No Moon Read online

  The maid who let me in earlier appears at the door. “Mrs. Ransom says her ladyship is ready to see the new girl. This way, please.”

  I follow her out of the kitchen and along a flagstone passage, past a room where a man, wearing a black jacket, stands counting silver spoons.

  “That’s Mr. Briggs, our butler, in his pantry. The next room is Mrs. Ransom’s parlor.” We walk past more rooms, up some steps, and then through a green baize-covered door that swings shut, noiselessly, behind us…up a short flight of steps and through a heavy oak door that opens into a hall. It is filled with sunlight, reflected in the chandeliers and the gold-framed mirrors, pooling, in gold flecks, on the polished floors. I wish I had time to take it all in.

  Dean whispers, “What did you say your name is?”

  “Louisa Gardener.”

  The double doors to the drawing room are open. She knocks, even so, and a voice calls out, “Come.”

  “Gardener is here, your ladyship.”

  I stand just inside the door, not certain what to do next. A slim beautiful lady rises from the desk by the window and crosses to the sofa. She is dressed in a summery gown of lavender muslin. I can’t help staring at her sleek blonde hair, her elegant gray shoes, and the graceful, unhurried way she moves.

  Vases of fresh flowers stand on small tables. Delicate ornaments and lamps are arranged close to each of the sofas. Chairs seem to be grouped together, as if just waiting for more beautiful people to sit, sip tea, and converse. The carpet is deep and soft, and there are flowered rugs scattered about. What if my boots leave marks? I can hear Kathleen’s voice in my head and imagine her laughing response: “What do you think the servants are for?”

  “Thank you, Dean. That will be all.”

  Dean disappears, closing the doors softly behind her. Everything is quiet up here, not like down in the kitchen with its hustle and bustle.

  “Good morning, Gardener. Come closer.”

  “Yes, milady.” I curtsy, waiting, my hands folded together to keep them from trembling.

  She glances at a letter. Even from where I stand, I recognize the handwriting.

  “I note that you have been assisting Miss Pringle at St. Margaret’s. What other experience do you have, and how old are you?” she asks, adjusting the folds of her gown. The sun streams in through the high windows, despite gauzy curtains, which keep out the worst of the glare.

  “I will turn fourteen this month, milady. I help my mother with the children and in the home. I left school last year. My sister Kathleen, the eldest, is apprenticed to a milliner. My twin brothers are almost nine years old, Emily is four and a half, and George was a year old in March.”

  “What, exactly, is it you do all day?” her ladyship asks.

  “Anything my mother says needs doing, ma’am. I clean and dust, sweep and iron, help with the cooking, and keep an eye on the younger children.”

  “That seems quite satisfactory.” She fans herself with a small ivory-handled fan.

  “My husband and I have three children. Roger is seven, in his second term at boarding school. Portia is four, and Alexandra, two years old. Nanny Mackintosh, who has been with us since Roger was born, requires a reliable nursery maid.”

  “I am very fond of children, ma’am.”

  “In August, while my husband and I are abroad, Nanny and the children go to stay in the country, with my mother, Lady Portman. She may decide to accompany them to Folkestone, for some bracing sea air.”

  Folkestone’s at the seaside. They’d not need me to go along, would they?

  “Do you have any questions, Gardener?”

  I’ve a hundred of them, but how can I ask when I don’t remember a single name, or even how to find my way back to the kitchen!

  “Very well, Gardener, Dean will take you up to the nursery now to meet Nanny Mackintosh and my daughters.” She rings a bell. Dean appears, almost at once.

  “Dean, take Gardener up to the nursery, please, then inform Mrs. Ransom that I would like to speak with her. Gardener will see her before she leaves. Make sure she finds her way. I am glad you are fond of children, Gardener.”

  I remember to curtsy and thank her ladyship before I follow Dean.

  We go back the way we came, through the baize door. A maid in a cream-colored uniform, carrying a bouquet of roses, hurries past us.

