that I was becoming like Art, my only friend having four legs, and decided it was imperative that I improve my English. Mr. Wrexham was similarly determined, although for a different motive: he had high hopes for me in the dining room. I must not speak, nor eavesdrop, and yet I must be capable of impeccable English conversation. He thrust upon me The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, in Two Volumes , as well as Debrett’s Baronetage of England, 1920. He attempted to add Mrs. Beeton to my pile, and his lip twitched in approval when I explained I already owned a copy.
“You would do well to study it, Elise. Devote one hour a day to the wisdom of Isabella Beeton. She writes for the lady of the house, but her insight is universal. Universal.”
I would have laughed at his familiarity with “Isabella,” whispering her name in the dreamy tones of an old lover, but I knew by now that Mr. Wrexham was a man entirely without humour, who did not take kindly to the smiles of others. I stashed his books in the corner of my bedroom, resolving never to read them.
Early one morning in my second week, while cleaning the blue guest room, a sun-filled space with sky-coloured curtains, I encountered a stack of novels on the windowsill. They were clearly provided for the entertainment of female guests, set apart from the leather-bound volumes in Mr. Rivers’ library. I perched on the window seat overlooking the rolling lawns. It had been pouring for hours, and the gardens were soaked, the snapdragons and hollyhocks lying stooped and battered in the beds, but now a streak of sun made the wet grass glisten, while the black storm clouds raced across the hills like smoke from a band of dragons. The sky drifting above the sea was empty and pale blue. I longed to walk down to the beach, sit on the rocks and breathe gulps of salt air. I’d been inside the house for days, and I felt caged and cross. Picking out a novel with a tattered orange cover, I determined to escape for a couple of hours. I concealed the filched book at the bottom of my cleaning box and disappeared up to my room to collect a volume of the Oxford English before returning to the service corridor. I paused outside Mr. Wrexham’s open door. It was not yet eight o’clock, and he stood in his perfectly pressed tails, ironing Mr. Rivers’ newspaper. I entered in silence, peering around his elbow as I tried to read the headlines. I needed to find a way of obtaining the discarded papers; I’d been in Tyneford for nearly a fortnight and I was starved of news. Mrs. Ellsworth had a wireless in her parlour and allowed May and me to listen as a treat some evenings, but she only liked the light programs. The old papers were meticulously stored in the butler’s room, but I suspected that Mr. Wrexham would class borrowing discarded newspapers from his room as theft. He did not approve of females taking any interest in politics; newspapers were the preserve of men, while only gentlemen were permitted opinions upon their contents.
“Mr. Wrexham?”
He jumped, nearly dropping the iron.
“Elise! You almost made me scald Mr. Rivers’ Times.”
“I am most sorry, Mr. Wrexham.”
“No, it’s ‘I am very sorry.’ You must learn.”
“I am very sorry.”
He set the iron beside the stove in the corner. “Almost. It’s ‘v-very.’ Not a ‘w-wet Wellington.’ Ah. Good, I see you have the dictionary.”
“Yes, I have the headache, Mr. Wrexham. Please, I go and study English in fresh air?”
He scowled. “But your duties?”
“I have cleaned guest rooms. Fires are laid. With air I be better by lunchtime.”
He hesitated and then shrugged. “Very well. One hour. But this is not to become a habit, mind. You need to be strong in service, yes?”
I nodded and gave a smile, which I hoped appeared sincere. “Yes, I am strong girl.”
“Very well, then. Off you go.” He returned to ironing the newspaper.
I hesitated and then cleared my throat. “Mr. Wrexham? I can put
“You would do well to study it, Elise. Devote one hour a day to the wisdom of Isabella Beeton. She writes for the lady of the house, but her insight is universal. Universal.”
I would have laughed at his familiarity with “Isabella,” whispering her name in the dreamy tones of an old lover, but I knew by now that Mr. Wrexham was a man entirely without humour, who did not take kindly to the smiles of others. I stashed his books in the corner of my bedroom, resolving never to read them.
Early one morning in my second week, while cleaning the blue guest room, a sun-filled space with sky-coloured curtains, I encountered a stack of novels on the windowsill. They were clearly provided for the entertainment of female guests, set apart from the leather-bound volumes in Mr. Rivers’ library. I perched on the window seat overlooking the rolling lawns. It had been pouring for hours, and the gardens were soaked, the snapdragons and hollyhocks lying stooped and battered in the beds, but now a streak of sun made the wet grass glisten, while the black storm clouds raced across the hills like smoke from a band of dragons. The sky drifting above the sea was empty and pale blue. I longed to walk down to the beach, sit on the rocks and breathe gulps of salt air. I’d been inside the house for days, and I felt caged and cross. Picking out a novel with a tattered orange cover, I determined to escape for a couple of hours. I concealed the filched book at the bottom of my cleaning box and disappeared up to my room to collect a volume of the Oxford English before returning to the service corridor. I paused outside Mr. Wrexham’s open door. It was not yet eight o’clock, and he stood in his perfectly pressed tails, ironing Mr. Rivers’ newspaper. I entered in silence, peering around his elbow as I tried to read the headlines. I needed to find a way of obtaining the discarded papers; I’d been in Tyneford for nearly a fortnight and I was starved of news. Mrs. Ellsworth had a wireless in her parlour and allowed May and me to listen as a treat some evenings, but she only liked the light programs. The old papers were meticulously stored in the butler’s room, but I suspected that Mr. Wrexham would class borrowing discarded newspapers from his room as theft. He did not approve of females taking any interest in politics; newspapers were the preserve of men, while only gentlemen were permitted opinions upon their contents.
“Mr. Wrexham?”
He jumped, nearly dropping the iron.
“Elise! You almost made me scald Mr. Rivers’ Times.”
“I am most sorry, Mr. Wrexham.”
“No, it’s ‘I am very sorry.’ You must learn.”
“I am very sorry.”
He set the iron beside the stove in the corner. “Almost. It’s ‘v-very.’ Not a ‘w-wet Wellington.’ Ah. Good, I see you have the dictionary.”
“Yes, I have the headache, Mr. Wrexham. Please, I go and study English in fresh air?”
He scowled. “But your duties?”
“I have cleaned guest rooms. Fires are laid. With air I be better by lunchtime.”
He hesitated and then shrugged. “Very well. One hour. But this is not to become a habit, mind. You need to be strong in service, yes?”
I nodded and gave a smile, which I hoped appeared sincere. “Yes, I am strong girl.”
“Very well, then. Off you go.” He returned to ironing the newspaper.
I hesitated and then cleared my throat. “Mr. Wrexham? I can put
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