I won’t be anything but a housemaid.
—Charlotte Brontë, in a letter to her sister Emily
Chapter 3
Ten minutes later, Margaret turned from her dressing table mirror to face Joan.
“Well?”
She wore an old grey frock Joan had unearthed from the attic, the apron she had worn as a milkmaid, and the dark wig pinned securely over her hair.
Seated on the bed, the maid studied her. “It changes you a great deal, miss. But I still think you need a cap.”
The only cap Joan had found had yellowed beyond wearing. Margaret lifted the small lace cap she had worn to the masquerade.
Joan shook her head. “Too fine.” She pulled something from her own valise. “You may borrow my spare. But if you keep it, it’ll cost you one of those shillings.”
“Very well.” Margaret pulled the floppy mobcap over her wig and looked at Joan for her reaction. “Now will anyone recognize me?”
Joan tilted her head to one side. “If they look close they will.”
Margaret looked back into the mirror. She lifted a stubby kohl pencil and darkened her eyebrows, as she had meant to do for the masquerade before abandoning plans to wear the wig. She then pulled open the mahogany writing box and from it extracted her father’s small round spectacles. She placed them on her nose and hooked the arms over her ears. Again she faced Joan.
“What about now?”
“Much better, miss. As long as you don’t talk, I think your brother could pass you in the street and not know you.”
Margaret thought of the accents she had heard daily as a girl, spending hours with first her nurse and then the housekeeper while her mother was busy with this society event or that charity. Nanny Booker was from the north somewhere and Mrs. Haines from Bristol, she believed. Margaret had made a game of mimicking their accents, though now she wondered how charming they had really thought it. “An’ wha’ if I changed m’voice? Would ya know me then?”
Joan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t talk like that.”
Margaret quickly reverted to her normal way of speaking. “I know. And I am not trying to ridicule anyone. Only to disguise myself in every possible manner.”
Joan lifted her chin in understanding, then dubiously eyed the narrow carpetbag. “Is that all you’re taking?”
“Well, I cannot take a trunk, can I? Nor do I wish to arouse suspicion when we leave by the servants’ entrance.” Margaret riffled through the crammed bag. “I have an extra shift and the milkmaid frock as a spare—it doesn’t weigh a thing. A nightdress and wrapper, slippers, comb, tooth powder, and the kohl.” She did not mention her father’s New Testament, nor the cameo he had given her, wrapped in a handkerchief. She slipped a shawl over her shoulders and looped bonnet ribbons over her wrist. “What else do I need?”
“Don’t forget some of that nice paper for my character,” Joan said.
When Margaret had slid a piece into her bag, Joan blew out a deep breath. “Well, it’s time.” She slapped her legs and stood.
Telling Margaret to wait in the room, Joan picked up her valise and crept down the corridor to listen at the top of the stairs. She waved Margaret forward. Margaret slipped from the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She followed Joan down the stairs on tiptoe, barely allowing herself to breathe. They descended one pair of stairs and then another without encountering anyone coming up. At the top of the basement steps, Joan motioned her to wait while she checked the passage below.
The maid’s head soon popped back into view and again she waved Margaret down. Together they hurried along the narrow basement passageway, past the kitchen, to the service door at its far end. Joan opened it for her.
Margaret had just stepped through when a voice called from the kitchen behind them.
“Joan? Who’s that with you?”
Margaret hesitated, unsure if she should run or turn around. Joan’s firm hand on her arm kept her from doing either.
“’Tis only my sister, come to collect me,” Joan said. “You heard I got the push?”
“Oh, Joan. I did,” the female voice commiserated. “And sorry I was to hear it.”
“I didn’t steal anything, for the record.”
“Of course you didn’t. I’d wager he mislaid the money or spent it hisself. Or that nephew of his pinched it. Not fair is it?”
