The Christmas Card Read online

  The soup was cooling rapidly by the time Jane came to the end of what turned out to be a sermon on gratitude aimed, no doubt, at her reluctant guests. Alice was too hungry to care and she spooned the vegetable broth into her mouth, wiping the bowl with a chunk of dry bread. She waited eagerly for the next course, but it did not materialise. Jane folded her hands, murmuring a prayer before rising from the table. ‘I spend my evenings studying the Good Book. You may do as you please, but bear in mind that candles cost money, and I don’t approve of fires in the bedchambers. We rise early in this house; therefore you should retire at a reasonable hour. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Jane,’ Beth said meekly.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Jane.’ Alice sighed inwardly. She waited until her aunt had left the room. ‘I don’t think I can stand much more of this, Mama,’ she whispered, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Jane was not within earshot.

  Beth rose wearily from the chair. ‘We haven’t much choice, my love. It’s this or the workhouse, and I know which I prefer.’ She leaned her hands on the table, taking deep breaths. ‘It’s all right, I’m quite well, just a bit stiff from sitting on a hard wooden seat. I think I might go to bed and rest. It’s been a long and trying day.’ She held her hand out to her daughter, a smile sketched on her thin features. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course not, Mama. You must take care of yourself, and I’ll try to be patient and deserving, but it isn’t easy.’

  ‘It’s all strange and new,’ Beth said softly. ‘Jane is a worthy woman, and we must be grateful to her for putting a roof over our heads. It was good of her to think of finding you a suitable position. Teaching drawing is a ladylike occupation.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ Alice could see that her mother was having difficulty walking and she held out her hand. ‘Let me help you upstairs.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. It’s these silly legs of mine. They’re aching miserably this evening, but once I get going I’m quite all right.’

  After seeing her mother settled for the night, although it was only seven o’clock, Alice did not fancy an evening of Bible study with Aunt Jane and she went to her room. She lit the single candle provided and went to draw the curtains, pausing for a moment to watch the large feathery snowflakes whirling and dancing as they fluttered slowly to the pavement and lay there like a white fleecy blanket. A man wearing a greatcoat with his collar pulled up to his ears trudged past the house, leaving a trail of stark black footprints in his wake. Alice sighed. The pristine beauty of the fallen snow was despoiled and ruined forever. She pulled the curtains together, shutting out the harsh reality of the world before going to sit on the bed. In her reticule was her most prized possession and she took it out carefully. The paper was yellowed with age and slightly dog-eared, but the picture on the Christmas card was of a family gathering at yuletide, and it had always seemed to her to be imbued with the true spirit of the season. It was the first such card to have been produced commercially, and her father had bought it in the year she had been born. He had kept it for her until she was old enough to appreciate the message of peace and goodwill that it contained. Sadly, so Pa had told her, the first cards had not been a huge success. In fact he had invested money in their production, losing heavily, as so often happened on the rare occasions when he had ventured into the business world.

  Alice held the hand-coloured lithograph to her bosom with a whisper of a sigh. ‘Poor Papa,’ she said softly. ‘I’m glad you’re not here to see us in such a pickle, but I promise you I’ll do everything I can to make things better for Mama. I won’t let you down.’ She rose to her feet and stowed the precious card out of sight of prying eyes in the chest of drawers.

  At first when she opened her eyes to darkness she thought it was the middle of the night, but Aunt Jane was shaking her by the shoulder and she was fully dressed.

  ‘Get up, you idle child. It’s nearly six o’clock and you have to be at the Dearborns’ establishment in Russell Square at half-past seven sharp.’ She tugged the coverlet off the bed, leaving Alice curled up in a ball, shivering. ‘I expect you to be washed, dressed and in the dining room in ten minutes.’ Jane marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her as if to ensure that Alice remained wide awake.

  Stiff and cold, with no inclination to remain in the uncomfortable bed any longer than necessary, Alice did not hesitate. She padded barefoot to the washstand only to find that the water in the jug had frozen. After some difficulty she managed to crack the ice and had a cat’s lick of a wash before throwing on her clothes. Her numbed fingers made it difficult to do up the buttons on her bodice and even harder to tidy her mouse-brown hair into a chignon. Without the aid of a mirror it was impossible to see the end result and she tucked a stray strand behind her ear, hoping that Aunt Jane would not notice.

