I was halfway through the book by dinnertime. It was extraordinary. I couldn't seem to put it down. At about half past five in the evening, we went into the kitchen to eat. In preparation for our day off, we had prepared food for the family, mainly cold cuts, but Jane had dined with her beau, and Mrs. Holmes and her son seemed to have disappeared into the ether.
My mum and I were well into our own tea and cold sandwiches when the son made a startling appearance in the kitchen. He seemed to pay us no mind, starting the kettle, and overlooking the meal waiting for him in the ice box in favor of stealing some orange cake my mother had made the previous day.
We stirred our tea and fell silent as he bustled about, waiting respectfully for him to finish. To our surprise, and perhaps horror, he asked to sit with us.
We could hardly refuse him; my mother gestured to the spare seat, but her shoulders had gone rigid. Sitting at the servants' table with us was highly unorthodox behavior. As he had mentioned before, ones in our position had to view everything as a potential trap.
He either didn't notice our discomfort or pretended not to. He took the kettle and not only poured himself a bracing cup of tea but refilled our own glasses before sitting down.
He dug into his cake with gusto. His knee brushed against the folds of my skirt under the table, and I was thankful for the lone candlelight that illuminated the room because I felt my face flush.
"I wished to ask you something, if you please," he said idly with no indication if he meant me or my mother. "When you visit the markets on Saturday, do you see many other servants from other households in the area?"
My mother glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. I could see her weighing the question and attempting to decipher his real intent.
"Yes," she answered carefully.
"Are you on friendly terms with any of these other workers?"
"We buy the items required and return to our work, sir. We do not engage in idle chit-chat or gossip," she said brusquely.
He looked frustrated with her answer. His fingers tightened around the handle of his fork, and his gaze fluttered away as if regrouping his thoughts.
"My inquiry holds no accusation, ma'am. If anything, it is I who is interested in a bit of gossip," he carefully retried.
"You will not find it with us," was my mother's impenetrable reply.
He was nearly thrumming with impatience, but after a prolonged moment of silence in which he leveled that sharp gaze onto her face, he smiled pleasantly. "Of course. Excuse my behavior. This orange cake is delicious, perhaps the best thing I've ever tasted."
"Thank you, sir. Mary, fetch him another piece."
He didn't object, so I scooted my chair back, thankful to put space between us, and set about cutting him another generous slice.
As I was setting down his plate, I caught better sight of his hand. "Oh, you're bleeding!"
He looked down at his thumb with curious detachment. The side of it was sliced, the blood trailing downwards toward his palm.
My mother rose quickly. "I'll fetch you a plaster."
"Don't bother yourself, ma'am," he called after her, but to no avail.
I wetted a napkin and handed it to him before sitting down. "She's a mother; you cannot stop her," I warned.
He chuckled, wiping at the blood and then wrapping his finger in the napkin. The awkwardness from a moment ago had dissipated, and I sat comfortably next to him sipping my tea as he finished his cake.
When my mother returned with the plaster, she commandeered his hand without asking. He shot me an amused glance but suffered her doting.
"This looks like it was done with the edge of a knife. Did you cut yourself on purpose?" she reprimanded.
He shrugged. "A test I was conducting needed blood for the reactive."
"I should have known it was one of those chemical experiments of yours. You reek as well."
"Mother!"
He merely laughed, not a whit insulted. "I admit the experiment did not go exactly as planned. My room is airing out as we speak. I had not realized the smell had clung to me."
He downed the rest of his tea and stood. "Well, then, it's nothing I cannot remedy with a warm bath. Thank you for enduring my company. Good night." With that, he was gone. My mother and I looked at each other confused by the entire encounter.
"What a strange boy," she murmured.
"He may have been asking about the servants because an acquaintance of his recently passed away. He thinks he was murdered," I explained.
"Murdered?" my mother looked incredulous. "A strange boy indeed." She paused and gave me a suspicious look. "How do you know this?"
"He told me."
"When?"
"He comes in the kitchen often."
"He does not come in the kitchen much when I am in here."
