I do so hate London these days. But it cannnot be helped. I shall return this evening. While I am gone, after you have delivered the letter, there are a few small tasks I wish you to carry out.’
Here are the ‘few small tasks’, additional to my ‘penance’, to which I had to look forward to on my return from Easton.
The gown she had worn the previous day had sustained a small tear in the hem that required mending; her chaussure had been left in the most disgraceful state by Miss Plumptre, and every pair of shoes required a thorough clean; her hats were in the same deplorable condition (‘I adore hats,’ she said, turning to me with a smile, ‘and have a great many’), and each one would need brushing, the decorations renovated where necessary (‘Although I cannot now remember where the flower-pliers are. Ask Mrs Battersby’), and putting away afresh.
‘The bed-chamber, of course,’ she went on, ‘will need a good sweeping, which I really should insist that you do now; but you may do it when you return from Easton. There! I think that’s all. Now, run along and make the bed, whilst I put on a little scent and finish my letters. Be as quick as you can, so that you can get off to Easton. And remember – for collection, and come straight back. No need to wait for a reply.’
III
The Old Woman
MY WAY TO Easton took me over the Evenbrook, and through the South Gates into the village of Evenwood. As I approached
‘Yes, my Lady.’
‘And what is your excuse?’
I told her straight out that I had none.
‘Good. To have prevaricated would have done you no service. You took the honest course, as I hoped you would. But it must not happen again, Alice, no matter what the circumstances are, or there will be consequences. When I name a time, I expect it to be kept. I hope that is clear?’
‘Perfectly clear, my Lady.’
‘I am displeased with you, of course,’ she continued, walking over to the dressing-glass, ‘for I expected better from you, and I distinctly told you that certain standards must be observed. I shall not punish you this time, however, but you must do a little penance.’
Moving away from the glass, she seated herself at her dressing-table and began fingering through a box of jewellery.
‘Penance, my Lady?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it is nothing,’ came the consciously careless reply. ‘A walk, on this fine September morning, that’s all. To Easton, to take a letter. That will not be too arduous, I suppose?’
‘Not at all, my Lady.’
‘You may go after my toilet is completed – I think I shall wear the blue taffeta today.’
I dressed her hair in the way she liked, and helped her into the day-gown she had indicated, which, following Mrs Beeton’s instructions, I brushed and gently smoothed with a silk handkerchief as my mistress stood observing herself in the glass. When she was satisfied, she went back to her dressing-table and opened the box containing the tear-shaped locket on its black velvet band, which she then placed round her neck.
‘You are curious, are you not, Alice,’ she asked, ‘about this locket of mine, and why it is so precious to me?’
‘A little, my Lady,’ I confessed.
‘Well, I shall tell you about it, but not at present, for you have your penance to perform, and I have more letters to write. The one I wish you to take is on the escritoire. You are to go to the Duport Arms, in the Market Square, and leave it at the desk for collection – for collection, mind. Do not, under any circumstance, give it to the recipient yourself. Then you must come back directly. Of course there is no need to mention this little penance of yours to anyone – for your own sake.’
Then, to my surprise, she announced, almost as an afterthought, that she must take the express-train to London, on an urgent matter of business.
‘It is so tedious,’ she sighed, ‘and I do so hate London these days. But it cannnot be helped. I shall return this evening. While I am gone, after you have delivered the letter, there are a few small tasks I wish you to carry out.’
Here are the ‘few small tasks’, additional to my ‘penance’, to which I had to look forward to on my return from Easton.
The gown she had worn the previous day had sustained a small tear in the hem that required mending; her chaussure had been left in the most disgraceful state by Miss Plumptre, and every pair of shoes required a thorough clean; her hats were in the same deplorable condition (‘I adore hats,’ she said, turning to me with a smile, ‘and have a great many’), and each one would need brushing, the decorations renovated where necessary (‘Although I cannot now remember where the flower-pliers are. Ask Mrs Battersby’), and putting away afresh.
‘The bed-chamber, of course,’ she went on, ‘will need a good sweeping, which I really should insist that you do now; but you may do it when you return from Easton. There! I think that’s all. Now, run along and make the bed, whilst I put on a little scent and finish my letters. Be as quick as you can, so that you can get off to Easton. And remember – for collection, and come straight back. No need to wait for a reply.’
III
The Old Woman
MY WAY TO Easton took me over the Evenbrook, and through the South Gates into the village of Evenwood. As I approached
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