  When she reached the dining room she found that Jane had already eaten and was sitting at the head of the table, sipping a cup of tea. The sight of steam rising was encouraging, but Alice experienced a feeling of acute disappointment when she realised that there was neither milk nor sugar to make the strong brew more palatable. Breakfast consisted of a slice of bread, thinly spread with butter, and that was all. There was an eerie silence as she ate her frugal meal, broken only by the sound of Jane’s cup being replaced on its saucer.

  Without bothering to see if Alice had finished, Jane rose to her feet. ‘Come along. I’ll take you to Russell Square as it’s your first morning, but in future you will get yourself up and out in good time. I’m not going to pamper you as your mother has done since you were born. You’re a child no longer, Alice. You are plain and penniless and you will have to get used to earning your keep.’ She reached for her bonnet and rammed it on top of her lace cap. ‘Hurry up, girl. We’ll stop at the church on the way to ask God’s blessing in the hope that he will save you from your profligate ways.’

  There appeared to be no answer to this. Alice stuffed the last crust into her mouth, washing it down with a mouthful of tea. She followed her aunt from the room, stopping only to snatch her bonnet and cape from the hallstand as they left the house.

  It was getting light as they made their way carefully along snow-covered pavements to the church on the west side of the square. Candles blazed on the altar and the smell of hot wax and musty hymnals filled the still air. Following Jane’s example Alice dutifully went down on her knees beside her. Jane’s lips moved in silent prayer, but Alice’s mind was elsewhere. Her fingers were itching to draw the scene outside. The bare branches of the plane trees were dusted with snow, and the pools of yellow light created by the gas lamps sparkled with frost crystals. The piles of straw and horse dung on the cobblestones were concealed beneath several inches of virgin snow, but as the day progressed and traffic began to move it would all vanish into a mess of slush. The outside world had a fleeting fairy-tale appearance too beautiful to ignore, but she would have to commit it to memory until, at some time in the future, she could replicate the scene in pen and ink or delicate watercolour.

  She rose to her feet automatically when Jane finished her prayer, and followed her aunt as they set off once again with Jane in the lead, using her black umbrella as if she were a lancer at the head of a cavalry charge. Luckily it was not far to Russell Square and they arrived without any unwary passer-by sustaining a serious injury.

  Jane marched up the steps to the front door and hammered on the knocker. Moments later a stern-faced butler answered the summons. He glared at Jane, eyebrows raised. ‘Might I be of assistance, madam?’

  Jane tapped the ground with the ferule of her umbrella. ‘I wish to see Mrs Dearborn. Tell her that Mrs Jane Radcliffe is here with her niece, Alice Radcliffe. Mrs Dearborn is expecting me.’

  ‘I doubt if the mistress will be receiving this early in the morning, but if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll return.’ He shut the door without giving Jane the chance to step over the threshold.

  She bridled visibly. ‘Such bad form. I’ll report him to Mrs Dearborn, you see
if I don’t.’ She kept prodding the step with her umbrella, tapping her foot to the same beat until the door opened once again. ‘I should think so too.’ She stepped inside without waiting to be invited. ‘Come along, girl,’ she snapped, beckoning to Alice.

  ‘Mrs Dearborn is not ready to receive visitors.’ The butler took a step backwards, eyeing Jane’s umbrella nervously. ‘But the housekeeper, Mrs Upton, will see you in the morning room. This way, please.’

  He stalked off across the highly polished floor, which was as slippery as a frozen pond. Jane trod carefully and Alice had to curb a sudden childish desire to run and slide. Boughs of holly intertwined with fronds of ivy were strung from the banisters on the galleried landing, and bowls of hothouse flowers provided splashes of bright colour against the wainscoted walls. The air was warm and redolent with their scent.

  ‘Mrs Upton will be with you shortly,’ the butler said as he ushered them into the morning room.

  Jane walked over to the fireplace, holding her hands out to the blaze. ‘Such extravagance. No wonder the world is in a parlous state.’