I flushed at her implication. "Mum, he has given no indication of being that sort of person."
"You believe you're well-versed in the stratagems of men?" she asked archly, bringing the plates to the sink.
"He's not like any cad about I've ever encountered. And I've encountered plenty."
"You've encountered them in Whitechapel, dear, not here. Men like him have perfected their facades." At seeing my irritation, she sighed, "The fact that you are so upset on his behalf by my suggestion is already worrisome. We do not know these people. We are not meant to know these people. Please be careful, Mary."
"Of course, mum. But his interest in me only extends to how many biscuits I let him steal."
The next morning, I opened my book again, starting from the beginning, laying it open as I folded clothes from the line and as I did my mending and sewing. It kept it open as I wiped down the counters before afternoon tea. Pulling out the cups and saucers, I arranged them onto their respective trays. I gathered sugar and flour and thought about making some tarts for after dinner, though I hesitated to do so without my mum. I was not proficient in all the arts of cooking. In fact, I sometimes wished the family would get around to hiring a chef, as was the custom. But then, I'm afraid most would not look the other way when a few treats were stolen, or when sweets and wine were the only items consumed. I poured some water over the tea leaves.
I began reading out loud to myself one of my favorite parts of the story, "They told me you had been to her, and mentioned me to him: She gave me a good character, but said I could not swim-"
"Charming."
I jumped at the voice at my ear. He stood near me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his precious violin and a glitter of laughter in his eyes. I should have known he'd show up once I pulled out the bag of sugar.
"Must you sneak up on me like that?" I demanded, closing the book hastily.
"I wasn't being particularly quiet, Mary. Perhaps if you didn't have your head in the clouds it wouldn't be so easy to startle you." He smiled amiably, seeming to have forgotten the strange dinner he had shared with us.
"My head was not in the clouds, sir."
He shrugged, reaching over my shoulder to capture his teacup and smiling at me. He had even more plasters on his fingers than last night. I wondered what sort of experiments he had been up to lately in that makeshift laboratory he had set up. "Whatever it fancies you to call it." He poured himself a cup and sipped at it, leaning on the edge of the table and staring at me and the makings of dessert in turn. "It was a sweet poem."
"I told you not all poems were sad."
"Indeed," he agreed, but I wondered if he meant it or if he was merely humouring me.
He sat at the servant's table, sipping his tea and tuning his violin. He struck a few chords, tucked the thing securely under his chin, and played a segment of his favorite piece, if the melodies wafting from his room at all hours were any indication.
"What is the name of that?" I asked as I arranged the scones and napkins, "Lieda?"
He gave a sharp bark of laughter and then cut himself off at seeing my embarrassment, "It's Lieder."
"I may not be the best judge, sir, but I think you play it marvelously."
He drained his tea and fiddled with the instrument once more. "Then perhaps not being an expert is a blessing."
"Depends on your point of view, I suppose." I fiddled with my newly sewn buttons.
"How did you get that scar?"
I froze, startled by the random question. "Excuse me?"
"On your arm."
I glanced down at my arm and the half-hidden mark that I had received when I was younger. "I am not sure," I lied.
"If you don't wish to talk about it . . ."
"I don't really remember. I was running, and I fell," I clarified.
"Running from whom?"
"Some people, I don't know why." It was the truth.
He didn't respond, leaving me to wonder if he was really listening to me at all.
"What are you making for dinner?" he asked instead. His mother had requested some rabbit in wine sauce, something she had tried while in France. A sound at the backdoor diverted my attention before I could answer. James stood on the porch, gesturing me outside. I tried to wave him off surreptitiously, but he did not budge.
"Do you have a pressing engagement, Mary?" The young master asked, not lifting his eyes from his labor.
"No, sir," I stuttered, worried that he was displeased with me.
He cast an unreadable glance at me from the corner of his eye, "Are you cavorting with your friend while you're supposed to be working?"
"Heaven's no! I assure you that I do not mess about while at my tasks, sir."
"So this is the first time he has approached you while you were on duty?"
