Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
A Biography of Dorothy Eden
THE MORNING MRS JERVIS, her daughter Clemency, and Harriet Brown (known as Hetty to her friends) were to leave, New York was beautiful. It was the kind of day when the city was at its most magical. It had other moods, and well enough Hetty knew them. She hadn’t always lived in a tall important house overlooking Central Park, with its view of the early unsullied green of the trees and shrubs, and the sweep of brilliant blue sky.
In the shadowed streets of her childhood there had been few glimpses of the sun, and none of passing carriages, or of well-dressed children bowling hoops or tossing gaily-painted balls. The children Hetty had known had had no time to play. Thin and wizened, with eyes and noses running from the cold, they had either stumbled behind their mothers to sit all day, silent and sleepy from malnutrition, in sweat shops turning out endless garments for the Seventh Avenue warehouses, or had grown old enough to sweep the floor and fetch and carry for the drab tired workers in those badly-aired, badly-smelling rooms.
The background music to Hetty’s young life had been the rattle and clatter of sewing machines. She had never forgotten it and, ten years later, awoke every morning to a sense of escape, a sense of the miraculous. The sweat shop was an evil dream of the past, her mother’s worn pale face a sadder dream, and this rich house reality, although she still had as little life of her own as she had had as a child worker.
The sewing machines had rattled busily, making Clemency’s trousseau and Mrs Jervis’s extensive wardrobe of ruched silks and satins, but Hetty’s wardrobe remained sparse and simple, and very unobtrusive, as befitted a lady’s maid. Long before the trunks were packed Hetty’s arms had ached. There was so much tissue paper, so many garments, morning dresses, afternoon dresses, tea gowns, dinner gowns, ball gowns, furs and feather boas and, most important of all, there was the wedding gown.
This was a truly beautiful creation made of heavy satin like thick cream, and embroidered with slightly yellowed old Chantilly lace. The veil was also made of Chantilly lace, an heirloom worn by both Clemency’s mother and grandmother.
Hetty was not allowed to pack these two items. They were entrusted to the experienced hands of the couturière, Madame Natalia from the big Fifth Avenue store, Lord and Taylor. They occupied a trunk of their own, together with the long white kid gloves, the white and gold brocade shoes, the silk stockings and the hand-embroidered undergarments.
Of course, in London, Hetty would have to be trusted to unpack the precious garments and dress the bride. And wasn’t she just too lucky for words, to have the chance to be there? Miss Clemency, the Fifth Avenue household said, would make the best-dressed bride in England.
And the prettiest, Mrs Jervis added complacently. Mrs Jervis was one of those mothers who fed on their daughters’ lives. She was dictatorial, organising, possessive and overpowering. Only Clemency ever dared to oppose her, but that was over relatively trifling matters. Fortunately they both saw major issues in the same way, and had similar ambitions.
It was inconceivable, however, to imagine slim young Clemency ever growing to look like her big-bosomed mother, even though the arrogant confidence was already apparent. Clemency’s green eyes, not yet protuberant and faded as were her mother’s, could on occasion hold the same hard stare, the same will to be obeyed.
Hetty knew that well enough. But she also knew Clemency’s youthful butterfly gaiety, her wilfulness which had a certain charm, her supreme selfishness contradicted every now and then by some spontaneous act of generosity, her continuing love of schoolgirl pranks, accompanied by paroxysms of giggles, and her quite unscrupulous flirtatiousness.
Clemency Jervis, twenty-one years old and a spoiled only child, had enough character and determination to succeed in her new life. She would not be meek and scared and incompetent in her role as mistress of an English great house. The title would not come amiss with her either. She had a cool practical streak, unusual in one so young. She was ambitious, above all. Of course she would like to be loved, and to be in love, but position was more important. The love could follow, in one way or another. She was longing to wear the long white gown with a train and her sparkling little tiara, and curtsey to the Queen of England.
Which all slightly shocked Hetty for she realised that Clemency was not yet in love with her English fiancé, Lord Hazzard of Loburn in the Cotswolds. Of course she had seen him only briefly on his visit to New York last summer, a visit he had had to curtail when the European war broke out, and he had to hasten home to rejoin his regiment. His proposal had been made perhaps earlier than he had intended, for he, too, Hetty had suspected, had not been entirely guided by love. Indeed, the thought of Clemency’s dowry had probably been paramount in his mind. He was willing to give a pretty American girl a title, which naturally she would adore, a wedding in St. Margaret’s, Westminster, and the chance to show off a wantonly expensive trousseau to London society, in return for a plump injection into his bank account.
