‘Anna, Win’s gone! Her bed’s not been slept in!’
Anna turned, her cap in her hand. ‘It was her half-day off yesterday, I think? So she will have gone into the grounds, perhaps, and fallen asleep? The night was so beautiful. I have done this myself - often have I done it,’ said Anna but her eyes were grave.
Within half an hour every single member of staff was searching for the little dimwit who was as much a part of Mersham as the moss on the paving stones. Mr Cameron and his underlings searched the walled garden, th greenhouses and the orangery - for Win had loved flowers. Potter rode off to scour the woods; James and Sid circled the lake.
By lunchtime it was clear that the matter was one for the police and Proom, his face more than usually grave, went upstairs to inform the family.
The dowager and Muriel were in the morning room. Rupert had not yet returned from Cambridge.
‘My lady, I have come to tell you that Win is missing. We have searched everywhere, but her bed has not been slept in and I’m afraid the matter is serious.’
He addressed the dowager as lady of the house, but it was Muriel who answered.
‘Is that the simple one? The kitchen maid?’
‘Yes, miss. Win is employed in the kitchens.’
‘Oh, dear!’ The dowager had risen, ‘We must get hold of the police at once. And Colonel Forster, too. I’ll go and -‘
‘No, wait!’ Muriel spoke with authority. There seems to have been some mistake. Surely Mrs Bassenthwaite told you that Win was going away?’
Proom turned to her, his face impassive. ‘No, miss. Nothing was said about it, I’m sure.’
‘Going away?’ echoed the dowager in surprise. ‘But where to? Win has no family of any kind. She came from an orphanage in Maidens Over. As far as I know, she’s been in the parish all her life.’
Muriel nodded. ‘Mrs Bassenthwaite must have forgotten to mention it. It’s often like that before a gall bladder operation - there can be almost complete amnesia. But I discussed it all with her very carefully.’ She turned to the dowager. ‘Rupert asked me to concern myself with the indoor staff without delay, as you know, and I felt that something should be done for the poor girl.’
‘What sort of thing?’ asked the dowager, puzzled.
‘Well, you must have noticed how she lives? Almost like an animal. No speech, no rational thought.’
‘Win has been very useful to Mrs Park, miss,’ said Proom. ‘Mrs Park is very fond of her. She doesn’t say much, but she’s got a way of knowing what Mrs Park wants almost before Mrs Park knows it herself. Mrs Park’ll be very upset at losing Win.’
‘I know. But of course I mean to replace Win immediately. There is to be a considerable increase in kitchen staff. And if Mrs Park is fond of Win - and I’m sure she is - she will want what is best for her.’
‘I still don’t quite understand,’ said the dowager. ‘Where has she gone? And how did she go so quickly without anyone knowing?’
Muriel smiled reassuringly. ‘Fortunately, with my connections as a nurse and with the help of Dr Lightbody, I found an excellent institution where they give first-class guidance to girls of her sort. Speech therapy, training in handicrafts, everything. You’ll see, Win’ll be fit for something much better than kitchen work when she’s been there a while …’
‘But why was it so sudden, Muriel? Surely Mrs Park should have had some warning?’
Muriel’s placid face turned towards her mother-in-law. ‘People don’t always understand what’s best for them. A distressing scene would have been so bad for Win. It’s like a child going to boarding school; the mother’s tears make it impossible. So I arranged with Mrs Bassenthwaite that she should be fetched away quietly by someone sympathetic and experienced.’
‘Mrs Park will want to know where she’s gone, my lady. She’ll want to be able to visit her.’ To Muriel’s irritation, Proom continued to address the dowager.
‘And so she shall,’ said Muriel. ‘But the poor girl must be given a few weeks to settle down. I’ll be in touch with Mrs Park myself. Just tell her she must be brave for Win’s sake.’
Though why,’ Muriel continued, when Proom had bowed and left, ‘one has to make so much fuss about the feelings of a cook, I don’t understand. I hope Rupert will be pleased at least.’
But the dowager was silent.
Mrs Park accepted it. She accepted it for Win, trusting soul that she was. Nevertheless she suffered, silent and uncomplaining, berating herself for her selfishness in wanting Win around when the girl was learning to speak properly and take her place in the world.
‘You’ll see, she’ll be back,’ said James, unable to bear the stricken look in the cook’s round, blue eyes, ‘driving a big yellow motor as like as not and talking like a duchess.’
‘There was a girl over my auntie’s way,’ Louise put in, ‘she went to one of them training places and they taught her weaving and basket work an’ all. She’s got her own shop now.’
Mrs Park nodded. ‘It’s just I would have liked to say goodbye to her,’ she said in her slow, soft voice. ‘I’d just have liked to say goodbye.’
Muriel was as good as her word over Win’s replacement. A new girl, sent down by Mrs Finch-Heron, arrived the following day. Mildred was bright and pretty and full of excellent suggestions for improving the routine. At night, kneeling by her bed, Mrs Park followed her prayers for Win’s safety and happiness by asking God to forgive her her wickedness in wanting Mildred to shut up - or even better - go away.
----*
Uncle Sebastien was playing the Liebestod. He thought that this was probably the last time he would play it, for he had been shamed and caught out and was to be punished. Muriel had seen him giving Pearl a squeeze as she sidled past him in the corridor. Pearl had squealed and jumped — she liked to act up a little — and he had turned to find Muriel standing in the doorway staring at him with contempt and disgust.
And she was quite right, of course. Right to despise him and to engage for him, as she had done, it seemed, a kind of jailor, a hospital nurse who would keep him from the maids.
How had it happened, Uncle Sebastien asked himself, sitting pink-faced and wretched by his gramophone? All his life he had loved women, but he was nervous and shy with those of his own class. It was the uncomplicated, half-glimpsed servant girls that had beguiled and enchanted him for three-quarters of a century. And just as a devoted gardener lingers at nightfall over his herbaceous border, so Uncle Sebastien, overcome by misery and Wagner, let his mind wander through the well-remembered treasury of serving maids.
There had been so many in his youth. The dairymaids in blue caps like coifs to keep their curls out of the milk, their breath as sweet as that of the cows they tended. The dimity sewing girls in checked pink gingham with quick, pricked fingers … Scullery maids, patient as oxen with their hessian aprons and humped behinds, forever scrubbing pale circles in the darker stone … Laundry maids singing like blackbirds as they hung up the sheets …
He forgot so many things these days, but he could still remember almost all their names. Daisy, the little freckled nursemaid with streamers in her cap … Even in his pram he’d loved Daisy. Netta, the poor little drudge at his public school who’d still managed to force a dimple into her pinched cheek when he’d passed her in the interminable, dank corridors with her buckets … And Elly, the Irish chambermaid, who’d given him so lightly and gaily what most youths had to buy with trepidation and risk from some professional. Ah, the panache of that girl who’d seduced him, not in som haystack or barn but on the needlepoint rug in the tapestry room, in the still hour between lunch and tea.
But of course it was wrong. Oh, one could find reasons, perhaps. Easy to say that if his parents had been able to show that they loved him, if the girl he’d asked to marry him hadn’t laughed in his face, he’d have been different. Those were just excuses, thought the humiliated old man, while Isolde died and the gay and beguiling ghosts continued to walk inside his head.