  “That’s Hart, her ladyship’s personal maid. I’m Annie Dean, parlor maid. But we are always called by our last names. Servants and children use the back stairs to the nurseries and upper floors. The main bedrooms are on the first floor, the guest rooms on the second, and the nurseries on the third. Croft, Mrs. Porter’s helper, and Roberts, the scullery maid, sleep in the basement. I share a room with Hart, on the fourth floor. Mrs. Ransom, Mrs. Porter, and Mr. Briggs have their own quarters downstairs, next to the servants’ hall.” Dean leads the way up the uncarpeted, wooden back stairs to the nursery. “Here we are.”

  She opens and shuts the children’s gate behind her, at the top of the stairs. The nursery door opens.

  “Good morning, Nanny Mackintosh, this is Louisa Gardener. I’ll be back for her in fifteen minutes, if that is convenient?”

  “Very well, Dean.”

  I bob a curtsy to the woman Mother said is the queen of the nursery, hoping I will do!

  Nanny Mackintosh’s eyes, as brown as her uniform, inspect me from head to foot. I am determined not to lower my eyes, much as I long to do, and stare back. “Plain and solid, no nonsense about her,” I know Mother would say with approval. Her salt-and-pepper flecked hair is pulled back from her pale face. Her mouth does not look as if it smiles much. Perhaps love has passed her by, like it has Miss Pringle. And, no doubt, she has a great deal of responsibility to bear.

  She is dressed in brown from head to toe, except for her crisp, immaculate, white cap, cuffs, and pinafore. A timepiece is pinned to her chest.

  “You may enter, Gardener. This is the day nursery. Thumb out of your mouth, Miss Alexandra.” Nanny speaks with a soft burr, rolling her r. She whips the baby’s thumb down.

  What a lovely little girl, with golden hair like her mother! The baby sits in a high chair, playing with bricks on the wooden tray in front of her. She looks up at me, smiles, and drops a brick. I am familiar with that game and pick up the brick. I balance it on top of another. The child crows in delight and throws it again. I hear Nanny tut, tut.

  “Do not encourage Miss Alexandra, Gardener. We never throw things in this nursery!” I put my hands behind my back obediently.

  “Come and say how do you do, Miss Portia. No, leave your pencil on the table.” The child puts her pencil back and stands beside Nanny. She looks down at her feet and whispers a greeting.

  “Good morning, Miss Portia,” I say. “I have a sister at home about your age.”

  “You have ten minutes before we get ready for our walk, Miss Portia,” Nanny warns. “I believe in running a tight ship. I expect my orders to be obeyed, both by children and servants. Firmness and discipline above all, Gardener.”

  I am not sure if I am expected to answer. She seems to be waiting for me to say something.

  “Yes, Nanny Mackintosh, I understand. I have three younger brothers and a little sister at home.”

  She continues to speak, so I seem to have said the right thing!

  “We take the children out for walks, morning and afternoon. We go to Belgrave Square in the morning. After our one o’clock lunch and after the children’s nap, we go further afield to Hyde Park, weather permitting, before tea.”

  “Yes, Nanny Mackintosh,” I say.

  “As nursery maid, you are to keep the day and night nurseries clean and tidy. They are to be swept and dusted before breakfast is brought to us at eight o’clock. In winter, the scullery maid lights the fire. She, or the footman, makes up the fire as needed.

  “I began work, as a young lass, as a second nursery maid to a titled family in Scotland. I cleaned out the grates before breakfast and ran up and down for trays as well
as coal. We knew what work was in those days!”

  “Yes, Nanny Mackintosh. I am not afraid of hard work,” I reply.

  “That remains to be seen,” she says, her mouth set in a thin straight line.

  Older people always seem anxious to tell us how hard life was when they were young. Do they think life is so much easier for those starting out now?

  A tall fireguard stands in front of the fireplace beneath the broad mantel. Winter seems far away. A rug lies between a comfortable, cushioned armchair and a rocking chair. The floor is covered with green linoleum, which is easy to keep clean. There are bars across the windows that overlook the square, a wide window seat, a bookshelf, a rocking horse, and a dollhouse almost as big as Miss Portia. I wish I could look at the little rooms and tiny pieces of furniture. A cretonne-covered toy box stands in a corner. What wouldn’t I give for our Emily to play here? She’d never leave that dollhouse–she’s never even seen one!

  “The nursery maid bathes and dresses the children under my supervision. There is some light washing of the children’s things and mending. Are you capable of doing that?” Nanny asks me.