Hetty knew that if she were in Clemency’s place she would not be thinking only of clothes and jewellery and being presented to the Queen, and becoming mistress of a famous old house. She would be thinking of the man whom she was to stand beside in church, and lie in bed with afterwards. And although she had been given little chance to observe Lord Hazzard, she had known that she found his blond good looks and his dazzling blue gaze very exciting. He had not, of course, noticed her. In her neat white cap and apron she was part of the background furniture. She was Harriet Brown, a lady’s maid. And Clemency, who was not always too possessive of her suitors, was very jealous of this aristocratic one.
Clemency’s grandfather had made some millions in various ways which could have been honest or dishonest, but which must have required skill and cool nerves. Perhaps Clemency, in the matrimonial stakes, had inherited his instinct for a profitable deal. She and Lord Hazzard no doubt would suit each other very well.
The outbreak of war had been both a disaster and a blessing. Even Mrs Jervis doubted if Lord Hazzard would have made such a speedy proposal if events had not precipitated him into a decision. There had been sundry hurried meetings with her brother, Jonas Middleton in Wall Street, consultations with lawyers, and a long private interview with Mrs Jervis. Then the intended marriage of Miss Clemency Millicent Jervis, only child of Mrs Millicent Jervis and the late Howard B. Jervis, Wall Street financier, to Major Lord Hazzard of the Coldstream Guards, and of Loburn near Cirencester, England, was announced.
Lord Hazzard had pressed for an early date. He was going home to go to war.
“He wants an heir,” Hetty said.
“Of course,” Clemency agreed.
“I think that’s more important to him than having a bride.”
“It always is with the English aristocracy. I’m not dumb, Brown.”
“You don’t love him, Miss Clemency.”
“Oh, yes I do.” Clemency sighed and stretched her arms voluptuously. “I love all good-looking men. Don’t look so shocked, Brown. I think I could be happy with any of them. But Hugo is making me a lady. That’s extra. I like it. So does Mother. Lord and Lady Hazzard are going to have fun.”
Hetty was genuinely shocked.
“There’ll hardly be balls and garden parties while the war’s on.”
“Oh, it will be over before we know it. Hugo says so. So does Uncle Jonas. He says three great cultured peoples like the English and the French and the Germans can’t truly be trying to annihilate each other. They’ve all got too much sense.”
“England isn’t used to giving in, Miss Clemency. History shows that. Neither is Germany. And France is wanting revenge for the Franco-Prussian War. She’s a proud nation. Besides, we don’t really know what it’s about, do we?”
“I certainly don’t,” Clemency said cheerfully. “I expect Hugo will explain. I hope he’s being careful. I don’t want a wounded hero. And you, by the way, are coming to England as a lady’s maid, not as a history student.”
“I always liked history.”
Clemency gave her critical stare.
“Mother should never have let you have lessons with me. You’d be a better maid if you didn’t try to be literary.”
“I’m not literary, Miss Clemency. I wish I were.”
“Well, you always did have your head in a book, at every opportunity. You won’t have any time for that in future. And don’t sulk. You’re getting a trip to England. You never imagined that would happen, did you? That day when your mother brought you here as a starved little creature, with nits in your hair.”
“I never did have nits!”
Clemency who could be a cruel tease, relented. She was too excited to indulge in the perennial amusement of tormenting Hetty, her poor, her extremely poor, relation, who was not expected to answer back.
“All right, no nits, but you had plenty of other things wrong. Your clothes had to be burnt.”
And I never saw my mother again, Hetty thought silently, with a grief that had never healed.
She had been told, that day, to wait in the hall, a vast marble-floored place like a palace, while her mother was closeted with an alarmingly haughty lady, who was apparently the mistress of this grand house. She had sat motionless on a hard chair with a carved back that had pressed into her thin bones, and waited.
It was only after some time that the voices behind the tall closed doors became audible. That was because Mother had begun to sob, and the lady of the house had begun screaming at her. One hadn’t known that ladies lost their tempers.
“It isn’t true. It’s a wicked lie. A fabrication. I will destroy these letters instantly, and you can leave my house and take your ba——your child with you.”
Then Mother had stopped sobbing and, with unaccustomed spirit had said, “Destroying them will do no good. They’re only copies. I have the real ones at home. I know where to take them if you don’t do as I ask. To a newspaperman on the New York World.”
“You’re blackmailing me!”
“I know. I apologise, ma’am. But I’m sick and my little girl—” Mother’s voice wavered and faded, and the part of the conversation that Hetty desperately wanted to hear became inaudible.
