'Miss Smith. You are Miss Smith, I think? And you have come to be my maid, from London! And may I call you Susan? I hope you shall like it at Briar, Susan; and I hope you shall like me. There is not much to like, in either case. I think you might do it very easily— very easily, indeed.'
She spoke in a soft, sweet, halting voice, tilting her head, hardly looking at me, still q u i t e c r i m s o n a t t h e c h e e k . I s a i d , ' I a m s u r e I s h a l l l i k e y o u , m i s s . ' T h e n I remembered all my work at Lant Street, and gripped my skirt and made a curtsey. And when I rose from it she smiled, and came and took my hand in hers.
She looked at Mrs Stiles, who had kept behind me at the door.
'You need not stay, Mrs Stiles,' she said nicely. 'But you will have been kind to Miss Smith, I know.' She caught my eye. 'You've heard, perhaps, that I am an orphan, Susan, like you. I came to
Briar as a child: very young, and with no-one at all to care for me. I cannot tell you all the ways in which Mrs Stiles has made me know what a mother's love is, since that time.'
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She smiled and tilted her head. Mrs Stiles would not catch her gaze, but a bit of colour struggled into her cheeks, and her eye- lids fluttered. I should never have put her down as the motherly sort, myself; but servants grow sentimental over the swells they work for, like dogs grow fond of bullies. You take my word for it.
Anyway, she blinked and looked modest another minute; and then she left us. Maud smiled again, and led me to one of the hard-backed sofas, that was close to the fire.
S h e s a t b e s i d e m e . S h e a s k e d a f t e r m y j o u r n e y — 'We supposed you lost!' she said— and after my room. Did I like my bed? Did I like my breakfast?
And have you really,' she said, 'come from London?' That was all that anyone had been asking, since I left Lant Street— as if I might have come from anywhere else!
But then again, I thought she asked it in a different sort of way: not in a gaping country way, but in a noticing, hungryish manner— as if London was something to her, and she longed to hear of it.
Of course, I thought I knew why that was.
Next she told me all the duties I should have to do, while I was her maid: the chief of these being, as I also knew, to sit with her and keep her company, and walk with her about the park, and tidy her gowns. She lowered her eyes.
'You'll see we are rather out of the way of fashion, here at Briar,' she said. 'It matters little, I suppose, since we have so few callers. My uncle only likes to see me neat. But you, of course, will be used to the great styles of London.'
I thought of Dainty's hair, John's dog-skin coat. 'Pretty used,' I said.
And your last mistress,' she went on then, 'she was quite a fine lady? She would laugh to look at me, I expect!'
She coloured still harder as she said that, and again looked from me; and again I thought, 'You pigeon!'
But what I said was, that Lady Alice— who was the mistress that Gentleman had faked up for me— was too kind to laugh at anyone,
and would anyway know that grand clothes meant nothing, since it was the person inside the clothes that ought to be judged. All in all, I thought, it was a pretty clever thing to say; and she seemed to think so too, for when I had said it she looked at me in a new way and her colour went down, and she took my hand again, saying, 'You are a good girl, Susan, I think.' I said, 'Lady Alice always said so, miss.'
Then I remembered the character that Gentleman had written for me, and thought this might be the moment to present it. I took it from my pocket and handed it over. She rose and broke the wax, then walked to the window to hold the paper to the light. She stood a long time looking at the curling hand, and once sneaked a glance at me; and my heart beat a little fast then, to think she might have noticed something queer there.
But it was not that: for I saw at last that her hand, which held the paper, trembled; and I guessed that she had no more idea what a proper character was like than I did, and was only figuring out what she should say.
I thought it almost a shame, guessing that, that she had no mother.
'Well,' she said, folding the paper very small and putting it inside her own pocket,
'Lady Alice does indeed speak highly of you. I think you must have been sorry to leave her house.'
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'Pretty sorry, miss,' I said. 'But then, you see, Lady Alice has gone to India. I think I should have found the sun there rather fierce.'
She smiled. 'Will you prefer the grey skies of Briar? You know, the sun never shines here. My uncle has forbidden it. Strong light, you see, fades print.'
She laughed and showed her teeth, which were small and very white. I smiled, but kept my lips shut— for my own teeth, that are yellow now, were I am afraid to say quite yellow even then; and seeing hers made me fancy them yellower.
She said, 'You know my uncle is a scholar, Susan?' I said, 'I heard it, miss.'
'He keeps a great library. The largest library, of its kind, in all of England. I dare say you will see it soon.'
'That will be something, miss, I'm sure.'
She smiled again. 'You like to read, of course?'
I swallowed. 'To read, miss?' She nodded, waiting. 'Pretty much,' I said at last. 'That is, I am sure I should, if I was ever much in the way of books and papers. By which I mean'— I coughed— 'if I was to be shown.'
She stared.
'To learn, I mean,' I said.
She stared, even harder; and then she gave a short, disbelieving sort of laugh. 'You are joking,' she said. 'You don't mean, you cannot read? Not really? Not a word, not a letter?' Her smile became a frown. There was, beside her, a little table with a book upon it. Still half smiling, half frowning, she took the book up and handed it to me.
'Go on,' she said kindly. 'I think you are being modest. Read me any part, I shan't mind if you stumble.'
I held the book, saying nothing; but beginning to sweat. I opened it and looked at a page. It was full of a close black print. I tried another. That one was worse. I felt Maud's gaze, like a flame against my hot face. I felt the silence. My face grew hotter.
Take a chance, I thought.
'Our Father,' I tried, 'which art in heaven— '
But then, I forgot the rest. I closed the book, and bit my lip, and looked at the floor. I thought, very bitterly, 'Well, here will all our scheming end. She won't want a maid that can't read her a book, or write fancy letters in a curling hand!' I lifted my eyes to hers and said,
'I might be taught it, miss. I am that willing. I'm sure I could learn, in half a wink— '
But she was shaking her head, and the look on her face was something.
'Be taught?' she said, coming close and gently taking back the book. 'Oh, no! No, no, I shouldn't allow it. Not read! Ah, Susan, were you to live in this house, as the niece of my uncle, you should know what that meant. You should know, indeed!'