Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel Read online

  And so I went to work in the kitchen. Mrs Robbins found me a willing pupil. After lugging coal scuttles up all those stairs, it felt like heaven to be standing at a table preparing food. We had a scullery maid who did all the most menial of jobs, like chopping the onions and peeling the potatoes, but I had to do the most basic of tasks—mashing the potatoes with lots of butter and cream until there wasn’t a single lump, basting the roast so that the fat was evenly crisp. I didn’t mind. I loved being amongst the rich aromas. I loved the look of a well-baked pie. The satisfaction when Mrs Robbins nodded with approval at something I had prepared. And of course I loved the taste of what I had created.

  Now when I went home to Daddy and Louisa, I could say, “I roasted that pheasant. I made that apple tart.” And it gave me a great rush of satisfaction to say the words.

  “You’ve a good feel for it, I’ll say that for you,” Mrs Robbins told me, and after a while she even sought my opinion. “Does this casserole need a touch more salt, do you think? Or maybe some thyme?”

  The part I loved the best was the baking. She showed me how to make pastry, meringues that were light as air, all sorts of delicate biscuits and rich cakes. After a year under Mrs Robbins’s tutelage, I realized that I could now start to spread my wings. I could get a job as a cook, with the money and respect that went with it. I made the mistake of telling Mrs Robbins of my ambition, and she told madam. And madam didn’t want to lose me. She loved the status that her aristocratic servant gave her. “Go on, tell them about your dad in India,” she’d say when the ladies came to call. “Tell them about your great-uncle the earl and that blooming great palace of a house he lives in.”

  When she heard that I might be thinking of leaving, she called me into the drawing room and told me that if I was ungrateful enough to want to leave, she wouldn’t give me a reference. She smiled as she said it. Smirked, actually, knowing that nobody would hire me without a reference. I was stuck whether I liked it or not. I tried to think of ways to escape. I could go to America maybe. They’d be impressed by my upper-class English accent and noble background, wouldn’t they? I could become a cook there, or work in a high-class shop, or become a lady’s companion. The only fly in that ointment was that every penny I earned went to Daddy and Louisa. I had no way to save up for my fare. And of course I couldn’t leave them.

  My father died the autumn I turned twenty. This did not come as a great shock to me, and I have to admit I did not feel the grief a daughter should feel. I had learned to shut off all feeling the moment I became a servant. Mrs Tilley gave me a day off to arrange for his funeral, and Louisa and I stood together at his grave.

  “Well, that’s that, I suppose,” Louisa said. “I’m rather glad it’s over, aren’t you?”

  “Glad our father died?” I asked.

  She gave an awkward smile. “I don’t mean it like that. After all, he was our father and I suppose we loved him once, but it was like holding our breath, waiting for the end to come.”

  “Yes, it was,” I agreed. “But I’m worried about you. What will happen to you now?”

  She was almost seventeen, had shown little interest in her schooling and was recently apprenticed to a milliner. It suited her well as she had always been the sort of girl who admired herself in the mirror and longed to be fashionable one day, while I was interested more in my books and less in a way of life I could never have.

  “You like your job?” I enquired. “And your employers?”

  She nodded, tentatively. “They are very kind.”

  I enquired whether she could live in with the family who owned the shop. She actually blushed and said that wouldn’t be necessary. She had been holding off until Daddy died, but she had had a proposal and was going to marry.

  “Marry?” I stared at her in disbelief. “But you’re only a child.”

  “Nonsense. Many girls marry at seventeen,” she said. “And Billy will take good care of me. I won’t have to work.”

  I was more than shocked when I found out that the boy she wanted to marry was Billy Harrison, the son of the butcher above whose shop we lived. “A butcher boy? Louisa, you can’t marry trade. Daddy would turn in his grave.”

  She regarded me haughtily. “As if our father did anything for us, Bella.”

  “He did his best,” I said, not believing those words. His best hadn’t been good enough.