She had begun trembling with apprehension. Something terrible was happening. She was going to be deserted, and by her own mother. If she could have found her way back to the Bowery she would have run off, there and then. But she was even more afraid of the alien streets than of this cold echoing hall. So she waited.
At last the double doors opened and the lady, her head high held and angrily, came out. She looked at Hetty with critical distaste.
“Eleven, you said? She’s very undergrown.”
“Undernourished, ma’am. She was a pretty baby.”
“That’s hardly the point. If she’s to live here she must be thoroughly scrubbed and decently dressed. Can she read and write?”
“I’ve taught her as much as I could, and she’s had a bit of schooling. She’s very bright.”
“Doesn’t look it to me. I can’t have an ignorant girl in my house, in any capacity. She can have lessons with my daughter’s governess for a year or two. Then when she’s fourteen she can learn to be a maid to my daughter. If Clemency likes her, of course. She will be known as Brown. Well, speak up, child. Would you like that?”
“Of course she would,” Mother said, looking so unhappy that Hetty was completely without words.
“Child?” said the imperious voice.
“Yes, thank you, ma’am,” she managed to whisper. “If Mother says I have to.”
Mother’s trembling but stubborn chin went up.
“Her name is Harriet, ma’am.”
“So you told me. As a servant, she will be called Brown.”
Hetty tried to meet this fashionable woman’s long hard domineering stare, as she was to do many times later, on many different kinds of occasions.
“She knows nothing?”
“Nothing,” Mother said. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“Then I’ll send for my housekeeper. She can bath her and find some place for her to sleep.” She moved towards a bell rope, shrugging her shoulders fatalistically. “I believe I must be the most magnanimous woman in New York.”
Before Hetty could beg in horror not to be left in this strange house with this alarming woman, Mother was saying fervently, “Thank you, ma’am. It’s a great relief to me,” and then adding, with some daring, “Life can be unfair to women, ma’am.”
This was a sentiment to which the lady did not respond. She obviously hardly thought that she and someone like Mother with her shabby clothes and dark piteous eyes could be talking about life on the same planet.
Hetty only realised years later how extreme misery could toughen and harden and shape one’s character. For good or evil.
She didn’t think she had it in her to be evil, but neither could she go on for ever being a meek nonentity. She was told that as she came from a very poor and distant branch of the Jervis family she must expect to work for her board and lodging, her wearing apparel and her education. She could never presume to be the equal of Miss Clemency, the pampered and adored daughter of a widowed mother.
After the death of her husband at the age of only forty-five Mrs Jervis said she did not intend to remarry. She would devote herself entirely to her little girl’s future. She would make it a glittering one, to compensate the poor child for being made fatherless so young.
In a way Hetty’s arrival was a boon, for Clemency, over-protected and cosseted, had been lonely and bored with her life.
The two girls were not unalike in appearance, both being dark-haired and green-eyed with slim neat bodies. But they were totally unalike in character, Hetty’s early austerity having made her introverted and wary, and with a love of beauty, and a greedy desire to learn about everything, books, pictures, manners, food. She was not unhappy, for the servants, hearing of her previous life, had made something of a pet of her, a thing that did not escape Mrs Jervis’s notice. As a consequence she made it so evident that Hetty was an unwelcome outsider, taken in only by Mrs Jervis’s Christian kindness, that Hetty never had the courage to demand more details of that distant family relationship.
Actually, her slum upbringing hadn’t left her in much ignorance of the facts of life, and by the time she had reached puberty she had had an intuition about the true nature of her relationship with the Jervis family. Hints dropped below stairs and her own growing awareness of the opposite sex made her suspect what must have happened. When she was told by Cook, a fierce-tongued but kindly woman called Mrs Crampton, that her mother had briefly been an upstairs maid in the house shortly before Mr Jervis’s marriage to Mrs Jervis, she was almost certain that, far from being a distant cousin of Clemency’s, she was, in fact, her half sister.
The knowledge didn’t shock her. She was only full of pity for what her mother must have suffered, and intensely admiring of her for having had the courage to enter into such an emotional and hopeless relationship.
She eventually discovered that her assumptions were correct when, one day, just after her sixteenth birthday, a rather grubby package addressed to her, Miss Harriet Brown, was delivered at the servants’ entrance of the house.
“By a very sharp-looking fellow,” said Cook disapprovingly. “What is it, Hetty, the family jools?”
They were not jewels, only a small package of letters tied with faded ribbon. A badly-spelled note accompanied them. It read:
Dear Hetty Brown, Your Mam intrusted me with these when she died. I promised to deliver them to you on your 16 birthday which she said was first May 1908. She said you would be old enuf to unnerstand, I hope you are, dear. Your pal, Alf.
