‘Yes, madam,’ Cat says, eventually, and quite tonelessly.
‘Cat – your proper name is Catherine, isn’t it? I wonder that you mightn’t like to be called Kitty? A new name for a new start? I think it would suit you very well.’ Hester smiles.
‘I have always been Cat, never Kitty,’ Cat says, puzzled.
‘Yes, I see; but don’t you think Kitty would be better? What I mean to say is, you can leave all that old trouble behind with the old name? Do you see?’ Hester explains. Cat seems to consider this, and her eyes grow hard.
‘I have always been Cat,’ she insists.
‘Very well, then!’ Hester cries, at a loss. ‘Is there anything you would like to ask me?’
‘Only to say, madam, that I am not able to wear corsets. The doctor has told me, after my illness, that it would put too great a strain on my chest.’
‘Really? That is a terrible shame. Of course, you must do what is best for your health, even if some might consider it improper. Is the condition likely to improve? Do you think you’ll be able to wear them at some time in the future?’
‘I cannot tell you,’ Cat replies.
‘Well, we shall see when the time comes. Cat, I want you to know…’ Hester hesitates. Somehow the words she had prepared seem almost silly now that she is face to face with the girl. ‘I want to tell you that it won’t be held against you, here. Your… past troubles. In this house you have the chance to start afresh, and live a clean, Godly life. My husband and I have always said that charity is the greatest of virtues, and begins at home. I hope you will find us true to our philosophy.’ Again, that disconcerting pause, that immobile expression. A small shiver runs down Hester’s spine, and the skin of her scalp tingles unpleasantly – just like it does when she finds a black spider hiding in the folds of her bedroom curtains.
‘Thank you, madam,’ Cat says.
Hester feels considerably more at ease once Cat Morley has gone back below stairs to help Mrs Bell prepare the tea. The girl had an odd air about her, as though she were distracted by something, some unnatural urge perhaps. Hester assures herself that this is unlikely, but she can’t quite shake the feeling. Cat did not drop her gaze as she ought. Well, not as she ought, precisely, but as one might expect her to. She was so tiny and weak looking, it was easy to imagine her frightened of the least little thing. Hester takes up her needlepoint bag, and the fresh frame she stretched only yesterday, ready to begin a new piece. She thinks for a moment, and then smiles. A gift, for the girl who insists on being called Cat. What could better demonstrate her good will? She rummages through her bag and chooses threads of green, blue and saffron yellow. Fresh colours for a fresh new season. Hester hums happily as she begins to prick out her design, and when Cat Morley brings in the tea tray she thanks her kindly, and tries not to notice the way the sinews stand raw and proud beneath the skin on the back of Cat’s hands.
‘You don’t talk much, do you?’ Mrs Bell observes, as Cat finishes wiping the last of the tea crockery, and spreads the towel to dry over the range. The housekeeper stands with her knees together but her ankles apart, leaning her wide behind against the heavy work table, watching Cat’s every move. The kitchen is half-submerged below ground, the view from the spotted windows one of sky and tree tops.
‘When I’ve something to say.’ Cat shrugs. Mrs Bell grunts.
‘Better that way, I suppose, than some young chit gabbling on all the live-long day.’ Mrs Bell studies Cat a moment more. ‘You don’t talk like a Londoner. I’ve heard some Londoners, when they come down selling and making speeches in town and the like.’
‘My mother spoke very properly. The Gentleman preferred all his staff to do so,’ Cat replies stiffly. She does not want to speak of her mother. She does not want to speak of London, of the past. Mrs Bell grunts again.
‘Well, don’t go giving yourself airs and graces, not now you’re here. You’re the bottom of the pile now, my girl, and one word from me’ll be enough to send you packing again.’
‘How kind of you to say so,’ Cat mutters, darkly.
‘Don’t get lippy with me, miss.’ Mrs Bell pauses, seems to check her own tongue. ‘You done any cooking?’
‘I used to help prepare the staff food, sometimes. Never for the family though.’
‘Prepping vegetables, and the like? Can you make pastry?’
‘No.’ Cat shakes her head, reaches behind her back to untie her apron.
‘Not so fast, if you please! There’s four pigeons to pluck for supper tonight – you’ll find them in the cold store.’ Cat reties her apron, turns to leave the room. ‘And take them out into the courtyard, or you’ll be chasing feathers around for days!’ Sophie Bell calls after her.
The courtyard is a small area to the west of the house surrounded by a high brick wall, and paved with the same red bricks. The evening sun shines warmly on the top of Cat’s head as she works, surrounded by tender green plants as they begin their steady growth up from crevices in the mortar. In the midst of life, we are in death, Cat thinks, as her fingers catch up the soft feathers of the birds, ripping them sharply from the slack skin. She has always hated the tearing noise it makes, always avoided the job at all costs. In London the servants were many, and their roles well defined. Only in times of panic would a parlourmaid be called upon to pluck birds for a meal. There were kitchen-maids for that. There was Tess. Smears of fat on her apron, fingernails stained brown by potato skins, smudges of flour on her smiling cheeks. The dead birds smell sticky, slightly sweet; their heads loll and flop as she works, cracks in the dry skin around their beaks. Cat thinks of dried blood around Tess’s mouth; the way it had smeared her gums, drawing dark outlines around her teeth. She thinks of this same sickly smell, coming from stains that bloomed through rough clothing. Cat longs for a cigarette.
Towards five, a rattle and the whirr of spokes announces the return of the Reverend Albert Canning. Hester puts down her needlework and goes into the hallway to greet him. He opens the door as the clock strikes the hour and smiles at his wife, who takes his hat and bag while he removes the heavy binoculars from around his neck and doffs his coat. Albert is tall and slender, his fair hair fine and downy, and just starting to thin across the crown – a development that does not age him in the slightest, and conversely seems to emphasise his youth. There is colour high in cheeks from the exertion of cycling back from town; wide blue eyes, with that look of innocence that had so captured Hester’s heart from the very first; his skin soft and smooth. One arm gets caught in the sleeve of his coat, and Hester tries to help him but is hampered by his heavy leather satchel. They tussle with it for a moment, catch each other’s eye, and laugh.
‘How was your afternoon, Bertie?’ Hester asks, as she settles into a chair once more.
‘Very pleasant, thank you, Hetty. I managed to call upon everyone who had asked for me, and was able to help in some small matter or another in all but one instance, and on my way home I saw the most splendid peacock butterfly – the first I’ve seen this year.’
‘And did you catch it?’ Hester asks. Albert keeps a fine silk net and a collecting jar in his bag, in case of rare sightings.