I stood stupidly, not willing and perhaps not able to lie to him. My silence was enough of an answer. "You will not tell?" I finally asked.
He stood, tucking his violin under his arm and grabbing Jane's tray from the counter. "What I cannot see, I cannot tell. I'll take Jane's tray to her. She's in the sitting room."
"May I ask you something, sir?" I stopped him and he straddled the threshold, his arms full. "How is a raven like a writing desk?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's a riddle, sir, but I cannot think of the answer."
He stared at me for a moment as if I had gone mad before scrunching up his face in thought. After a second of deliberation, he finally responded, "Because they both produce a few notes, but are better known for their bills."
I smiled, and he trudged out of the kitchen.
I put my book on my night table before making dinner. It was the last time I ever saw it. I overturned everything in my room that night as my mother watched silently. I knew it had to be here; I hadn't touched it since I'd left over two hours ago.
Finally, I settled down onto the side of my bed, putting my head in my hands and rubbing the side of my face.
"Where did you last have it?" my mum asked softly, though I knew she knew as well as I did that I had not lost the book. I didn't answer her, lacking the energy. "Maybe you should ask the family if they've seen it?" she offered hopefully.
I sighed and shrugged.
"Well, how many times could you read it anyway?" she persisted. I sat stiffly; confused as to how my mother couldn't see why I was upset. It wasn't just the book, it was that the book was mine; given to me by someone who obviously thought I deserved it. How many children in Whitechapel could claim that?
The next morning, I went about my work without thinking about anything that I was doing. The laundry was not handled with care and the floors were not swept around every corner. Thankfully, the family was venturing to the opera in the evening, one of the few outings that the son joined them on, and so they paid me no mind for the most part.
I think the son noticed my consternation, though. He'd hover about the doorways as I worked before abruptly walking away without saying anything. I suspect that he knew what was wrong, though how I do not know. I even caught him in the sitting room, looking beneath the cushions of the divan. I debated whether I should tell him his search was fruitless, but I merely smiled weakly at his show of concern, though I knew that he would never admit it.
When, at last, I mustered up enough boldness to ask if anyone had seen the missing item, they were having some wine in the library before departing for the opera. The two ladies of the house were the only ones present. I coughed discreetly at the doorway and curtsied as Mrs. Holmes looked up from her spot perched on the arm of the chair, reviewing the opera guide with Jane so that she would not be lost among the Italian lyrics.
I curtsied, "Evening. I hate to bother you, ma'am, but I was wondering if you'd seen the present you gave me? I seem to have misplaced it."
"Very careless of you, miss, doesn't seem very appreciative in my opinion," Jane reprimanded.
"It happens to the best of us," Mrs. Holmes encouraged. "I am afraid that I haven't seen it, though. Perhaps you simply need to retrace your steps, dear."
I nodded and left, feeling worse than I did before. I met my mother in the kitchen, as she was coming in from gathering wood from outside.
"Are you quite well, Mary? You look a little pale."
"I'm fine."
My mother eyed me disbelievingly before depositing the wood into my arms and silently respecting my wish not to speak of what was bothering me. I left her there without another word but I could feel her eyes boring into me, worried.
As I was piling the wood into the sitting room's fireplace, something we were to do in all the rooms so that the house would be warm for the family's return, I noticed a half-scorched piece of paper deep in the ashes. I poked at it, recognizing the familiar print. Strangely, I didn't feel anything when I realized what it was, except that familiar tingle in the back of my neck that told me I was about to fall in a faint.
I made my way shakily to my room before the attack hit and awoke staring up at my bedroom ceiling from a cumbersome position on the floor. My body ached all over, and I only managed to climb into bed before giving into that painfully sweet unconsciousness that I was so very used to.
"Mary. Mary." Someone was shoving my shoulder. I grunted and rolled away from them, unsuccessfully trying to bury my head, and my headache, into the pillow.
"Mary, you wake up right this instant!"
I recognized the voice and sprung to attention, my hair in disarray and covering half my face. "What time is it?"