Whoever Alf was, he had kept his promise, and Hetty, shaking with emotion, had read the creased pages:
My darling girl,
I hope life is not too hard for you. It is bad luck it must be like this. I trust you to understand, and enclose some money for your needs. I will send more after the baby is born, and continue to do so. Remembering all the sweetness we had.
Howard
More letters followed at infrequent intervals, mentioning money, and later, her, the baby. “Harriet is a good name, but I shall call her Hetty.”
Then a final letter:
I seem to have developed a touch of heart trouble, nothing to worry about, but I have to take a vacation. Millicent and I are going to Florida for a few weeks. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. Enclosed, enough to cover things for the next few months.
This letter ended with a touch of more open emotion. The signature was “Your own Howard”.
It was the last letter, for it must have been soon after that Howard B. Jervis had died from his “Slight heart trouble”. His younger daughter, aged five years, was an heiress, his elder, aged six years, was precipitated into her education in a Bowery sweat shop, beside her shocked and grieving mother.
Howard Jervis might genuinely have loved Hetty’s mother, but he had been too dreamy and unpractical to provide permanently for her. He had certainly never set eyes on his illegitimate daughter. Wouldn’t have wanted to, indeed.
Poor Mother must have nourished her bitterness for years, until she had become fatally ill, and took her sad and desperate revenge by depositing Hetty on the doorstep of the Fifth Avenue mansion.
After reading the letters Hetty felt as if she had attained maturity within a few hours. She wept a little then, drying her eyes and lifting her head proudly, had resolved never to stoop to using the letters as a weapon, as perhaps her mother had intended her to do. Clemency would never be told of their relationship and Mrs Jervis never reminded of it. All in all, Mrs Jervis had treated her well enough, considering how outraged she must have been, and an illegitimate child did not expect an inheritance. Clemency must be rich and she poor. That was the way of the world.
But she had learned a great deal in the Jervis household. She was no longer an illiterate Bowery child, but a reasonably educated young woman with natural good taste. The ways of the rich had easily enough rubbed off on her. She had inherited, too, her father’s love of beauty and poetry but, fortunately for her, these qualities were leavened with a good deal of her mother’s common sense and instinct for survival. She had no intention of remaining a lady’s maid for the rest of her life.
She was a bastard.
When she had accepted that fact she knew that she had lost the last traces of her childish sentimentality, and began to think frequently and seriously about her future. After all, she was just as attractive as Clemency, and could easily adopt the same haughty air and the same sweet persuasive manners. Indeed, Clemency had occasionally extracted enormous fun from making Hetty dress in her clothes and receive the male callers whom she found too boring. Hetty had entertained these unfortunate rejects in the south drawing room, and none of them had discovered the truth. It had been a great lark. Clemency had giggled helplessly at the keyhole, and Hetty had had to raise her voice vivaciously to drown the sound. Naturally she had not been permitted to play this game with Lord Hazzard, which she regretted. She would have enjoyed having those brilliant blue eyes fixed on her only, although she was not at all sure that he would not have seen through the disguise. She had wondered if he had a sense of humour.
That was something Clemency would have to discover. It didn’t seem to be worrying her. She was totally involved in material plans. Besides, Hugo seemed a bit unreal, didn’t he, on the other side of the Atlantic, and perhaps being a rather grim soldier.
But everything would settle down happily, wouldn’t it? That was the only time Hetty detected any nervousness or uncertainty in Clemency. However, it was gone in a moment, and she was crying, “Brown, did you pack my Ascot dresses? We’ll be in England just in time.”
As soon as Hetty had been old enough to learn her duties as a lady’s maid, the two girls’ schoolroom friendship was over. Clemency must now be addressed respectfully as “Miss Clemency” and Hetty herself by her surname. It had been a difficult lesson to learn. But Hetty was becoming adept at adjusting to circumstances.
“I shouldn’t think there’d be any Ascot this year, Miss Clemency.”
“Oh, nonsense, it’s an English institution. As soon say there’d be no Parliament. Or no King and Queen.”
“And that’s a stupid remark, if I may say so, Miss Clemency,” Hetty said evenly. “You’ll have to learn more about England than that. She’s fighting a war that’s getting worse each week.”
“Brown, I forbid you to scare me! You’d just better stop reading the newspapers.”
THE DODGE MOTOR CAR, of which Uncle Jonas was extremely proud, stood outside waiting to take them downtown to the Cunard pier.
