The Downstairs Maid by Rosie Clarke Page A

to persuade Sir Arthur Jones to propose to her. He had seemed taken with her at Christmas and he’d called on them quite a few times since, but as yet he had shown no signs of wanting to marry her.
    Somehow, she had to make him speak, because she had settled on it in her mind that he would do. She wasn’t in love with him, of course, but she liked him and she enjoyed his company. Besides, he was very rich. He’d floated the emerald mine shares on the Stock Exchange and Lord Barton said they had sold well, bringing Arthur a sizeable fortune on top of what he already had. Amy knew that stuck here at the manor, she wasn’t likely to meet many men who could give her the lifestyle she wanted.
    It was so unfair. She ought to have had her chance to shine in society, to have men admire her and flirt with her. Amy longed for excitement, the thrill of being courted by someone dashing and handsome … someone who would make her go weak at the knees. Arthur didn’t make her feel like that, though she’d quite enjoyed it when he’d kissed her cheek – but she wished he’d been more passionate. She wanted a man who would sweep her off her feet and carry her away on a tide of passion.
    She wanted altogether too much, Amy admitted and laughed, as she fastened pearl drops to her ears and sprayed on a little French perfume. She would just have to forgo the passion, at least until she’d been married a while and could take a lover without getting caught.
    Arthur was exactly what she needed as a husband and he would just have to do.
    Lizzie was feeling lonely. Nicolas was back at Eton, Jonathan was out on the estate somewhere and Amy had gone for a ride in Sir Arthur’s automobile. It was a De Dion, painted green with shiny wheels and a wooden steering wheel. Lizzie wished she might have gone with them, but Amy hadn’t even considered asking her if she would like to go. Amy had been seeing Sir Arthur regularly since Christmas. He called at the house at least twice or three times a week and he’d taken Amy to parties and dances.
    Lizzie was afraid he was in love with her. She’d seen the look in his eyes when he saw Amy enter a room and she knew her own feelings for him were doomed to disappointment. It would be silly of her to sulk or cry over it, because Sir Arthur had never looked her way. It wasn’t as if Amy had stolen her beau. He hardly knew that Lizzie was alive.
    ‘Lizzie dearest, come here a moment, will you?’
    She turned as her grandmother called to her, going obediently to her side. Granny was leaning heavily on her stick. Dressed in a dark grey gown with a high neck finished with a lace collar and a rather splendid cameo brooch at the throat, she looked like the Victorian matriarch she was. Lady Prior made few concessions to the modern era, her drawing-room a hotchpotch of styles ranging from good Chippendale chairs to heavy, over-stuffed sofas bought when she was a bride. The rooms she used were crammed with knickknacks she’d collected, because although she added something every time she was given a gift, however insignificant, she never put anything aside. Priceless silver and objets d’art mingled with cheap china fairings her grandchildren had given her and an assortment of photographs in frames. She was a lady of strict morals and had a highly developed sense of her place in the world. Lizzie suspected that her grandmother suffered a lot of pain with her rheumatism, but she never complained, because one didn’t if one had ‘backbone’.
    ‘I would like you to run a little errand for me, Lizzie,’ Granny said. ‘Would you mind having the pony and trap put to and taking a note to Reverend Potter for me?’
    ‘Of course not,’ Lizzie felt rather pleased. She’d been bored on her own and it would make a change. ‘There’s no need for me to take the trap, I can walk into Witchford. It is a lovely day and I like to walk.’
    ‘Very well, if you prefer. It’s bright and dry even if cold. Wrap up warm and