Mrs. Holmes smoothed the wayward strands away so that she could look at me. She was perched on the side of my bed, still in full formal dress and gloves. "It's past midnight, dear."
I pushed the covers off my knees and started to rise, though my head was spinning and my limbs protested. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to doze off."
"You look very pale." She took hold of my shoulder and pushed me back down.
"I'm just a trifle tired."
"Nonsense, you look awful," she remarked, matter-of-factly enough to soften the insult. "It took me nearly ten minutes to rouse you. I was debating whether I should fetch you a doctor."
How very embarrassing.
"That's not necessary." I started to rise again.
She pushed me down once more, "Lay back down, Mary. You'll run yourself to the ground."
"I'm quite capable," I asserted.
"Mary." I stilled at the warning in her voice. She felt around on my forehead as I finally fell back into the pillows willingly. "You've never been a maid before have you?"
"Why do you ask that?" My vision was beginning to clear, and my head was steadying itself, but I still felt tired beyond belief.
"It's not hard to see."
I regarded her through half-lidded eyes, "My work has not been lacking has it?" After my previous movements, I didn't have enough energy to be anxious.
"No, Mary, but you seem thinner than when I first met you and, judging from the circles dancing around your eyes, you are also much more tired." She started pulling off her gloves, tugging at each finger.
"I am merely unaccustomed to such labor. I will grow used to it," I waved away.
"I do hope so, dear," she murmured. She laid her long cream-colored gloves on her lap. "Did you find your book?"
I paused, "I suppose you could say that I did."
She smoothed out the lap of her dress and gave me a shrewd glance, "My son mentioned he found the remains of it while he was lighting the fire in the fireplace."
"It must have fallen," I covered, not wishing to get in the middle of a conflict with any person in the house.
She rolled her eyes in the most unladylike fashion. "It did no such thing. She must be reprimanded," she said with a note of resigned finality.
I could just imagine Jane's resentment. "That's not needed."
"No, she must be, and I suppose I have to be the one to do it, before my darling son gives her a verbal lashing, which he is eager to do."
"He shouldn't concern himself so." I really couldn't imagine a verbal lashing from him. I couldn't believe he would lower himself to do so.
"He's very concerned," Mrs. Holmes stated seriously, though she smiled as if she found it humorous. "He suggested the book to me after all."
I stared at her a bit, "He did?"
"Certainly. He told me you liked 'happy' things to read and mentioned a new book he had heard of. I know nothing of contemporary writers." She patted my arm as I pondered this new development. "Sleep now and try to feel better, Mary."
Despite his mother's interference, I overhead him in his cousin's room the next day. I could not make out what he was saying through the walls as I passed by, but the tone of his voice was unyielding, sharp as a whipcord, and I almost felt a surge of sympathy for anyone – even someone like Jane – being subjected to a dressing down from one such as him.
For her part, she did not sound like the Jane I knew when she spoke to him privately. Her voice was tremulous, her responses nearly meek. Almost as if she were afraid of him.
I faltered in my step as I moved away from the door. No, not afraid. My face flushed with realization. I cursed myself that I had not noticed it much earlier. I wondered if he knew. I doubted it – for being such a highly intelligent and observant man, he could be quite unaware of the more obvious things.
I heard him swing the door open and march from her room just as I was rounding the corner of the hall and breathed a sigh of relief that he did not see me.
The next few weeks, I grew used to joining him in the sitting room, feeling somehow closer to him since he had shown such kindness to me, however indirectly. He took to reading out loud as I sewed. The first time he had done so, he'd read "A Midsummer's Night Dream." I didn't understand half of it and the other half I only understood because I asked him to explain it to me. He seemed happy to do so and instead of being deterred from Shakespeare, he seemed more contented to read it to me when he knew he had to, in effect, teach it to me. He was a natural instructor, and I think he was trying to make up for all the unpleasantness I had endured, and I even suspected that he may have done some creative reading, glossing over the darker parts of the tales for me.
It was no substitute to my book, but the sound of his voice was pleasant enough, and it seemed to give him something to do.