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Jessica Page 3
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Page 3
It was obvious Mrs. Craven lived in the rich part of town. Once they passed by the main street they turned at a cross-road and journeyed on. Red brick houses lined either side of the road. Most had pretty, well maintained gardens. A few children played on the grass under the watchful eyes of young women, probably nannies.
The coach pulled up outside a narrow three storied house. On the ground floor colorful flowers cascaded from white window boxes. Their driver helped Mrs. Craven out then turned to give Jessica her hand, but she had already jumped down.
Mrs. Craven paid the man, who hopped back into the coach, whipped up the horses and drove off.
“Well, come along, girl. Stop dilly-dallying.”
Before stepping on to the porch they passed through an archway of sweetly smelling pink roses. Jessica inhaled deeply, she was liking this place already. If the rest of the garden was as pretty as this she would be supremely happy.
“You have a lovely garden, Mrs. Craven.” Jessica spoke carefully so her employer wouldn’t think she was a complete guttersnipe.
“Yes, my dear departed husband had it planted.” She dabbed at her eyes with the lace trimmed handkerchief. “It gave him great pleasure. He was crippled for the last couple of years of his life.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. The woman obviously cared deeply for her husband.
The front door swung open and Jessica was confronted by the largest women she had ever seen, all of six feet tall, and a couple of axe handles wide.
“Bertha, meet Jessica.”
“How do you do, Bertha.”
Bertha nodded a greeting.
“She’s from the orphan asylum, she’ll be my companion, and can help you with the heavy work.”
“Well, she don’t look very strong.”
“Matron assured me she was. She can have the attic bedroom. Before you go home you can show her where the sheets are kept and she can make up the bed herself.”
The front door opened into a hallway with a carpet runner covering the polished floorboards. The cream painted walls had pretty blue and gold cornices. Jessica had never seen anything so splendid.
“This is the parlor,” Mrs. Craven said as she followed her employer into a large room with red velvet chairs and matching sofa. A small table was covered by a white lace cloth. A huge bowl of pink and white roses sitting on the ledge over the fireplace, filled the room with their fragrance.
“Make us some coffee,” Mrs. Craven ordered. With a nod of her head the housekeeper waddled off.
“Bertha doesn’t talk much. She’s a widow and lives in a cottage down the back. She’s got heart problems, so she’s probably not long for this world, that’s why I want you trained to look after the house and me when she’s gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Mrs. Craven pursed her lips. “She can’t do much now. I keep her on because I’m a Christian woman and she has nowhere else to go. She started out as my son’s nursemaid. She’s related to my late husband, a cousin two or three times removed.”
Bertha plodded in wheeling a trolley containing a white china teapot with a gold rim, exactly matching the cups and saucers. Never had Jessica seen such fancy crockery. Several slices of current cake reposed on a silver leaf-shaped dish. After pouring the coffee for them and adding cream, Bertha left the room, her heavy tread vibrating the spoons resting on the saucers.
Nervously Jessica waited and watched what Mrs. Craven did before copying her. She sipped the coffee, savoring the taste and aroma.
“Eat up, girl. Bertha will be right put out if we don’t finish all of this cake.”
Jessica reached over and picked up the plate so her employer could take a piece first.
“No, no, girl, you place the cake on one of those plates. Didn’t anyone teach you that?”
“No, we didn’t have cake there, well, Matron and the staff might have, although I never saw any.”
“You pour the coffee and add the cream before placing a slice of cake on the plate and handing it to me or any guest. Last of all you attend to yourself.”
Carefully, Jessica placed a piece of cake on the plate and handed it over, then repeated the procedure for herself. The cake was delicious; she forced herself to nibble at it like Mrs. Craven did, and not gobble it down as was her first instinct. Cake, coffee and cream, had she died and gone to heaven?
“Bertha cooks supper before she leaves, you will serve it and clean up afterward. I retire at 7 o’clock. After we’ve eaten and everything is cleared up, you can play checkers or read to me. Once I retire for the night your time is your own. You will not leave the house on your own. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Craven.”
