The Housekeepers(41)
Mr. Shepherd liked that, too. “Very good. Most economical.”
“We are economical.” Jane-one pressed her palms to his desk again. “We’ll split our rations between us.”
“Two for the price of one, ha-ha,” said Mr. Shepherd, plainly ready to have this business over and done with. “Well, consider yourselves on trial.”
They nodded, stepped back. “We’ll meet the mistress now, then,” said the Jane-two.
“Meet the… No, you certainly will not. Madam has delegated all downstairs matters entirely to me.”
“But engaging domestics is one of those duties in which the judgment of the mistress must be keenly exercised.”
“Indeed it is, indeed it is,” Shepherd said. And then, with more strength, he added, “And I am most extremely observant of Madam’s strictures on these matters.” He straightened in his chair. “So there won’t be another word about it, Miss…” Clearly he was struggling to remember their names. “Miss…”
“Jane,” they said, in tandem, with force.
It wasn’t easy, hiding everything. The extendable poles, the rope swing, the breakaway ladder, the nets, the winches, the braces, the platforms, the joists. All those had to be stored in the attics. They were cavernous, and accessible by drainpipe, and you could winch things up from the garden if you were quick about it. Winnie had given them detailed instructions.
“You’ll find porthole windows here, here, and here.” She’d pointed at them on the map. “You can easily get pulleys down to the garden.”
Jane-one had thought there was something fishy about her expression. “You love this place, don’t you?” she’d said.
Winnie had seemed startled by the idea. “No,” she had said, grave faced. “But I know it very well.”
They began operations on that first night. The odious cook informed them that they were to be locked into their bedroom at night, which necessitated an immediate survey of the drainpipe and the guttering. They were pleased with the results. Jane-one loved modern houses. The dimensions were hopelessly vulgar, of course—everybody knew that—but the craftsmanship was tip-top. They waited until the house started to still and settle, and then they inched out of the window.
They had to pause on the way up to the roof. Jane-two dug her foot into Jane-one’s shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Shh.”
“Is it him?”
“I said shh.”
They’d clocked him at once: a gerbil-faced lamp-boy who ran errands all over the house. He was staring out of a window on the fourth floor, nose pressed to the glass, gazing up at the sky. Jane sighed inwardly. This was no time for stargazing.
At last, Jane-two kicked her again. “He’s gone. Come on.”
Jane-one took a breath. It had been a long time since she’d been up this high. That was the trouble, working for Mrs. Bone. It made you soft. Forget your training. She closed her eyes.
“Are you experiencing a crisis?” whispered Jane-two.
“No, I’m just experiencing your great blooming arse in my face,” muttered Jane-one.
Up they went.
Once they got the pulley in place, they had to lay padding to muffle the attic floors. They couldn’t allow anyone in the servants’ quarters to hear any creaking footsteps overhead. Winnie had purchased an enormous number of Turkish carpets, which some of Mrs. Bone’s men delivered at night by vaulting over the walls. The tallest gave Jane-two a wink when he landed at her feet.
“You did that rather well,” she said, appraising him.
“I do lots of things rather well,” he replied, appraising her right back.
“Moira,” gasped Jane-one, staggering under the weight of the carpet rolls. “For pity’s sake.”
They were nearly caught the following night, lifting crates up to the attics, ready to be packed up on the night of the ball. Two of the under-footmen were still awake long after lights out. They’d cracked open their window, smoking contraband cigarettes, talking in hushed tones. Jane-two had to make a low whistle, her best impression of an owl. By then at least two dozen of the hired men were already crawling over the roof of the mews house to gain access to the garden and the eastern side of the house. They froze on their haunches, not moving until the footmen blew their lights out and the window juddered closed.
But otherwise the servants paid the Janes no mind. Cook had a good deal of violent and offensive opinions, but the Janes knew their rights: they’d been hired on as house-parlormaids—they sat outside her jurisdiction. The under-footmen were either too superior or too gauche to talk to girls. The head footman was very beautiful, but the Janes were never swayed by beauty. The other housemaids smoked, monitored their tea rations, took in the illustrated papers and avoided their chores when they could get away with it. A bevy of new servants came in daily, in expectation of the ball. Waiters, clock winders, glass cleaners, mechanics, a man with a splendid toupee who specialized in topiary. In other words, the Janes blurred entirely into the background.
“This is going to be easy,” said Jane-one.
“Too easy,” said Jane-two. “And note that down in the log. An assumption made is a day’s delay.”
Jane-one rolled her eyes, but she complied.
They only encountered Mrs. Bone when they crossed the kitchen. She was always caught in some degrading position, struggling with a mop and bucket, usually on her hands and knees, utterly subjected to the tyranny of Cook. “Cup of tea, girls, I beg you,” she whispered when they found her scrubbing the pantry floor, hands blistering from lime solution, eyes wild and bloodshot. “I’m gasping.”