Lost in fear: the constant gnawing terror of discovery by the servants, for surely they were neither so stupid nor so blind as to not eventually recognize what transpired each night (and often during the mornings and afternoons) in the master bedroom on the second story of the villa.
“But we are careful, are we not, to properly rumple the bedclothes in your room, and to make certain you are there asleep in your virgin nightdress when Moira brings your morning tray? Sherlocks they may be — though I suspect the lot of them are rather dim-witted — but I doubt they have the slightest inkling of our true relationship. I will admit that there’s a kernel of truth in the adage that nothing escapes a good servant’s eye, be it a mote of dust or a secret liaison. But discretion is the better part of valor, is it not, and none of these worthless clods would be so foolish as to sacrifice a good position for the sake of a gossiping tongue.
“I have no idea what wages your Maggie back home is paid, but Moira earns fifty pounds annually, and cook forty-five. We pay George an additional forty, and Henry, the gardener, earns a hundred a year for allowing my precious orchids to die. As the monkey mentioned while urinating into the till, this certainly runs into a lot of money. Nor are they unaware of the perquisites of the journey to the Continent each summer and the attendant benefits of sunshine and a bit of sport with the local talent. Besides, to whom would they gossip, Lizzie? And for what purpose would they risk their good positions here? Should they care to tattle among themselves or to other servants, I care not a fig. Let their tongues wag. Such idle speculation rarely, if ever, reaches the ears of employers.
“I shall tell you something about servants, Lizzie, and you would do well to mind what I say. They are, in many respects, like children: dependent, fiercely loyal if they are treated kindly, and reluctant to believe the slightest harsh truth about mummy or daddy. Should they surprise us in flagrante delicto on the lawn — as we shall be careful they do not — they would turn a blind eye to such a glimpse of the primal scene, preferring to believe instead that they were surely mistaken, or else that what they witnessed was a privilege reserved to their wealthy and powerful ‘parents’. Like children, so long as they are kept in their proper place, they shall be blindly obedient — which is not to say that they can be trusted with intimacies beyond those they may divine but scarce believe.
“You must be careful, Lizzie, never to submit to the temptation of becoming overly — friendly, shall we say? — with any servant. This general rule goes unobserved by the ‘gentlemen’ of our time, who are weaned by nannies and often introduced to sex by upstairs maids, and who are not beyond dallying beneath the skirts of any willing household creature who may come within arm’s reach. But we, as women, are far more vulnerable and far less powerful, and we cannot afford the luxury of allowing any female employee to believe mistakenly that she — because of some indiscretion — is the true mistress of the house.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re saying,” Lizzie said.
“Do you not? I’m advising you against any intimacy with a servant.”
“But who would even dream of...”
“I have dreamt it, and often. You have no idea how I’ve been tempted by the sight of voluptuous young Moira in her bath, those frisky Irish breasts spattered with freckles...”
“Moira!”
“Indeed.”
“But surely you’ve never...”
“Of course not, have you not been listening to me? Then hearken to my lesson once again. Never, but never, let a female employee tempt your fingers or your lips. You shall be eternally sorry if you do, I promise you.”
“The very thought that you could even imagine Moira as a...”
“Hush about Moira now, I regret having mentioned her. I am trying to tell you that our behavior here at the villa, so long as we are discreet and careful, is nothing more than is actually expected of us. Indeed, it is our female obligation to perform as we do in public. Would you not think it odd if your female friends did not laugh girlishly together, put their empty heads together to exchange delicate secrets, hold hands while walking, embrace in greeting, kiss in farewell? How often have you shared a bed with a lady friend on an overnight visit, undressed in the same room with her, kissed her cheek to bid her a pleasant good night, perhaps even slept in her arms to ward off the winter’s chill? None of this is thought upon with the slightest disfavor by the men who govern our lives; they consider it the way of women, the way they would have it, the way they have trained us to behave.
“They are aware, of course, that Lesbos floats adrift in the demi-monde — half the women you saw waltzing together at the Moulin Rouge, cheek to cheek, breast to breast, were undoubtedly lovers. Do you recall the ceiling of the couturier showroom we went to in Paris? On the day you took ill? Do you remember being informed that it had been painted by a Mademoiselle Abbema? Ah, well. Louise Abbema is a great friend of Augusta Holmes, a half-Irish blonde who in turn is chummy with Colette who, together with the Marquise de Belboeuf — Missy to her friends — is not entirely unfamiliar with Montmartre cellars like La Souris, and the Hannenton in the rue Pigalle, and the Rat Mort in the Place Pigalle. Familiar, in short, with the Parisian haunts of the so-called lesbienne in her mannishly styled jacket and shirt, though they themselves cannot be considered demimondaine in the strictest sense of the word. My point, Lizzie, is that whereas the activities of these conspicuous women might cause the faint lifting of an elegant eyebrow, yours and mine are above suspicion. For all the world to see and admire, we are behaving as proper ladies should behave, and whatever happens between us behind a locked door or on a secluded beach is something beyond the imagination of the men who have dictated our narrow ways. But there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy, Lizzie — if you will forgive my borrowing from the bard.
“I am sick unto death of their image of us, this myth they have created and which we are expected to uphold and, yet worse, defend. Our greatest secret, our supreme strength, is that no man on earth, no father, no son, could dare admit to himself that a proper lady — his daughter, his sister, his wife — would ever commit a breach that seriously threatened his superior position in the society he has constructed and which he will support with his very life. For should he once believe of any one of us that we might so rebel against the absurd rules and regulations proscribing the periphery of our lives, then he must perforce believe that we are all capable of bringing down his elaborate house of cards and thereby destroying his faith in the cherished myth of ideal womanhood — the Lady, Lizzie. The Lady I despise with all my heart.