  “Yes, Nanny Mackintosh, I darn and hem.”

  “I require my morning tea punctually at 6:45. The nursery maid brings it up to me. All our meals are eaten here with the children. The footman carries up the heavy trays. After tea, if their parents are at home, the children are taken downstairs to see them and, on occasion, to meet guests, if Lady Milton wishes it.

  “This way to the night nursery. Miss Alexandra has recently been moved in with Miss Portia. The nursery maid sleeps in the small, adjoining dressing room. The door is kept ajar at night, should the girls require attention. Miss Portia had measles last year and is not robust–she is a finicky eater. You are not a heavy sleeper, I trust?”

  Does that mean I am to have a room of my own, if I get taken on? What if I have one of my bad dreams and wake up the children?

  “Oh, no, indeed, Nanny. I wake up at the slightest sound.”

  “This is the children’s bathroom. Staff have their weekly bath in the servants’ bathroom downstairs. And this is Master Roger’s bedroom. Nothing is to be moved, nor may the girls play with his toys.

  “My quarters are on the other side of the day nursery,” Nanny says, looking down at her watch. “It is time to get the girls ready for their walk. You seem a sensible, willing girl, able to take instruction.”

  There is a knock on the door.

  “Punctuality is a great virtue. Dean will show you the way down. Good-bye, Gardener.”

  Dean and I walk down together.

  “You are almost finished. There is a lot to take in, isn’t there? Mrs. Ransom is expecting you.” Dean points to the housekeeper’s room.

  “Thank you for showing me everything,” I say.

  “Good luck! I must hurry and help Hart get the table ready for the luncheon party.”

  I knock on the housekeeper’s door, hoping I will make a good impression. How will I ever remember so many instructions?

  “Come in, Gardener.” I curtsy to her. “Lady Milton has asked me to speak to you regarding the position of nursery maid….”

  Mrs. Ransom sits behind a big desk that has everything neatly placed for easy reach: paper and pens, pencils, two inkwells, a carafe of water, and a covered glass.

  The wrists of her white high-necked blouse are cuffed with lace, and gold-rimmed glasses hang on a chain from her neck. Her hair is quite gray, though she does not look older than Nanny. Well, it’s no wonder, with all these servants to give orders to and making sure they do everything right!

  “Her ladyship has decided that you seem a suitable nursery maid for Nanny Mackintosh. She is prepared to give you a three-month trial. Wages start at eleven pounds a year, paid monthly by Mr. Briggs, the butler. This amount will be reviewed in a year’s time, if you prove to be satisfactory. We provide uniforms for our staff, made up by Mrs. Wilson, the household’s dressmaker. You will supply your own indoor and outdoor footwear.

  “Mrs. Porter serves a light supper of cocoa and biscuits in the servants’ hall every night, at nine o’clock. This will give you an opportunity to meet your fellow servants. You will take Nanny’s cocoa up to her, unless she has it here with me.

  “You may have one full day off a month and every other Sunday afternoon, after lunch. Lady Milton permits one evening out each week, if all your tasks have been completed to my satisfaction. You may attend Sunday morning or afternoon service, alternating with Nanny Mackintosh. I will inform you which days you attend which service, after I have decided the month’s schedule. All my under-eighteen-year-old maids are to be home by nine and in bed by ten o’clock. There is one week’s paid holiday a year, and you are allowed to spend Christmas Day at home with family.

  “You may move in the Saturday after coronation day, on June 24th, after lunch. This will allow you time to settle in and for Nanny Mackintosh to acquaint you with your duties before you commence work the following Monday morning.”

  She holds her pen poised over the inkwell. “This is an exceptional starting opportunity for a girl of your age. What shall I tell her ladyship?”

  I am to be taken on? I did not really expect an offer so soon. Mother told me what to say, if I was asked.

  “Please tell her ladyship that I am very grateful for the chance, thank you, Mrs. Ransom. I will do my best not to disappoint you or her ladyship.”

  First thing, I’ll go and thank Miss Pringle for putting in a good word for me.

  “Very well, Gardener. Any problems you encounter, you will bring directly to me. You may go now to get measured–the sewing room is across from my parlor. Good day.”

