do them,” said Lizzie.
“And they’re huge. He’s got feet like barges. The Crocodile’s the same; always huge, muddy boots to clean, or dusty ones to shine, every single night. Why they can’t spend a day in the house and give their feet a rest, I don’t know. No, they must go out, whatever the weather.” She poured boiling water into the pot and left Lizzie to set milk and sugar next to it. “There you go, Lizzie. There’s their bell too, just on time! The Dearies are ready for their breakfast, and breakfast is ready for the Dearies. Up the stairs, turn right, up the next stairs, first door on your left. Don’t wash them, Lizzie. That’s the Lazy Cat’s job, not yours. Come on, Em’ly. We’ll catch the butcher nice and early for the best cuts if we hurry.”
“Not nervous, are you?” Emily paused as she was picking up her warm cloak, watching Lizzie. She knew how her sister was feeling, with her pale face set in that determined way and her mouth drawn into a thin, tight line. She also knew that Lizzie was determined to do the job as well as she possibly could, for Ma’s sake, and that nothing, not even fear of his lordship himself, would stop her. “Good luck, Lizzie,” she said. She swung her cloak round her shoulders and followed Rosie out of the door.
Lizzie waited till the sound of their footsteps had gone before she dared to lift up the tray. “Up the stairs, turn right, up the next stairs, first door on my left. No, right. No, left. I’m sure it’s left. And I’ll do it so well that Rosie will speak for me.” She took a deep breath and edged her way out of the kitchen door and up the dark stairs.
Lizzie was so nervous that the cups rattled in their saucers like old bones. The door at the top of the servants’ stairs was closed. She lowered the tray down onto the top step and everything tilted dangerously sideways; the cups slid, the cutlery rolled, the tea slurped out of the spout of the pot. She held the tray firm with her shoe pressed against it because the step was so narrow. She didn’t want it tipping down the stairs. She turned the knob and pushed open the door, but as soon as she bent down to pick up the tray, the door swung shut again. She tried again, and the same thing happened. She was close to tears. “I could try holding it with one hand, like Rosie does,” she thought. “But I might drop it, and then what?” She decided that the only thing she could do was to get herself through the door first. She opened the door, stepped over the tray onto the landing, nearly dislodging it as she did so, and then crouched down so she was wedging the door open with her body. She leaned down, carefully lifted up the tray, and almost overbalanced. She was panting with effort and triumph when at last she managed to stand up and turn round. And there was Judd, arms akimbo, staring at her in amazement.
“What on earth is going on?” she demanded.
The contents of the tray chattered like loose teeth. “I’m taking the Dearies their breakfast.”
“Don’t you dare refer to them as the Dearies! They’re Mistress Rickett and Mistress Whittle. And you’re late. Get on with it, keep quiet, and don’t go into any room but theirs. Quick!”
A round pasty face appeared from another doorway behind Judd. The Lazy Cat! Lizzie thought. Well, I’ll show her how well I can do my job. Better than she can, any day. Judd stepped away, and Lizzie saw now that the hallway was glowing with colour: flowery wallpaper and carpet, red velvet chairs and curtains, a crystal chandelier gleaming with teardrops like a rainbow. It was not at all like the dingy kitchen down below stairs.
“What are you waiting for?” said Judd. “They won’t want cold tea, you know.”
The carpet was as soft as grass under Lizzie’s feet. At the top of the stairs she paused again. She had completely forgotten which way to go. The first door, but was it on the left or the right? There were six doors on the landing, and all of them were closed. She daren’t go back down again, daren’t face Judd’s wrath and the Lazy Cat’s scornful smile. Something told her it would be bad manners to call out. She put the tray down on a polished table and stood outside the first door on the right. I’m sure it was this one, she thought. She could hear nothing from inside. She knocked timidly, then more bravely. Still nothing. She turned the knob slowly and peeped inside. In front of her was a bed with a beautiful fringed quilt over it. Standing round the walls were huge pieces of dark wood furniture. There was a standard lamp with a fringed shade, and long, thick green curtains at the windows. But no Dearies. She closed the door softly. Her heart was thumping.
She crept to the door on the other side of the staircase, listened again, and now she could hear the mumble of voices. She knocked softly.
“Knock, knock!” called a voice from inside. “Tea, lovely tea!”
Lizzie opened the door, went back for the tray, and crept into the room. Facing her was a big iron bed with two old ladies sitting bolt upright in it. One had lost her nightcap, and her thin grey hair hung in long strand like cobwebs round her face. She clapped her hands together with delight. “Tea, Mistress Rickett! Tea!”
Mistress Rickett glared at Lizzie with round, pebbly eyes. “Who is it, Mistress Whittle?”
“Please, miss. Please, miss,” said Lizzie, glancing from one to the other and trying to bob a curtsy without dropping anything, “I’ve brought your breakfast.”
“Move over, Mistress Rickett,” the cobwebby one said. She patted a space clear on the counterpane that covered the bed. “Put the tray down. My mouth’s as dry as a desert. Look!” She poked out a yellow tongue.
“Who is it?” Mistress Rickett asked again.
“The tea girl. Pour it out, now! I’m parched.”
With shaking hands Lizzie did as she was told. She held out a rattling cup and saucer to each of the Dearies, then stood back, watching them sip their tea. She didn’t know whether she was supposed to go or stay. At last Mistress Whittle slurped her way to the bottom of her cup and handed it back to Lizzie.
“Pour me another. Plenty of sugar this time. Put some marmalade on my bread. Poke the fire. Open the curtains. Pour me some more tea.” Every so often the orders came, while the two Dearies worked their way through the tea and the bread and marmalade. But worst of all, definitely worst of all, was when the cobwebby one lifted up the counterpane and thrust out her skinny legs.
“Wash us.”
“Brush our hair,” giggled Mistress Rickett.
“Put us on the commode.”
I’ll do it, Lizzie thought grimly. Even though she knew it was not her job. I’ll do it so well that Judd will think I’m better than the Lazy Cat.
At last the Dearies were put back into bed, hair brushed and plaited (which Lizzie quite enjoyed doing), pillows plumped, fire blazing, teapot completely empty, all the bread and marmalade gone. Lizzie had spent all morning with them, and there’d been no sign at all of the Lazy Cat. She could hear her stomach rumbling and realised that she hadn’t eaten anything herself yet.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Have you brought tea?” Mistress Whittle asked brightly.
“Who is it?” Mistress Rickett asked. But her eyes were closing, her head sinking back against the pillow. Mistress Whittle looked round at her, tried to nudge her awake, and yawned. She smiled sleepily at Lizzie.
Lizzie tucked the counterpane round them, picked up the tray, and tiptoed out of the room. “Please don’t wake up,” she whispered.