  She put her hand over mine. “Billy is a good catch, Bella. His father owns three shops, plus a pig farm out in Essex. He plans to hand one of the shops over to Billy. We’ll live with his parents in a nice house on Highgate Hill until Billy can find us a house of our own. You can stop being a servant and come and live with us. I’m sure Billy won’t mind.”

  I can’t tell you what anguish I went through that night. Of course I wished my sister well and wanted her to be happy. But here I was, stuck in domestic drudgery, having toiled for five years to support her, when she had no idea of the life I lived. I had wanted her to be educated, to have more chances than I. And now she was going to marry, and I . . . I was still a prisoner at the house of Tilley. Life seemed bitterly unfair.

  Then it struck me that I’d no longer be responsible for her. My wages were now my own. I’d save up and be able to buy my ticket to America. This cheered me so much that I decided to treat myself on my next day off. No more coming home with leftovers from the Tilleys. I’d go up to the West End and look in the shop windows, maybe buy myself a new comb or even some rouge for my too-pale cheeks and maybe take tea in a tearoom. So I caught the Metropolitan Underground railway to Baker Street, then the Bakerloo Underground to Oxford Circus. It was horribly hot and smoky, and I was so relieved to come up into the fresh air again.

  I felt a flutter of excitement when I emerged to a different world. Smartly dressed women, big beautiful shops. I walked along Oxford Street until I came to John Lewis’s wonderful department store. I gazed at all the windows, with their smartly dressed mannequins and realistic country scenes. In one window there was even a motor car. “A jaunt in the country” was written across the backdrop. Then I reached the front entrance and took a deep breath before I went in. It looked so beautiful it was almost like stepping into a palace. I approached the cosmetics counter and let the lady apply a little rouge to my cheeks before buying a small tin. Feeling very daring I came out again and turned down Bond Street.

  I paused at Fenwick’s department store, then gazed in the windows of the jewellers, hatmakers, leather goods merchants and china shops until I emerged on to Piccadilly. Then a really extravagant thought struck me. I remembered my father relating how he had been taken to tea at Fortnum and Mason when he was a child. I spotted the name across the street and decided that I, too, would have tea there, just this once. I stood at the edge of the curb, waiting for a break in the seemingly incessant stream of hansom cabs, omnibuses, delivery carts, and even occasional motor cars. Then right behind me I heard a scream, shouts and a police whistle, and my life changed in that instant.

  CHAPTER 2

  I spun around to witness a horrible scene. An omnibus stood beside the curb, its horses dancing nervously. Beneath its wheels lay the body of a young woman.

  “She stepped out right in front of me,” the driver shouted as he climbed down to calm the horses. “We were going too fast. I had no chance to stop.”

  “Is there a doctor in the crowd?” Two police constables had arrived at the scene.

  “Too late for that, mate,” a male voice said. “I reckon she’s a goner all right.”

  “Poor thing,” a woman beside me muttered. “I’m not surprised. Many’s the time I’ve had to sprint for my life as one of them omnibuses comes charging at me. The traffic is getting awful these days. You’re not safe to cross the road.”

  The omnibus driver was backing up his horses cautiously as the constables tried to move the girl. I couldn’t take my eyes off her broken body. She was not much older than I. She reminded me of a rag doll I had had as a child. My sister had stuck scissors into it
in a fit of temper, and let the sawdust run out so that the doll lay in a crumpled heap. As I looked on with pity and horror, I saw the girl’s eyes flutter open, looking around her with surprise as if she couldn’t believe what had just happened to her. Without hesitation, I stepped forward and knelt beside her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. You’re going to be all right,” I said, gently, although I didn’t think this was true. “I’ll stay here with you until a doctor comes.”

  She tried to focus on my face. “Palace.” The word came out as a whisper I could barely detect. “Palace. Tell . . .”