But the ladies had been delayed over their breakfast by Uncle Jonas’s arrival, and the alarming news he had brought them. He had come in flourishing a newspaper and asking if they had read the shipping notes in the New York World a week ago.
“Why, no,” Mrs Jervis answered. “We have our time of sailing. What else do we need to know?”
“This,” said Uncle Jonas, pointing at a column. “A damned odd notice put out by the German Embassy. Shall I read it to you?”
“Do. But we’re not sailing on a German ship. I personally would have preferred the Kronzprincessen Cecilie. So many of my friends have said how wonderful she is. But under the circumstances we thought it diplomatic to choose a British ship bound for a British port. Didn’t we, Clemency?”
“Let him read the notice, Mother.”
Uncle Jonas cleared his throat and read in his most sonorous voice, “Travellers intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists between Germany and her allies and Great Britain and her allies; that the zone of war includes the waters adjacent to the British Isles; that, in accordance with formal notice given by the Imperial German Government, vessels flying the flag of Great Britain or of any of her allies are liable to destruction in those waters and that travellers sailing in the war zone on ships of Great Britain or her allies do so at their own risk. Imperial German Embassy, Washington D.C. April 22, 1915.
“Now what do you make of that, Millicent?”
“I guess it’s honourable behaviour by the Germans, but it doesn’t mention the Lusitania.”
“It’s put right beside the advertisement for the Lusitania sailings. Don’t you think that significant? I wish I’d seen it a week ago, but my clerk only brought it to my notice this morning. It’s still not too late to cancel, Millicent.”
“At the last minute like this! Why, all our trunks are on board. Clemency’s wedding gown and all. What do you think, honey?”
Clemency answered her mother without hesitation.
“We can’t cancel now. Hugo is getting leave so that he can meet us at Liverpool. Goodness, Uncle Jonas, we can’t have Hugo thinking we’re scared.”
Uncle Jonas, who was Mrs Jervis’s brother and much resembled her with his pale grey eyes and florid complexion, said in his downright manner, “Better to be scared and alive than brave and dead, my girl. Think about it, Millicent. There’s an hour before we need to leave for the docks. You can telephone the Cunard people. I think they could be persuaded to get your trunks off. Even if they can’t, I guess there are other wedding gowns to be had. And I can send a cable to freeze that million dollars in the Westminster bank. We can’t have milord getting his hands on the marriage settlement before the marriage.”
“Uncle Jonas, Hugo would never do that! He’s absolutely honourable. Anyway, I don’t suppose the bank would let him.”
“Not if it conducts its business in a proper manner. We’ve given clear instructions. Credentials, including the marriage certificate, to be produced.”
“And the bride, too?” Clemency asked. “I think this talk of money is a bit heartless when you should be worrying about German submarines.”
“That’s what I am worrying about,” Uncle Jonas insisted, thumping his fist on the table, making the delicate china rattle. “Haven’t I made that clear? Millicent, I know your hopes for your daughter, but it’s my personal belief that the stakes have got too high. Is a title for Clemency worth a million dollars, and risking her life into the bargain?”
“Jonas, you’re being an old woman. The Germans would never dare to sink a passenger ship, especially when there’ll be so many Americans on board. They’d be mad. Think of the outcry. They’re already accused of murdering babies in Belgium. This would be murdering them at sea. Why, it would just about make the United States declare war.”
“Which would suit the British and the French nicely, wouldn’t it? You’ve got to realise that devious things go on during a war. I’ve even been told this morning that there’s a rumour the Lusitania is carrying munitions, though apparently the manifest doesn’t say so. Now the British aren’t naïve innocents. They’d never have got their Empire if they were. So if the Lusitania is armed she’s a legitimate target for German submarines.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, and I think it’s cruel of you to try to frighten us at the last minute. You’re too cautious. I don’t believe you ever took a risk in your life. I suppose that’s being a banker.” Millicent had put down her napkin. Except for her hat, gloves and furs, she was dressed for departure. “But I’m not entirely ignorant either. Isn’t it the code that an enemy submarine surfaces and gives passengers time to leave a ship before it is sunk?”
“Take a mighty long time to disembark two thousand souls in mid-ocean. And I can’t see any liner carrying enough lifeboats to accommodate so many. But there is that point, I grant you.”
Clemency stood behind her uncle, bending over him and nuzzling his cheek.
“Darling Uncle, I have an important date in St. Margaret’s Church, Westminster, London, exactly two weeks from now, and I surely don’t intend to miss it. Not even if the Kaiser himself warned us.”
“This is the Kaiser’s warning, through his spokesman. But I can see both I and the Kaiser are wasting our time.”
