Did it never stop raining in London? If it wasn't raining, it was the fog – a sweeping yellow blanket to choke the life out of even the hardiest soul. It was lucky I'd brought my umbrella and adorned myself with my warmest clothing, else I would've been soaked to the bone and freezing my petticoats off. Looking at the scrap of rain-dappled parchment in my hand, I studied the address, then glanced up at the numbers nailed or painted onto the facades of the houses. Quite an upscale neighborhood – not that I would have expected different from a respectable London doctor.
"46 Harley Street," I mumbled. Spotting the house, I sighed gently. It was no wonder the doctor needed a maid – the building was grand, tall and grey – and enormous, even compared to neighboring houses. It was respectable and well-kept – for London, where everything became grey and dingy with soot by the day, but to my eye, the window-frames were grimed, and the stoop looked as though it hadn't seen a good scrubbing in a week or more. Well, perhaps I could put that to rights. If they would have me, that was.
Adjusting my Sunday hat – my only hat – I smoothed my hand down my Sunday dress, only slightly spotted with the rain, and shifted the carpetbag holding my meager belongings. I was as clean and fresh as could possibly be expected on such a day, especially after my walk – and thankfully my hat did much to conceal my hair. A ridiculously bright shade of auburn, I prayed they wouldn't take one look at it and think me a harlot, or worse, Irish. Never mind that I am Irish; hopefully the doctor's household wasn't one that believed the Irish were worse than the scum on their boots. What little I knew of them suggested they wouldn't share that opinion. Mrs. Kent, the good doctor's cook – who I knew somewhat – had shared a little with me. I knew the doctor was a bachelor, and that the house was too much for the small staff to handle on their own. The 'tweeny couldn't be trusted – being a 'tweeny - and the major domo Poole thought himself too high to do the heavier work. So I knew they'd have need of someone willing to do her share without complaint – which I was more than willing and ready to do.
Stepping along the cobbles and down the wrought iron framed path, I passed the front and followed the crushed gravel down to the kitchen entry 'round the side. With a tap, I waited on the step, tipping my head to keep the rain from dripping down the brim of my hat and into my eyes. Blowing aside a lock of reddish hair, I quickly hid it again as the door opened. A tall man, clean shaven and austere (pinched, my mam would have said), with white hair and a stiff spine looked down at me as if at a mouse in his cheese. "May I help you?" The words sounded unwilling, coming from so tight a mouth. The knot of nervousness in my stomach jumped up into my throat. "I... I'm Mary Reilly, sir. I've come about the advertisement. For help. Sir." I closed my umbrella, then fidgeted with the strap. "Have I come at a bad time?"
"Reilly." His pale eyes took me in from my boots to the drooping ribbons in my bonnet – arrested for several moments by (I knew it) the color of my hair. "Irish." His lip curled slightly, though his tone was no more or less disdainful than when he'd greeted me a moment ago. Seeing as I could hardly deny that, I merely nodded, meeting his cold gaze without saying more. At last he spun on his heel and stepped back within, gesturing curtly for me to follow. With a deep breath, I swallowed and hefted my bag again, following him inside.
The kitchen was quite a contrast to the cold, grey outdoors. Warm, brightly lit to dispel the day's gloom, and filled with smells of cooking that made my stomach growl; the other denizens of the below stairs of the doctor's house were gathered there, performing a multitude of homely tasks. Mrs. Kent, shelling peas at the small, high table, saw me, her face lighting with pleasure as she rose. There was another girl, dark haired, younger perhaps than me, scrubbing away at a sinkfull of pots, and a boy with a pile of boots at his feet – both looked up when the tall man strode past, but neither spoke.
Mrs. Kent came forward, coming between me and my guide, who paused with a frown. "'ere, Poole, let the poor thing rest a mite before you take 'er to the Master; She's just come a long way, and on 'er own two feet. Let 'er catch a breath." She laid a hand on my arm with a sympathetic smile, and took the bag from my cold-stiffened fingers. "Now, now. Just take off them wet things and breathe a bit. Master's waited this long; 'e can wait two minutes more." The lines in Poole's face deepened, his eyes growing still colder, but he didn't dignify her interruption with a response. His chest rose as he drew an impatient breath, long fingers twitching once at his sides. I could see he was not a man accustomed to waiting for his underlings.
Master. My fingers fumbled at the knot of my cloak, drawing it off and over my arm. I wondered what this Master would be like, and if I would be able to please him. I swallowed again. I had no choice but to please – I had nowhere else to go. Mrs. Kent took the cloak from me, as well as my hat once my fingers managed to unloose the sodden ribbon beneath my chin. "I'll take these up to the attic, Mary; now don't worry about a thing. The Master won't bite." She gave a nod to Poole, bringing an affronted look to his shark-like eyes, and bustled out. I smoothed the wrinkles from my apron and ran my hands over the braided knot of my hair – aware that it must look even redder than before in the sunny glow of the kitchen lamps. Poole made a small sound in his throat as he looked at it, then turned abruptly from me again. "Come. Let's get this over with." He took me into the corridor, then through a maze of rooms. I couldn't make out much, with my eyes on Poole's back, but I did manage a few curious glances into rooms dark and tastefully furnished – clearly a bachelor's home, lacking a woman's touch.
Coming to a closed set of dark mahogany doors, Poole tapped once, and then leaned forward listening. In response to a signal only he could hear, he opened one door, then stepped inside, gesturing me to follow. "Mary Reilly, Sir." He might have been speaking of a spaniel pup found soaking wet and mud-covered outside on the stoop. "For the advertisement, Sir." I ducked my head as I entered, then glanced up. The room was dim, though lit by a fire. Books crowded every wall, shelf upon shelf of them. Seated in a comfortable leather chair before a crowded desk was a gentleman – as clearly a gentleman as I've ever seen. The doctor. No, the Master, I corrected myself, and bobbed a small curtsey as he rose.
He was older than me, but younger than Poole, with light brown, curly hair streaked with bits of gray. Though unmistakably genteel, to my eyes he looked surprisingly ragged, unshaven and desperately in need of sleep, which only made him appear older. I hid a small frown as he approached, glancing up and down, taking me in at once. Though he seemed exhausted, a warm smile crossed his lips.
"Mary, I'm very glad to have you. I'm sure you'll be a great help to us all." He nodded once, then turned back to his major domo. "Mr. Poole, could you show Miss Reilly around, please? I have work to return to." Poole glanced to the Doctor, then nodded. "Very well, Sir. We won't disturb you longer." Poole ushered me back towards the hall as the Doctor turned and made his way back to his table. The Doctor spoke once more as Poole turned to pull the double doors closed after us. "See that my dinner is left outside of the laboratory, Poole. I'll not be eating at the table tonight." If I hadn't glanced at that moment to the older man's face, I would have missed the brief flicker of concern. It took me several moments to realize the obvious: I was hired. Blinking once to get over the initial shock of such a quick acceptance, I smiled to myself.
"Well." Poole cleared his throat. My smile disappeared. "Our Doctor works very hard, Miss Reilly. He must never be disturbed or inconvenienced, especially by a housemaid." His tone again suggested that he found the very word distasteful. "I do hope you will not be a chatter-box here, Miss Reilly."
All the air gusted from my lungs in a sigh, as I shook my head and endeavored to appear silent and meek. "No, sir." I murmured. I needed a place, and this house was warm and welcoming, despite the forbidding Poole. I longed to roll up my sleeves and get to work. There was much here that I could do, though clearly the Master had more on his mind than the state of his front stoop. I hoped I would be able to settle in here, and perhaps, at last – find a home.