“Bertha will arrive and have breakfast ready for us at 8 o’clock. You will help her with the chores, then after lunch we may, or may not, go for a stroll.”
Bertha returned to collect the afternoon tea dishes. “Show Jessica around, so she’ll know where everything is kept. Get my book off the side table and that foot stool first. The doctor said I should try to keep my legs elevated because of my rheumatics,” she explained for Jessica’s benefit.
Jessica rushed to do the old lady’s bidding, and after Mrs. Craven was settled, followed Bertha out of the room.
The kitchen was quite large with a stove in the fireplace. The dining room had an oval table with matching chairs. Upstairs were two bedrooms and a well-stocked linen cupboard.
“You can help yourself to sheets and pillowcases from here, blankets are in the attic room wardrobe, on the next level. Mrs. Craven is very fussy, can’t tolerate dirt or untidiness. Understand?”
“Yes.” She didn’t know whether Bertha liked her or not, as the woman’s face was impassive, her voice was sharp, though.
“I’ve been with the family for forty years. I was Mr. Arthur’s nanny when he was a lad.”
“Does Mrs. Craven only have the one child?”
“Yes, Mr. Arthur is a lawyer in New York.” Bertha plodded off.
Jessica helped herself to the pristine white linen and climbed up the steep narrow stairs to the attic bedroom, which contained a single bed, a dresser and a wardrobe. She had to pinch herself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. A nice room all to herself.
At last I am having some good luck. She placed her meager possessions on the dresser before making up the bed. The pillow case was trimmed with lace as was the top sheet. This was the kind of luxury she had always dreamed about.
Crossing to the window she opened it and glanced down over a large back garden. The scent of lavender wafted on the slight breeze, she inhaled deeply. What a change from the smell of damp decay and despair permeating the orphanage. I’ll never go back there, she inwardly vowed. I’d rather die.
She literally skipped down the two flights of stairs and back into the parlor. Mrs. Craven was dozing with the book still clutched in her hand. Gently, Jessica removed it, placed it on the side table and tip-toed out of the room.
Making her way to the kitchen, she hovered in the doorway.
“Come in,” Bertha said with an exasperated snort. “You’re acting like a frightened mouse.”
You’d be like this too, if you’d been brought up like me. She bit her lip to stop the words tumbling out of her mouth. Years of fear and intimidation would sap anyone’s confidence.
“Do you cook?”
Jessica shook her head. She had never been lucky enough to secure kitchen duty. The most prized work in the orphanage was always saved for Gerda’s pets.
~*~
Two years passed. Jessica had happily settled into life here with the two women. Bertha had taught her how to cook and run a household, Mrs. Craven had shown her how to sew, and had encouraged her to make lace trimmed muslin bags to fill with dried lavender. She could also make her own clothes now and do dainty embroidery. Mrs. Craven had a friend who owned a shop, and Jessica was able to sell the pretty lavender bags and handkerchiefs to this lady. She was only paid a pittance for her work, particularly as the items were sold for about twenty times more than what she received.
Her only concern was that in all the time she had been in Mrs. Craven’s employ, not once had she received any wages.
“You don’t need money, when I take care of all your needs,” the old lady said when Jessica had once nervously broached the subject.
It was true she didn’t need money to spend now, she wanted to save it for when she had to leave here. “I hope to open a dress shop,” she had said one day.
“You will, dear, I’ve made provision for you and Bertha in my will. Arthur is my only relative now, and he has plenty of money and won’t need mine. When I go you’ll be quite a wealthy young woman. Have I not taught you how to act like a well brought up young lady?”
“Yes, you have.”
Mrs. Craven had taught her a lot, even how to read and write. She wore nice clothes even if they were cut-downs from the old lady’s wardrobe. With a sigh she had dropped the subject. What else could she do?
