The Unseen(6)

Hester arranges herself at the walnut desk in the front parlour, with the household ledger open in front of her. It’s the position she adopts for her weekly meeting with Mrs Bell to discuss menus and household accounts and the arranging of chimney sweeps, grocery deliveries and bicycle repair men. And she fancies it gives the right impression – feminine but businesslike; commanding yet approachable. The afternoon sun lies pooled and yellow on the oak floor, showing up the lazy dance of dust motes and houseflies. Hester flaps a hand irritably at a fly that comes too close. She finds their hairy bodies indecent, and hates the way they go dry and hard after death, lying down on the window sills in their final moments, crossing their bristly legs as if they expect to receive a last blessing. She is immensely relieved that she won’t have to sweep them up from now on. Mrs Bell has been hard pushed to keep up with the cleaning and the cooking both – heaven knows the woman can hardly be expected to work at speed. She wishes Mrs Bell wasn’t quite so very fat. The squeaking protest of the floor gave away her approach as soon as she left the more robust stones of the basement, and she is hardly an elegant sight. A woman should be soft, of course, her outline one of curves rather than angles, but one had to draw the line somewhere. There is little point in Mrs Bell trying to keep it all in with a corset. Years ago she wore one, and it merely squeezed her flesh up and down from the middle, so that she could scarcely sit or turn her neck. Watching her manoeuvre had been both horrifying and impossible to resist.

Hester can hear her now – creaking and thumping her way from the kitchen. She sits straighter in her chair, and arranges her face into a mild, genteel smile. She worries momentarily that she will suffer in comparison with Cat Morley’s more cosmopolitan former employer. Then she remembers that the girl is a pariah and relaxes, slightly ashamed of her own anxiety when her role is to mother, and to correct.

‘The new girl, madam,’ Mrs Bell announces, after a short knock.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bell. Do come in, Cat,’ Hester says, warmly; then hesitates. Cat Morley looks little more than a child. For a second, Hester thinks there’s been a mistake. The girl is barely five feet tall, and has the fragile, bony look of a bird. Her shoulders are narrow, her hands and feet tiny. Her hair, which is almost true black, has been cut off short. It grazes her ears in a most unladylike fashion. Cat has pinned the front of it back from her forehead, which only makes her look more like a schoolgirl. But as the girl approaches the desk, Hester sees that there is no mistake. Her face is narrow, the chin pointed and sharp, but there are smudges beneath her eyes, and a crease between her brows that speaks of experience. Cat regards Hester with such a level stare, her brown eyes unflinching, that Hester feels uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. She glances at Mrs Bell as the housekeeper leaves the room, and understands from her pinched lips exactly what the woman thinks of this new appointment.

‘Well,’ Hester says, flustered. ‘Well, do sit down, Cat.’ The girl perches on the edge of the carved chair opposite her as though she might fly away at any moment. ‘I’m very pleased you’ve made the journey safely.’ She had prepared, in her head, what she would say to the girl to put her at her ease, and to show what a kind and calm and Godly household she had found herself in, but it has got scattered in her head by the shock of the girl’s appearance, and now she can’t think what she wanted to say. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,’ she tries. Cat blinks, and although her face does not move, and she does not speak, Hester gets the distinct impression that the girl doubts this last statement. ‘Gracious! I have never seen hair cut in such a style as yours! Is it all the fashion, in London? Am I terribly behind the times?’ Hester bursts out. Her own hair is her crowning glory. It is light and full and soft, and gathers into a bouffant high on her head each morning as if it knows exactly what it is doing.

‘No, madam,’ Cat says quietly, never once breaking off her gaze. ‘My hair was always long, before. I was forced to cut if off after my time … my time of incarceration. It became terribly infested with lice.’

‘Oh! Lice! How dreadful!’ Hester exclaims, horrified. Her hands fly to her scalp as if to protect it, and she leans away from the desk involuntarily.

‘They are quite gone now, I assure you,’ Cat says, the hint of a smile ghosting across her lips.

‘Well, that’s good. Yes. Well, now. I am sure Mrs Bell has told you your duties, and do please look to her for guidance in all matters regarding your work. You will be expected to rise at half past six and be ready to start work at seven, but you probably won’t be the first person about – my husband has a great love of walking and nature, which he is particularly able to indulge at sunrise. He will often have risen and gone out before you come down, so don’t be alarmed if you encounter him very early in the day. He does not expect breakfast to be ready before his walks. You may consider yourself at liberty between the hours of three and five o’clock in the afternoon, with the exception of the tea, provided that all your duties have been carried out to Mrs Bell’s satisfaction.’ Hester pauses, and looks up at Cat Morley. The girl’s level gaze is unnerving. There is something behind her dark eyes that Hester has never seen before, and can’t decipher. The shifting outline of something strange, something unpredictable.