  Alice did not offer an opinion. She moved as close as she dared to the fire, revelling in the luxury of warmth, and her spirits rose as she looked round the comfortably furnished room. The walls were lined with framed watercolours of flowers, birds and country scenes, and the mantelshelf was cluttered with ornaments, spill vases and a large gilt clock with a garniture of candelabra supported by smiling cherubs. Her feet sank into the thick pile of the carpet and she was tempted to take a seat in one of the velvet-upholstered, button-back armchairs, but did not dare take liberties. Jane, as expected, was unimpressed. She sniffed. ‘Vulgar display. Ostentatious and decadent.’ She spun round as the door opened to admit a small woman, dressed in black bombazine with a chatelaine hanging round her waist from which dangled a large bunch of keys.

  ‘I was expecting to see Mrs Dearborn in person,’ Jane said haughtily.

  ‘At this hour of the day?’ Mrs Upton looked Jane up and down with barely concealed disdain. ‘I don’t know what sort of establishment you run, madam, but ladies don’t usually rise before ten o’clock at the earliest.’

  Jane’s mouth opened and shut, reminding Alice of a goldfish she had once owned, but her aunt made a quick recovery, drawing herself up to her full height so that she towered over the housekeeper. ‘I was asked to bring my niece here at half-past seven.’

  ‘And she will be set to work immediately.’ Mrs Upton met Jane’s hard stare with narrowed eyes. ‘Mrs Dearborn will see her later in the day.’ She beckoned to Alice. ‘Come with me, girl. I’ll find you something more suitable to wear.’

  Summarily dismissed, Jane clutched her umbrella to her flat bosom. ‘Well!’ The word exploded from her lips. ‘I’ll have words to say to your mistress when I see her next in church.’

  Mrs Upton opened the door. ‘Good day to you, madam. Hoskins will see you out.’ She marched off, leaving Alice little alternative but to follow in her wake.

  Glancing over her shoulder Alice caught a glimpse of the butler ushering Jane out of the house, and she could tell by the affronted twitch of her aunt’s shoulders that she was not very happy. Even so, Alice was puzzled. If she was supposed to be instructing a little girl in drawing and painting why was she here so early? And why did the housekeeper think it necessary to provide her with a change of clothes?

  She caught up with Mrs Upton at the foot of the back stairs. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I don’t know exactly what is expected of me.’

  Mrs Upton stopped to pick up an oil lamp and turned to faced her. ‘Are you simple or something, girl?’

  Alice recoiled at the sharp tone of Mrs Upton’s voice and the scornful look on her plump face. ‘No, certainly not. I thought I was here to teach art to Mrs Dearborn’s daughter.’

  ‘That amongst other things.’ Mrs Upton marched down a long, dark passage. She opened a door at the far end and held the lamp high as she examined shelves piled with gowns, caps and aprons. ‘You’re not very big,’ she said, looking Alice up and down. ‘Try this on for size.’ She selected a black cotton garment.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Alice stared at the uniform, shaking her head. ‘Surely what I have on is quite appropriate for a teacher or even a governess?’

  ‘This will suit you much better, believe me, it will.’ Mrs Upton thrust the gown into her hands. ‘Try it on for size.’

  ‘You want me to undress here?’ Alice looked round nervously.

  ‘Change your clothes in the cupboard if you’re shy. I haven’t got all day, girl.’

  Alice hesitated, trying to decide whether to make a run for it and face Aunt Jane’s wrath, or to do as the housekeeper said and put on the uniform. She stepped into the cupboard and took off her grey merino gown, replacing it with the black cotton frock and a starched white apron.

  ‘Let me look at you.’ Mrs Upton held the candle higher in order to get a better view.

  ‘I want to know why I’m dressed like a servant.’

  ‘Because that’s what you are. Didn’t Mrs High-and-Mighty tell you?’

  ‘No, ma’am. She said I was to be a teacher.’

  ‘Personally speaking I wouldn’t take on someone without any previous experience or training, but because you come from a respectable home the mistress has decided to give you a chance.’

  ‘For what exactly?’ Alice demanded. ‘I’m dressed as a servant and I want to know why.’