As Mrs. Craven and Bertha grew older, Jessica shouldered more work, not that she minded. She had gained a little weight. Although still fair, her cheeks were pink and healthy, her eyes glowed. The hacking cough dogging her each winter at the orphanage had disappeared. Don’t be greedy, she kept telling herself. You’ve got it good here.
If Mrs. Craven left her some money, she could still open up her own shop, although she didn’t like the idea of waiting for someone to die so she could gain an inheritance. She sincerely hoped Mrs. Craven would live for another few years.
One morning Bertha didn’t arrive to start breakfast. Mrs. Craven had grown slightly more querulous and demanding with the passage of time. Jessica cooked her porridge and heated up the milk for her cocoa, and
took it up to her now. Over the last few months the old lady had insisted on having breakfast in bed. After she had eaten Jessica would help her wash and dress.
“Where’s Bertha?” the old lady asked.
“I don’t know, she wasn’t in the kitchen when I came down. If you think you’ll be all right, I’ll go over to the cottage and check on her.”
“Yes, yes. Do that.”
Jessica hurried down the stairs. She didn’t want to frighten Mrs. Craven, but she was worried.
Sprinting across the backyard, she knocked on the door of the small cottage. No answer. Gnawing her lip, she knocked again, harder, and yelled out. When there was no reply she opened the door and dashed in.
The parlor and kitchen were combined, and the stove wasn’t burning. She hesitantly walked over to the bedroom door, which stood ajar.
Bertha was in bed. There was an aura of death here. She knew this even before she touched the housekeeper’s cold, waxen cheek.
She had seen death plenty of times at the orphanage. Children who had succumbed to measles or pneumonia in the night. On one occasion, she had to carry a suitcase with a baby’s body in it over to the graveyard. Even after all these years, she shuddered at the memory. No-one outside the orphanage ever knew, and if they did, they wouldn’t have cared. Matron and Gerda certainly didn’t.
She gently pulled the sheet over Bertha’s face before backing out of the cottage. It seemed somehow disrespectful to run, but once outside, she sprinted across the garden, charged into the house and took the stairs two at a time.
“Mrs. Craven, Mrs. Craven, Bertha’s dead,” she blurted the words out before she could stop herself.
“What!”
Between shuddering breaths, she told the old lady what she had found, and soon they were both weeping.
“Get the doctor,” Mrs. Craven finally said.
“I…I don’t want to leave you on your own,” Jessica blubbered.
“He only lives a few dozen houses up the road.”
Jessica dashed off. The doctor was nearly as old as Mrs. Craven, a widower who lived with his spinster daughter.
Leaving him to make his way to the house, she raced home. She didn’t like leaving the old lady alone, particularly at a time like this. She and Bertha had been close for decades, more like friends than employer and employee.
Chapter Five
At Bertha’s funeral, Jessica met Arthur Craven for the first time, and she didn’t like him. Arrogant and condescending, he stood next to his mother who sat in her wheelchair as the preacher performed the burial service. The Cravens, her and the doctor were the only mourners.
“You’ll be staying a few days, son?” Jessica picked up the note of pleading in Mrs. Craven’s voice.
“I told you, Mother, I can only stay overnight. I’m extremely busy at the moment, I’m in the middle of a complicated court case. Besides, I can’t leave Valda and the children for too long.”
“You never come to visit me.”
“Take her back to the house,” Arthur ordered Jessica. What she could see of his hair under his hat was dark. His skin was tanned, his brown eyes hard and calculating. She didn’t like the way he stared at her, assessing her like a prized animal being sold at auction.
“Your mother misses you terribly,” she plucked up the courage to say.
“Speak to me only when spoken to,” he snapped, before striding toward the doctor who stood next to the preacher.
“Arthur always went his own way.” Mrs. Craven sniffed into her handkerchief. “I didn’t mind when my husband was alive, now I’m all alone…”
“You’ve got me,” Jessica said.
“I know, but it’s different. You’re not blood.”
I might not be related, at least I care for you, not like your selfish, arrogant son, she nearly said.