  She tried to move her hand, and I saw that she had been holding an envelope in it. I took it from her. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell them,” I said, although I had no idea what she meant. Clearly it had been troubling her because the worried expression left her face. She gave a little smile and a small sigh, and her eyes closed. It almost seemed that she had fallen asleep, but a big hand touched my shoulder.

  “There’s nothing you can do for her now, miss.” I looked up to see a constable standing behind me. “Were you a friend?” He helped me to my feet.

  “No. I didn’t know her. I just didn’t want her to think she was alone. It was so awful.”

  “You’re a kind girl. I expect she appreciated that,” he said.

  Several men were lifting the girl’s body on to the pavement. Someone was covering her with a rug. I had no reason to stay any longer. I pushed through the crowd that had gathered, blinking back the tears that were welling in my eyes. I was still so much in a state of shock that I had crossed the street towards the park before I realized that I was holding the girl’s envelope. Something in it was so important to her that it was her one concern as she lay dying. I stepped into a shop doorway, out of the stream of passers-by, and looked down at the envelope for the first time. It bore a crest—an impressive crest—and yet the girl was clearly from the working class, judging by her clothing. Curious now, I opened it and took out the letter inside.

  To Miss Helen Barton, Sowerby Hall, Near Leeds, Yorkshire

  From Her Majesty’s master of the household

  Dear Miss Barton:

  We are in receipt of your application for the position of under-cook at Buckingham Palace. The references you submitted are most satisfactory. Please present yourself at the palace on September 25th for an interview, and should you prove in every way suitable, we will be happy to offer you the position.

  My heart was beating so fast that I couldn’t breathe. My first thought was today was September 25th. My second was that she would no longer be needing the position. It would remain vacant, to be filled by someone else. I could apply in her stead and impart the news that she had met with a tragic accident, but that I was equally qualified to do the job. But then, of course, I realized that, unlike Helen Barton, I had no satisfactory references. That was when the preposterous idea came into my head. I would present myself as Helen Barton. She was from Yorkshire, after all. Nobody here would know her.

  As I kept walking down Piccadilly in the direction of Buckingham Palace, the enormity of what I was proposing threatened to overwhelm me. Did I dare to do this? And I heard my father’s voice: “Carpe diem, Isabella.” It was indeed my one chance to escape from my present drudgery, and I couldn’t let it slip away. And it was almost as if Helen Barton had wanted me to have it. She had begged me to take the envelope. Was this my one gift from heaven, to make up for all that I had suffered?

  When I reached the edge of Green Park, I sat on a bench, feeling the warm September sunshine on my face, and went through the ramifications. I was not hurting anybody. I was not depriving anybody of a job. In fact I’d be doing the palace a good turn because they would not have to advertise again for the position. And I knew I was a good cook.

  I stared down at the letter in my hand, and it dawned on me that this might be the only means of identifying Helen Barton. She might have had a handbag with her, but it may not have contained her address. Without this letter, her dear ones would not know she was dead. She would be buried in a pauper’s grave. I couldn’t let that happen, however much I wanted the job. “Stay calm, Bella,” I told myself. “There must be a way.” I thought it through logically. I would write to Sowerby Hall and inform them that I had witnessed the tragic death of Miss Barton. I would only sign the letter A well-wisher. At least her nearest and dearest would know where to apply for her body if they desired. However, I suspected she would not have any close relatives in Yorkshire. After all, she had been planning to move to London, and she would not have done that if she had an aging mother or a sweetheart living nearby. I told myself that she was probably an orphan. And her employer obviously knew she was applying for this position as she had provided a reference. I made up my mind. In spite of all the risks, I was going to do it. I was going to seize the day, just as my father had told me.

  I tucked the stray wisps of hair under my hat and realized that I now had rouge on my cheeks. That would never do! I took out my handkerchief and scrubbed at my face until, I hoped, every trace had been removed. I wished I had a looking glass in my handbag. I crossed Green Park and came out to the Mall, and there was Buckingham Palace ahead of me. My heart started racing again. If I was found to be an imposter, if I was caught trying to deceive the queen, did that count as treason? Did they still behead people in the Tower? I hesitated, looking at that imposing facade and the tall wrought iron gates. Did I really dare to go through with this?

