The Christmas Card: The perfect heartwarming novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller. Dilly Court
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.’
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.
She 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