~*~
The three of them shared supper in the dining room. “Mother, surely you don’t have a servant eating at the same table as you?”
“Jessica is not a servant, Arthur, she’s my companion. I need the company. I don’t have anyone else now.”
She was glad Mrs. Craven didn’t let her son get the better of her all the time. What a horrible man.
He ate the chicken soup she set before him without comment, likewise the beef pie she had cooked that morning and heated up for the evening meal. This was followed by apple pie.
While Mrs. Craven and Arthur adjourned to the parlor, Jessica cleared away the dishes and made coffee. Using the best crockery and silver coffee pot with a matching tray, she made her way to the parlor. About to enter the room she stopped on hearing Arthur say. “It isn’t appropriate treating the likes of her as if she were family. Servants need to be kept in their place.”
“What I do in my house is my business, Arthur, and I don’t care to discuss it any further.”
Jessica scurried back to the kitchen and removed her cup and saucer, she would drink hers in the kitchen.
As she entered the parlor, Arthur’s gaze ranged all over her, lingering longest at her breasts. The hair stood up on the back of her neck. She didn’t have a good feeling about him at all.
She was in the kitchen cleaning up and sipping her coffee at the same time when the front door slammed. Hurrying to the parlor she was shocked to find Mrs. Craven sobbing. Arthur had obviously gone out and left her. What a selfish person. He was only here for one night and couldn’t even spend it with his grieving mother.
“Oh, Mrs. Craven, what’s wrong?” she asked, even though she knew.
“Arthur has gone out for drinks with friends. One night. He can’t even give me one night.”
“Men are so selfish. How about we get you ready for bed then I’ll read to you for a while?”
“Would you, dear? Thank you.” Mrs. Craven wiped her tears away. She was a nice old lady, even if she was a little on the demanding side. How could a son be so mean and uncaring? She would give up twenty years of her life to have a family.
She helped the old lady upstairs and also to get ready for bed. Propped up against the pillows with her whitish grey hair plaited she looked sad and vulnerable.
“What would you like me to read?”
“The bible would be nice. The 23rd Psalm is my favorite.”
Jessica nearly toppled off the chair with shock. Mrs. Craven wasn’t particularly religious, she had never attended church, although she did insist on a bible reading every Sunday morning. When she discovered Jessica had a nice singing voice, she used to get her to sing a hymn or two, as well.
“A fitting tribute don’t you think, dear? Seeing as we buried poor Bertha today.”
“Yes, of course. The 23d Psalm it is.”
“After that maybe the story of the prodigal son.”
Jessica started reading, and it didn’t take long for Mrs. Craven to drop off to sleep. She laid the bible on the side table and gently removed a couple of the pillows to make the old lady more comfortable. Turning the lamp down low, she tip-toed out of the room and headed to the kitchen to finish off the chores.
She was tempted to bolt the front door from the inside so Arthur couldn’t get back in, but didn’t quite dare. After all he was the son of the house.
It was 9 o’clock by the time she retired to bed. On the way up she peeped in on Mrs. Craven who was now sleeping peacefully.
Changing out of her day clothes, Jessica slipped on a lace trimmed nightgown she had recently made. After taking the pins out of her hair she sat in front of the mirror and brushed it for ten minutes as instructed by Mrs. Craven. Her hair was still blonde, ash blonde, Mrs. Craven always said. At least it had thickened up although it remained straight. What she wouldn’t have done to have thick, curly locks.
Some nights she read for a while before going to sleep, although tonight exhaustion and sadness overwhelmed her. She hadn’t been close to Bertha, even so, they had struck up a wary respect for each other over the years. Her eyes grew heavy and she snuggled under the covers and slept.
Something woke Jessica. Her skin prickled. She had the strangest sensation of no longer being alone. A heavy weight fell on to her, pinning her to the bed. A whisky laden breath fanned her cheeks. A drunken Arthur was trying to molest her.
“Get off me,” she yelled. “You drunken oaf.”