  What I’d like to do is to run home to tell Mother. I feel like skipping the length of the corridor, that’s how happy I am! Instead, I hold myself straight and tall, smooth my hair, which I have put up for the first time for today, and go into the sewing room.

  A tiny birdlike woman, looking old enough to be Mrs. Ransom’s mother, turns a sheet. She wears a lace cap perched on her white hair. A gray-striped apron covers her black dress. The sound of the door closing makes her look up. She removes a pin from between her lips.

  “So you’re the new girl. The last one stayed barely long enough for me to let down her hems! Gardener, isn’t it?” She takes the pencil from behind her ear and writes my name down in a thick ledger. She removes the measuring tape from around her neck and approaches me.

  “Twenty-five years I’ve been sewing for the family–first for his lordship’s mother and now for young Lady Milton. Hold still–staff hems are to be worn three inches above the ankle. Thirteen or fourteen, are you? Big hems then, to allow room for growth. You’re a bit on the thin side, but you’ll soon put on a few pounds with Mrs. Porter cooking. Now then, prints for morning, light blue, and for afternoon, navy blue. Caps and pinafores bought ready-made, not like the old days. Hold out your wrists.” She mutters to herself and writes down measurements, clicking her tongue and shaking her head.

  “I’m stronger than I look, Mrs. Wilson,” I tell her.

  “You’ll need to be. Now there’s a cape here somewhere, for outdoor wear. I can take it in a bit, make it good as new. There, you’re done. Your uniforms will be ready when you start.” She sits down at the sewing machine and begins to turn the handle again.

  I thank her and go out in the passage, longing to lean against the wall for a moment. My head spins. I’ve been looked at and over, questioned, hired, given information, and introduced to more faces than I’ll ever be able to put names to!

  The girl who was cleaning the stove when I first arrived pushes past me, bumping into my shoulder. The look on her face makes me wonder if she did it on purpose. The corridor is plenty wide enough for her to get by, even if she is carrying a bucket and rags! I expect she is just tired of being at everyone’s beck and call.

  “So you’re the new nursery maid, are you?” She looks behind her. “I don’t give you long with Nanny Mackintosh.�
�� She sounds spiteful, so I don’t reply.

  “I’m on my way upstairs to give the nursery windows a clean before the old biddy returns from her walk. You’ll be cleaning them soon. I’ve more than enough to keep me going downstairs.”

  A young footman, carrying a tray with coffeepot and cups, passes by. The butler emerges from the pantry with a decanter and glasses.

  “Gossiping again, Roberts? I trust you have finished cleaning the nursery windows. I have no wish to have any more complaints from the nursery!”

  “I’m on my way upstairs, Mr. Briggs. I was just giving the new girl directions to the kitchen.” Roberts hurries away.

  I hope that I won’t have trouble from Roberts. If I’m lucky, I will not have much to do with her.

  “Welcome to the staff, Gardener. You will find this a busy household. All of us have our own tasks to do, in order to keep the wheels of the household running like clockwork.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir,” I say.

  “Then I bid you good day, Gardener.” He continues down the passage, and I return to the kitchen. I hope he does not think I was keeping Roberts from her duties. I do not want to start off on the wrong foot with him.

  The kitchen door is open and I go in. Mrs. Porter is inspecting a vast silver platter, held by Dean. It is laden with tiny sandwiches, to which Mrs. Porter adds a final sprig of parsley.

  “That will do, but come back as quick as you can. The lobster patties are ready to come out of the oven,” Mrs. Porter says. I hold the door open for Dean.

  “So you made a good impression and are joining us, Gardener. Not that I’m a bit surprised, seeing whose daughter you are! Tell your mother, Bessie Porter wants to be remembered to her.”

  I thank her, relieved to escape outside and think about all that has happened since I arrived. The clock on the kitchen wall said five minutes to twelve. The two hours I have spent here seem like two weeks! I feel glad and sorry, both. I’m proud to be hired, but a little scared too. Will I last longer than the last nursemaid? And how is it that Mrs. Porter knows Mother?

  That evening, after supper, after I have told Mother and Father every detail about the morning, I give Mother Mrs. Porter’s message. Mother’s “Oh, I never” is close to a scream. “Bessie Porter…Jack, you must remember her? She was second cook, and I was her assistant, in the kitchen of Mr. and Mrs. John Ross.”