  Mrs Upton raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Follow me.’

  Chapter Two

  Alice was too shocked to argue. If Aunt Jane had told her that she was going into service it might have given her time to prepare, but this sudden turn of events had caught her unawares. She hurried after Mrs Upton, who took the stairs with the ease of a mountaineer. Clearly she was used to such exercise, but by the time they reached the third floor Alice was out of breath and her legs were aching. The somewhat gaudy décor had ended on the second floor, and the third floor seemed to have been reserved for the nursery suite. Mrs Upton selected a key from the bunch hanging at her waist and unlocked the door.

  ‘Stand back and don’t let her slip past you. Miss Flora is as slippery as an eel.’ She opened it and ushered Alice inside, quickly closing the door behind them as a small child hurtled towards her and tried to grab the handle. ‘Now, Miss Flora, that’s not the way to behave, is it?’

  Flora Dearborn skidded to a halt, glaring at her through a mop of tousled blonde hair. She was barefoot and wearing a cambric nightgown. ‘I want to see Mama. You shouldn’t lock me in, you horrible person.’

  ‘That’s no way to speak to anyone, Miss Flora,’ Mrs Upton said, bristling but obviously making a huge effort to control her temper. ‘What will Miss Radcliffe think?’

  Flora tossed her hair back from her face, staring at Alice with a hostile look in her china-blue eyes. ‘Who the devil are you?’

  ‘Language, Miss Flora.’

  ‘Shut up, Upton. You’re just a servant.’ Flora stood, feet wide apart, arms akimbo. ‘Cat got your tongue, Miss Radcliffe?’

  Alice met Flora’s unfriendly gaze with a steady look. She saw a disturbed and angry child and felt a sudden burst of fellow-feeling for the little girl, who could not have been more than nine or ten. The mere fact that Flora had been locked in her room all night, and possibly longer, was enough to make Alice feel outraged and arouse her sympathy. It brought back unhappy memories of her childhood when, during one of the long bouts of illness suffered by her mother, the woman who had been hired to look after Alice had proved to be a drunk and a bully. If it had not been for the sharp eyes of their maidservant the situation might have escalated, but she had discovered the tell-tale empty gin bottles and had reported the woman to Clement, who had sacked her on the spot. Alice had been six at the time, but she had never forgotten the feeling of isolation, and the frustration of being unable to communicate her fears with the adults who should have been there to protect her.

  S
he held her hand out to Flora. ‘How do you do, Miss Flora? My name is Alice.’

  Flora clasped her hands behind her back, ignoring the friendly overture. ‘What’s she doing here, Upton? You know what I do to governesses, and I’m too old for a nanny.’

  Mrs Upton slid her fingers around the door handle, her knuckles whitening. ‘Miss Radcliffe is going to look after you. She is an artist,’ she added, wrenching the door open. ‘I leave her in your capable hands, Miss Radcliffe.’ She shot out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Alice waited for the rasp of the key in the lock and was relieved when nothing happened. The sound of Mrs Upton’s retreating footsteps faded into the distance, and Alice stood facing Flora, whose sullen expression was not encouraging.

  ‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘you obviously don’t want me here, Flora. Would you like to tell me why?’

  A fleeting look of astonishment was replaced by a frown. ‘What do you care? Who are you, anyway?’ Flora threw herself down on her bed and pulled the counterpane over her head, peering at Alice from beneath its folds. ‘You’re just like the rest of them.’

  Alice was quick to hear the note of desperation in Flora’s childish voice. She stood perfectly still, as if facing a wild animal, clasping her hands in front of her. ‘I don’t even know why I’m here, Flora. Tell me about yourself.’

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence while Flora seemed to weigh this up in her mind. Then to Alice’s surprise she leaped off the bed, flinging the counterpane onto the floor. ‘I’m a bad child. They’re always telling me so.’ She glared up at Alice, teeth bared. ‘I bite and I scratch.’

  Alice stood her ground. ‘If you bite or scratch me I’ll do the same to you, Flora.’

  ‘Lay a finger on me and I’ll tell Papa. And it’s Miss Flora to you, Radcliffe.’