  Then it was almost as if I could hear my father’s voice. “What have you got to lose, Bella?”

  That’s right, I thought. How would they ever find out I was not Helen Barton? She was from a house in the wilds of Yorkshire and presumably knew nobody in London. The queen required a cook, and I was good. The palace would be happy with me. Having bucked myself up in this way, I strode out, then hesitated again as I approached those imposing gates with the sentries standing in front of their boxes. Surely a servant would not enter in such a grand manner? Even Mrs Tilley in St John’s Wood had a servants’ entrance. It must be off to one side, in a discreet place, but where? I sidled up to one of the sentries.

  “Excuse me, but could you direct me to the servants’ entrance?” I whispered. “I’m here for an interview.”

  His gaze did not falter. He continued to stare straight ahead of him, and his mouth didn’t move either, but between his lips he muttered, “Off to your left, miss. Door in the wall.”

  I thanked him and saw the ghost of a smile twitch at his lips. Off I went, past the front of the palace and around to the side, where a tall brick wall ran around what was presumably the palace grounds. And there in the wall was the small, almost invisible door. I opened it and was met by another guard.

  “Miss Barton to see the master of the household in regard to the post of under-cook,” I said in my most efficient-sounding voice. As I said it, an awful thought struck me. What if Helen Barton had already had her interview and was on her way home when the accident occurred? What if the master of the household informed me that he had already conducted the interview and demanded to know who in heaven’s name I was?

  Again it was a risk to be taken. If she had already had her interview, why was the letter still clutched in her hand? No, she had to have been on her way to the palace! At least the guard at the side gate didn’t react in any way. He escorted me down a narrow path to an ordinary-looking door in a brick wall. He rang a bell. A young man appeared—a footman, I supposed, although he was not dressed in splendid livery but in a white shirt and black trousers.

  “This young lady to see the master about a job interview,” the guard said.

  I held out the letter for him to scrutinize.

  “Follow me, please, miss,” the footman said. At least he hadn’t looked at me in surprise and commented that I was the second young lady to present herself for the position that afternoon, which must mean that Helen Barton had been on her way to the palace. I think I let out a little sigh of relief. Along a plain
white plastered hallway and up a flight of wooden steps we went, then into a slightly larger corridor. The footman tapped on a door.

  “Enter,” came a deep voice from within.

  “A Miss Barton to see you, Master,” the footman said.

  “Send her in,” said the deep voice.

  My heart was racing. I took a deep breath to calm myself and stepped into the room. It was not fancy, just a big mahogany desk, bookshelves and a window looking out on to the garden. The man at the desk had impressive grey whiskers and deep frown lines on his forehead. He wore a military uniform with lots of braid and was clearly the sort who expected to be obeyed with no nonsense.

  “Miss Barton.” He held out a hand to me. “I am Colonel Pelham-Clinton, Master of Her Majesty’s Household. Good of you to come.”

  “How do you do? It’s good of you to see me, Colonel,” I replied, reaching forward to shake his hand.

  The frown on his forehead deepened. “I expected a Yorkshire accent,” he said. “You are not from that county?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “My father was an educated man who had fallen upon hard times. I was raised to speak properly.” I decided to stick to the truth as much as possible.

  He nodded. “And where is your father now?”

  “He died. Both my parents died when I was a child. That was why I had to go into service. I no longer have anybody.”

  “I see.” He nodded again. “You have the nice red cheeks of a girl from the countryside. I’m afraid you’ll soon lose those in the smoky air of the city.”

  I tried not to smile as I realized that the red cheeks were a result of my scrubbing off the rouge.

  “And you’re younger than I expected.”

  “I’m told that I look young for my age,” I replied, wondering how old Helen Barton had been. She hadn’t looked much older than I—had the advertisement stipulated over twenty-one?