CHAPTER FOUR
“Poor innocent children. Look at their agitation, dread, and submission.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Amelia muttered beneath her breath.
For No. 14 Hanover Square was so palatial that even the rainwater pipes were decorated with pugnacious dragons, the year of construction embossed in gold on the broad drain hopper:1809.
She’d not taken too much notice of the house for the interview, but now she admired the symmetrical façade which boasted modern sash windows, a Doric porch and a white stuccoed band above the second floor.
Charlotte had instructed that a diligent governess should arrive at the servants’ entrance for her first day, so heaving her carpetbag – no mean feat with Miss Appleton’s tome, clothes and other essentials packed within – she stomped past the frontdoor and followed the elaborate iron railings to a gap giving access to basement stairs.
Yesterday, a visit to Messrs Makefare and Co., architects to the rich and famed, had resulted in plans to most of the houses in this square, and Amelia had noted that like all recent constructions, the ground floor of this house was raised up so that the basement kitchens, with their new piped water, would lead directly onto the back garden.
Even this servants’ door was painted a refined dark green, as though Mr Cadwalader had personally chosen it to match his coat.
She knocked.
And waited.
Charlotte had also stated it was not uncommon for a governess to commence lessons the very same day she arrived, so Amelia had sent a message declaring she’d arrive of the eve, thereby spending as little time teaching as possi–
The door was flung open by a young maid with red cheeks, black hair and eyes the size of walnuts.
“Lor-a-mussy, the new governess! I’ve never met one afore. In yer come. Me name’s Sally Longlane and I work in the kitchens.” The effusive maid with a strong Essex accent seized hold of Amelia’s arm and hauled her along an unlit corridor. “Can yer write? I suppose yer can. I can write me first name but not the other one as it’s too blinkin’ long.” She was hustled past sitting and storerooms alike. “A word of advice. Never tell Mrs D yer’ve got something wrong with yer.” Then a distillation room with a nauseous odour. “Ain’t it a fancy gaff? It’s even got an indoor boghouse fer us servants, yer realise.” Before an open door led to a kitchen. “Look everyone, ’tis the new governess!” And a sturdy push on the shoulder propelled her into the room.
Amelia gulped.
Then used some choice words for Lord Rainham.
Stood there were three further maids, two thickset footmen, a plump woman who looked to be the housekeeper, the white-haired butler, whom she remembered as Cruikshank, and the cook, no skills needed to guess her job as she was dicing carrots at a stout wooden table.
She recalled Charlotte’s words:You are neither of the Servant Class nor the Upper Class. You abide between the two. Neither class are your friends, remember that. But if the servants like you, then half the battle is won.
“Erm, good afternoon. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Sally went to stand by the range cooker as the housekeeper wiped her hands on a pristine apron and hastened over. “Now then, I hope our Sally hasn’t been bending your ear with all her prattle?” The housekeeper had a dulcet Welsh accent. “She’s training for lower housemaid, Miss, she is.” A green beady gaze perused Amelia from boots to bonnet. “And you can’t be the new governess.”
“W-why not?”
Her lips curved, crinkles forming by her eyes. “Too young and pretty, like.”
“Oh, that’s kind of you to say so.”
“And aren’t you short.”
Amelia detested her lack of stature some days.
“Well, I’m Mrs Dawkins, the housekeeper.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Miss Jones.” She cleared her throat. “Amelia Jones.”
Creases formed on Mrs Dawkins’ forehead. “Have you a sore throat, lovey?”
Amelia was about to admit she did have a slight rasp but…
