Kitty suppressed a laugh. She knew exactly what “gladly share the work” meant, and what the duties would be, especially with only ten pairs of hands-ten! — to share the labor. She knew, too, that it was getting much harder to find experienced housemaids these days, what with girls wanting to work in factories, or running off to the cities to make something of themselves. She had no fear that her application would be rejected, even though she had asked for the top wage: twenty-two pounds a year, to be paid monthly.
She was right. She was hired on the spot, and she pretended not to notice Mrs. Raleigh’s vast sigh of relief when she said that she was available to begin her duties the next day.
Like the other country houses in which Kitty had been employed, Blenheim had its own order of duties. If she wanted to get along in her work, the first thing she had to do was to learn the house’s schedule, its rules, who was responsible for what, and where people were supposed to be at any given time. It also helped, of course, to know who really had the authority, which was not always as immediately obvious as it might seem from the Order of Duties posted in the housemaids’ sitting room.
The first candle of the day was lit at six A.M. in Housemaids Heights, the southeast tower where the housemaids, kitchen maids, laundresses, and stillroom maids slept, two together in small rooms as bare as cells in a nunnery. Kitty shared her cell with Ruth, a tidy, earnest young woman whose family lived in nearby Woodstock, with whom she had quickly struck up a friendship. It was particularly useful, Kitty had found, to have a friend who was well-acquainted with the local village.
Combed and pinned and aproned, the ten housemaids made their way downstairs for two hours of morning chores-opening draperies, sweeping carpets with wet tea leaves to absorb the dust, dusting furniture, polishing brasses, lighting fires in bedrooms and dressing rooms and seeing that the coal-scuttles were properly filled, and carrying brass jugs of hot water to ladies and gentlemen-all this before assembling for breakfast in the servants’ hall, where the daily dish of above-stairs gossip was served up together with hot tea, cold meat pie, and a great deal of teasing and practical jokery among the porters and hall boys and pages and odd men (the men who did all the odd jobs). The six footmen took their breakfasts and other meals in the butler’s pantry, so Kitty did not often see Alfred, the chap who had been at Carleton House and Welbeck Abbey with her. Which was just as well, she told herself, for she regretted having encouraged his attentions-not because she hadn’t enjoyed them, but because one shouldn’t mix business and pleasure. And also because having once encouraged him, she couldn’t seem to discourage him. Now he was writing notes to her, foolish little love notes, which was dangerous. In some households, it could mean that both of them would be sacked.
In general, the Blenheim servants seemed to be a disorderly lot, much less disciplined, Kitty thought, than their counterparts at the other houses where she had served. Most seemed to know a great deal more than they ought about what was going on above stairs, where on houseparty weekends, the guests played musical beds with as much gay abandon as the servants below-stairs played musical chairs.
Kitty did not mind the gossip and bawdy jokes, but she did think that the lack of discipline among the servants showed how the house was managed. It was a straw in the wind, so to say, which she was (all taken in all) not sorry to see. It had been her experience that when the uppers-the butler, housekeeper, and cook-tolerated rowdy behavior among the lowers, they were less attentive in other matters, as well. This seemed borne out by the rumors she’d heard, such as the kitchen maids’ illicit trade in beef and bread, some of which flew out the back door and down to the village faster than it could be served up at table. And the coachmen were said to enjoy a profitable connivance with regard to their livery, scheming with the tailor to substitute their old livery for the new suits the Duchess ordered for them and pocketing the difference. Lax a little, lose a lot, Kitty’s old gram used to say, and here at Blenheim, Gram looked like being right.
The rest of Kitty’s day was as full as its first few hours. At nine, the household gathered for prayers in the chapel, and afterward the housemaids hurried off to the bedchambers of family and guests, where they spent the morning making beds, hanging up clothing, dusting, and emptying wash basins and chamber pots. In the afternoon, they were sent in pairs to dust the Great Hall, the Long Library, and the drawing rooms. After tea, the upstairs work resumed, as they carried more cans and jugs of hot water, laid things out for the ladies’ and gentlemen’s before-dinner baths-soap and sponge bowls, towels and mats-and made up the bedroom fires. Then the baths had to be emptied, and the beds turned down, and then there was supper at nine. And finally, just before the family and guests retired, the maids were back in the rooms, making up the bedroom fires and putting warming pans in the beds, for the rooms were cold as the grave. In Housemaids Heights, it might be two or three A.M. before Kitty could snuff out her candle and pull the blanket over her head, to catch four hours of sleep before the next day began.
Bed hadn’t come quite so late tonight, since there were no guests in the house. But Kitty’s long day was not quite over. Trying to quell her mounting excitement, she lay beside Ruth until the other young woman began to snore. Then she got out of bed, pinned up her reddish-blond hair, pulled on her clothing and her shoes, and closed the door stealthily behind her. Lighting a candle, she crept down the tower’s narrow stairs all the way to the bottom, where the outside door was left off the latch for the servants’ late comings and goings-another example of the laxness of the house.
Outdoors, Kitty extinguished her candle and tucked it behind a potted plant, where she could retrieve it on her return. The summer night was softly lit by stars and a pale sliver of moon, and a low mist rose from the wet grass. At first, she was not exactly sure which path to take, for the directions she had been given seemed confusing, and she had not yet been in this part of the grounds. And there was an owl quavering a low, ominous whoo-hoo-hoo somewhere in the trees along the lake-a sure portent of death, Gram used to say.
But Kitty had never let Gram’s superstitious nonsense frighten her, and she put the thought out of her mind. After a few moments of uncertainty, she found herself on the path to the boathouse, and went forward with greater confidence. She had done this sort of thing before, of course, at other houses: getting up in the middle of the night, making her way silently down the back stairs, meeting her accomplice, taking the items, and delivering them into the waiting hands. It was all part of the job.
But tonight was different. Tonight, her accomplice-that silly, romantic boy who persisted in writing love notes to her-was safe in his bed, asleep, and what she was doing was not part of the job. Tonight’s adventure was wholly her own, and she would pocket the profit herself. Tonight was her night, and the thought filled her with an excitement that was heightened by the sense that she was taking a rather large risk.
But of course it was a risk, Kitty reminded herself. Life itself was a risk, a game, a big gamble from beginning to end, and you didn’t gain a farthing unless you were willing to take a chance. Well, she was willing. What’s more, she wasn’t afraid… not very much, that is. If her lips were cold and her hands were trembling, she told herself, it was with anticipation, not fear.
She reached the boathouse, found the skiff, and clambered in. Picking up the oars, she began to row. As she leaned into the rhythms of rowing, she and the boat moved over the water as silently as a cloud shadow across the moon, all the way across the lake to the grassy slope beneath Rosamund’s Well, a magical spring that had flowed unceasingly for centuries. The spring’s waters, Ruth had told her, had wonderfully transforming powers. If you dipped your hand into them and wished, your wish was bound to come true, no matter how wild and silly it was. That was what had happened to Fair Rosamund centuries and centuries ago, Ruth said. Rosamund was just a plain, ordinary girl-a scullery maid in a Woodstock house, people said-until she dipped her hand in the spring and wished to be loved by a king. Not long after, her wish came true. King Henry fell passionately in love with her and would have married her, if he hadn’t happened to have a queen already, who was as jealous and mean as anything. But he built her a beautiful house on the hill above the spring, and himself a splendid palace not far away, and whenever he could get away from the queen, he’d come and make love to Rosamund.