“Goodness me, Jonas,” Mrs Jervis broke in, “the Lusitania has the blue riband of the Atlantic. She can surely outsail any enemy ship. And I expect we’ll have an escort when we enter dangerous waters. I’ll personally get the Captain’s reassurance. As soon as we go on board.”
“You won’t get to talk to the Captain until you’re steaming outside the heads, and it’ll be too late to turn back. Well, I’ve warned you, girls. And I’m bound to tell you that from what I hear not many people have cancelled. Not even young Alfred Vanderbilt.”
“There you are then, Jonas.”
“I know where I am, Millicent. Safe in New York City. Now shouldn’t you be asking the maid you’re taking how she feels?”
“Brown!” said Clemency. “She wouldn’t miss it for anything. She knows she’ll never have another chance like this.”
“All the same, you ought to let the girl make up her own mind.”
“But I couldn’t possibly do without her. She has to dress me for my wedding.”
“All the same,” Uncle Jonas said stubbornly, “I think we Americans can call ourselves a compassionate people. We regard our servants as human beings.”
“Jonas, you’re just too interfering,” Mrs Jervis said crossly. “If Clemency and I decide to risk all these dangers you talk about then so can Brown. I don’t intend saying a word to her.”
Most of this conversation was related to Hetty by Polly, the maid who had been waiting on the family at breakfast. Mrs Crampton, the cook, showed the most indignation. She was a motherly person who had taken Hetty under her wing from the day of her arrival, a scared little creature, grieving for her mother and utterly bewildered by the size and richness of the house.
Now she was exclaiming, “I think it’s downright wicked not to give Hetty a choice. All Mr Jonas seems concerned about is the money in the Westminster bank. But Hetty’s a person, not a slave, after all. Slavery went out last century. She ought to be allowed to decide whether she wants to put her life in danger. Hetty, show your spirit and refuse to go.”
“But what would I do then, Mrs Crampton? I wouldn’t have a job. You know what the mistress is if she doesn’t get her own way. Miss Clemency, too. I’d be walking the streets.”
Hetty was twisting her hands in deep agitation. She didn’t want this exciting voyage to melt away like a mirage, yet she had a strong intuition that it would be dangerous. The Germans didn’t play games. But they would prefer that the British ships they sank didn’t carry Americans. They wouldn’t want to antagonise the United States. In that, her conclusions were the same as Uncle Jonas’s. She also knew it wasn’t right that Mrs Jervis and Clemency should so carelessly decide her fate. Was that all they thought of her after all these years?
However, for what it was worth, she had made up her own mind. “I’ll go, Mrs Crampton,” she said definitely. “I have to look after Miss Clemency’s wedding dress.”
In the big kitchen they were all looking at her fondly, Mrs Crampton with moist eyes, Polly with admiration, Mr Banks, the butler, unbending enough to shake her hand, and Topsy, the smallest maid and as black as the polished stove, rolling her eyes fearfully.
“I declare,” said Mrs Crampton aggressively, “Hetty will never drown. She’ll bob up like a rubber ball. Won’t you, honey? But always remember, we’re all your friends.”
“I’ll always remember,” Hetty said shakily.
The bell was ringing for her to go upstairs. She was dressed for travelling, except for her hat and cloak. Her hair was smoothly brushed, parted in the middle and twisted into a neat bob, while the small white collar of her dark stuff dress made her look meek and obedient. Yet there was something about her that made Mrs Crampton say, as she left the room, “That one will never stay a lady’s maid. And good luck to her, I say.”
So, three hours later, they waved to the rotund but diminishing figure of Uncle Jonas on the wharf, and sailed on the full tide. Mrs Jervis and Clemency were to occupy a spacious suite on the promenade deck. Hetty was to share a cabin in steerage with a young mother and two small children. She would spend most of the day and the night, of course, attending to her employers’ wants. Naturally she couldn’t eat in the first-class dining saloon. Anyway, Mrs Jervis and Clemency were at the Captain’s table, along with the millionaire, Mr Alfred Vanderbilt, and several other important people who had not been afraid to sail on the famous Cunard liner.
Mrs Jervis was sure that on such a fine ship the food would be acceptable, wherever it was eaten. Not that she would have worried too much about Hetty’s menu. So Hetty was to descend to the bowels of the ship three times a day. It was aggravating that she could not be rung for. Mrs Jervis overcame this difficulty by drawing up a list of the hours she would be required in the first-class suite.
Hetty saw that she was not going to be spending a great deal of time in steerage, either having meals or getting to know people, or even indulging in seasickness. Mrs Jervis would certainly regard that last as an indulgence.
