maid!” the girl exclaimed. “Me?”
“What is your name, dear?” Viola asked.
“Pansy Cork, miss—er, madam.”
“Very good, Cork. I expect you know nothing about the care of clothes?”
“I’ve only worked in the kitchen my whole life, madam,” Cork confessed.
“Perfect,” said Viola. “I like a blank slate. That way I needn’t waste any time purging you of bad habits. The only decent maids I’ve ever had are the ones I’ve trained myself.”
Without further ado, Viola brought the girl clean clothes. She had chosen her plainest dress, a walking dress of soft gray wool, but to Cork it looked like the raiment of a princess. There were also clean silk petticoats, drawers of soft white lawn, and a pair of silk stockings.
Cork stared, afraid to touch them. “Don’t ask me to iron them, madam,” she pleaded. “I’d be sure to ruin them.” She flew into a panic when Viola told her they were for her to wear.
“If you’re going to be a lady’s maid, you must look the part,” Viola said firmly. “Later, I will cut your hair and show you how to clean your teeth, but I’m far too tired at present. I’m going to bed.”
In fact, Viola fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
East London was heavily invested with bells, and Ludgate Hill, with its proximity to St Paul’s Cathedral, as well as dozens of other smaller churches, had more than its fair share of the daily bombardment. Promptly at six AM, they all began to ring at once, though not, of course, in unison. It was as if hell itself had broken loose and this cacophony was London’s way of beating it back, or else joining it.
At the first toll, Viola awoke with a violent start and sat up, her heart pounding, her hands clapped over her ears. The clanging was so loud she might as well have been inside a bell tower, with the peals breaking directly over her head. She jumped out of bed, and was astonished to find Pansy Cork peacefully asleep in a chair in the next room.
“Wake up,” she screamed, shaking the girl. “The inn is on fire!”
Cork jumped up. The dress Viola had given her was too long, and she stumbled over the skirts. “Six of the clock! I’m late! I’ll be skinned alive!”
All at once, Cork remembered that she was no longer employed in the kitchen. “It’s only the church bells, madam,” she assured Viola.
“Oh,” said Viola, feeling a little foolish. Gradually, her pulse returned to normal. “Well, we may as well have breakfast now we are awake,” she said, recovering. “Ring the bell, and let’s hope someone hears us over the din.”
Everyone in the inn seemed to have had the same idea at once, and breakfast was very long in arriving. In the meantime, Cork stood atop the table while Viola pinned up the hem of her dress. “These silk drawers is tickling me, madam,” Cork complained.
“These silk drawers are tickling me,” Viola corrected. “And they are not silk. They are made of lawn. Lawn is a very fine, sheer linen that is lighter than cambric. Originally, it came from a place called Laon, in France. For that reason, it is sometimes called French cambric.”
“Blimey!” Cork breathed, intimidated by the young lady’s expert knowledge.
When breakfast arrived, Cork sat down with her mistress at the table near the window.
“You will not be eating with me, of course, when we are at home,” Viola explained, looking out the window. “You will eat with the other servants. But when I’m traveling, I enjoy the company. What can you tell me about the shop across the street? Difficult to tell in this beastly fog, but I think I see hats. Hats are very important, Cork. I must teach you all about hats. I’m very particular—”
Viola’s dissertation on hats was interrupted by a sudden loud banging on the door.
“Mary Andrews! Mary Andrews, I know you’re in there! Open this door at once!”
The woman on the other side of the door was screaming furiously.
Cork jumped to her feet, but Viola motioned her to be seated. Going to the door herself, she flung it open, disclosing an ample woman with a red face. The woman wore a short pelisse of rabbit fur over a day dress of puce wool. Ostrich feathers curled over the high poke of her straw bonnet. Her small, wet mouth fell open as she stared in surprise at Viola. Arrayed in an impeccably tailored walking dress of coral pink cambric, with ribbons threaded through her now clean and glossy black ringlets, Viola obviously was not what she had expected.
“My good woman,” said Viola, with unfounded optimism, “what do you want?”
“I beg your p-pardon, ma’am,” she stammered, curtseying. “I was looking for my niece.”
“Oh? You are Mrs Dean, I collect? I have been here, madam, for nearly four hours!”
The woman gaped at her. “You mean that you are my niece?” she cried. “You naughty girl! You are not in mourning for your father, I see. And what do you mean by hiring a room—with a parlor, no less! Who do you think is going to pay for all this? You may think because I live in London that I am rich, but, I assure you, I am no such thing!”
Viola looked at her coldly. “I am quite able to pay for my room, madam.”
“Oh!” said Mrs Dean, pleased. “You have some money about you? Excellent. But you mustn’t waste it, Mary,” she cautioned. “There was no need to hire a room, not when I have gone to the trouble of coming all this way to fetch you.”
“Was I meant to stand in the yard for four hours? I didn’t realize,” Viola said tartly. “And what do you mean when you talk of coming all this way? Do you not reside in London?”
Mrs Dean chuckled at her ignorance. “London is a great big place, Mary. York is nothing compared to it.” She sailed into the room and went directly to the breakfast table. “And you are?” she inquired of Cork as she picked up the teapot.
“This is my maid, Cork,” Viola said coldly.
“A servant! Off you go, then,” cried Mrs Dean, taking Cork’s place at the table and helping herself to the remains of Cork’s breakfast. “I must say, my dear Mary,” she cried, almost choking on her bacon, “that you are far better looking than I had dared to hope. Having seen you in your infancy, I was expecting a rather common little miss, but you have grown into a beauty. You will do very well on the London market. Who knows? You might attract a rich gentleman, possibly even a handsome young lord.”
Viola was skeptical. A husband, of course, was just what little Mary Andrews needed, but what sort of husband could the teary-eyed niece of this vulgar, blowsy female expect to attract? That was the material question. “I am obliged to you, madam,” she said, looking away from the disgusting spectacle of Mrs Dean consuming her appropriated breakfast.
“What are you now—sixteen, seventeen?” Her greedy eyes went over Viola’s twenty-one-year-old figure, settling on the well-developed bosom. “You seem very poised and grown-up for such a young girl! But gentlemen like that.”
Viola’s