She was perfectly sure that Mrs Jervis was getting a final vindictive pleasure out of the situation that had been forced on her twelve years ago. Where else should the daughter of her late husband’s mistress travel but in steerage?
“And what are you going to England for?” Mrs Drummond, the woman who was sharing her cabin, asked.
“I’m a lady’s maid. To Miss Clemency Jervis. She’s to be married in St. Margaret’s, Westminster. To a Lord.”
“Isn’t that romantic?” Mrs Drummond said. She had a harassed face, and her two small children, aged one and two, constantly tired her out. She was seasick as well. At least the thought of a grand wedding cheered her up. Hetty helped her as much as possible, but the ladies in the first-class suite, with all their frills and furbelows, allowed her very little free time. It was a pity, because she felt an affinity with Mary Drummond. She reminded Hetty of the faces of her childhood.
“You don’t look like a lady’s maid, love.”
“Don’t I?”
“You look like a lady yourself.”
“Apeing my betters?”
“But you don’t think they’re your betters, do you? I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure they’d never be kind to my Alfie and Benny like you are.”
The little boys were bewildered pale-faced creatures who clung to Hetty when their mother was laid low with seasickness. She spent more time feeding them than herself. Mrs Drummond’s husband was a Canadian who had enlisted in the Royal Navy and sailed some weeks previously. She was following him to England with the children. They would live in lodgings in Portsmouth. No, she wasn’t nervous on such a big ship. Having so many rich and important Americans on board the Germans would never dare to touch it, would they?
But she wanted to hear all about the high life on the upper decks, and looked to Hetty for this information.
Inevitably Clemency was soon conducting several flirtations at once. Her mother looked on blandly, as always delighted by her daughter’s social success. Her dear child had such high spirits, she told various passengers to whom she had already boasted about the noble fiancé waiting in England. Wasn’t it well known that sea voyages always turned young girls’ heads? It would be dear Clemency’s last fling before settling down as a wife, so who could blame the girl. She was only twenty-one years old. And to tell the truth, Mrs Jervis confided to Mr Vanderbilt (who had been divorced and remarried and was therefore extremely worldly and sophisticated) Clemency didn’t really know her intended husband that well. Did any bride, if it came to that? So let her have some shipboard fun. Besides, it took her mind off the thought of submarines.
They were not yet in dangerous waters, the Captain said. The Irish sea would be the place where the most strict look-out would be kept. But that was still three days’ steaming away. If they wanted to get nervous, the Captain added, and he wasn’t a joking man, let them wait until then.
Impervious, the two ladies, Mrs Jervis and her daughter, perfumed and bejewelled, sallied forth each evening. They were having a tremendous time. Imagine if they had listened to that old woman, Uncle Jonas, and cancelled the trip!
I despise Clemency, Hetty thought, getting out yet another of the dinner gowns and spending an hour or more ironing the soft silk folds. These gowns were part of Clemency’s trousseau. They should have been kept for her husband, that tall blond blue-eyed Englishman, who was surely expecting a bride who loved him.
Hetty climbed down to steerage for her evening meal, helped Mary Drummond put the children to bed, and talked to Mrs Drummond and other passengers, until it was time to go up again to undress her ladies. Mrs Drummond found the whole business fascinating but unbelievable. Two grown women who couldn’t undress themselves.
“But I don’t intend doing it for ever,” Hetty said. “I’ve been talking to those nice girls who want to be Red Cross nurses. I think that’s what I’ll do, too, when I’ve got Miss Clemency married. If the war’s still on, and they’ll have me.”
“They’d be lucky to get you, dear,” said Mrs Drummond.
On the last night at sea there was to be a concert in the first-class saloon and several parties in the cabins of the more famous passengers. Wasn’t it exciting, Mrs Jervis said, Mr Vanderbilt was going to buy horses, and he had been persuaded to come to Clemency’s wedding. There was also a party in steerage, where some amateur musicians were going to play dance music, but the dress there would be informal.
It was only stipulated that strict black-out rules must be observed, and wandering on the decks in the moonlight was not to be encouraged. Even pale dresses and the gentlemen’s white shirt-fronts could be detected from the sea if the moon was shining brightly enough.
Apart from that there was no reason not to celebrate the closing stages of an uneventful voyage. Tomorrow morning the Irish coast would be in sight, and an escort vessel would be waiting to shepherd the great ship through the more hazardous waters. In a few hours, when the tide was full, they would sail into the refuge of the Mersey channel.
Clemency was in a state bordering on hysteria. She had just received a wireless message from Lord Hazzard saying that he would be waiting at Liverpool to meet her. “Marriage arranged for the twentieth May,” the wireless ended. “Not too soon I hope. Stop. Time is of the essence. Stop. Love Hugo.”
Clemency crumpled the paper in her hands. She seemed to be on the verge of tears.
“But that’s wonderful, honey,” Mrs Jervis said. “What are you upset about?”
“It seems—kind of cold. Kind of businesslike.”
“Nonsense. You have to be economical with words in wireless messages. And he sends his love. Saying time is of the essence probably means he’s not got very long leave.”
“Or that I’ve got to get immediately pregnant,” Clemency muttered.
“Maybe,” said Mrs Jervis serenely. “That’s no bad thing. Give him his heir and then have fun. That’s how the nobility do it.”
“I’m having fun now, Mother. I think I’m in love with Bobby Merrit.”
“That young man you’ve been flirting with? Nonsense!”
“Don’t keep on saying nonsense, Mother. It’s the truth.”
“Clemency! You haven’t gone too far, have you?”
“No, but I’d like to. We did climb into a lifeboat last night, but the look-out saw us and got us out. Pity!” Clemency giggled faintly. “Only it was rather cold.”
Mrs Jervis sighed deeply. “It’s the sea voyage. It always goes to young girls’ heads. You’re being very naïve and naughty. Now the moment you see Hugo waiting for you, you’ll forget all about this and get your good sense back.”
Clemency pouted.
“Bobby and I are going to have tonight, whatever you say, Mother.”
“Of course. But don’t lead the young man on. And don’t keep poor Brown up too late. I want you here in bed before dawn, or I shall be angry.”
“Poor Brown.” Hetty was only referred to in this way when it suited Mrs Jervis’s purpose. She didn’t relish the thought of staying up until dawn to divest Clemency of her finery. All her jewellery, too, for both ladies had been to the purser that afternoon and had taken their valuables out of the ship’s strongroom. Mrs Jervis intended to wear her diamond choker, her pendant diamond earrings and several rings. Clemency would wear her double rope of pearls, two gold bracelets, and a diamond clip in her hair. And, of course, the charming antique engagement ring Hugo had given her.
The jewellery would not be returned to the purser for safekeeping, for they would be packing tomorrow and it would be Hetty’s responsibility never to let the jewelcase out of her sight.
“Have you had an enjoyable trip, Brown?” Clemency thought to ask.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ve met some nice people.”
“In steerage!”
“Why not? We’re having a party tonight. When am I to come up to undress you?”
“Oh, I daresay I could manage myself.”
“No, you could not,” interrupted her mother. “Brown, be here at one a.m. and I’m sure Clemency will have the courtesy not to keep you waiting.”
“Oh, Mother! You’re just spying on me.”
“And I should think so. For your own good.”
They had cleared the dining saloon in steerage, an Irishman returning to his native Galway played the fiddle, and everybody, even the oldest, danced in lively fashion.
Hetty was partnered by a young man from Toronto. He was going to England to join the Flying Corps, he said. He had always wanted to fly, and under the pressure of war the British were making great strides with their airplanes.
“That’s if we arrive safely in England,” he said.
“But we’re nearly there.”
“Don’t you believe it. The most dangerous bit of ocean is still to come. And I don’t go for all that stuff about the Germans being too honourable to sink a passenger ship carrying neutrals. Why, even if this ship flew the American flag, she’d be a target, and a legitimate one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because she’s carrying guns beneath her forward decks. They’ve only to be rolled into position ready for firing. Don’t ask me how I know. But I do know.”
“Then, if it’s secret, you shouldn’t have told me,” Hetty burst out in alarm.
“Suppose I shouldn’t have. I haven’t told anyone else. But it’s better to be forewarned. It might just give you that much more chance if we’re torpedoed.”
Hetty caught her breath. She wasn’t so brave after all.
“Do you think we will be?”
“Well, it’s always on the cards that the Huns may miss.” He threw back his head, laughing. He was attractive and reckless. He would make a good airman—if he lived.
If any of them lived.
“What’s your name?”
“Hetty Brown.”
“Now I’ve spoiled your evening, Hetty. Anyway, what’s a nice girl like you doing travelling alone? You are alone, aren’t you? I’ve watched you.”
“I’m not exactly alone. I’m a lady’s maid. My mistresses are in first class. I keep going up and down stairs. I have to go up later tonight to get them out of their finery.”
“No! I can’t believe it! You mean two grown women can’t undress themselves!” He was virtually repeating Mrs Drummond’s words.
Hetty found his astonishment amusing.
“I can see you don’t know much about the ways of the rich.”