The House at Tyneford by Natasha Solomons

I’ve a list of jobs for you.”
    As he clapped his hands at me, I picked up my rag and bottle of vinegar, ran into the nearest bedroom and set to dusting the mirror and dressing table. A photograph of a pretty young woman in a drop-waist gown, the kind that had been the height of fashion in the twenties, rested on the table beside a tortoiseshell comb and a dish for earrings. I picked it up to dust the glass and looked at the face. She had a sweet smile, not quite straight, and she squinted shyly at the camera, as though reluctant to have her picture taken. The other things on the table were incongruous: a stash of gentlemen’s magazines, an old copy of the Sporting Life and a silver cigarette case. On second glance, I realised that the dish was filled not with earrings but cuff links. A brown leather armchair was positioned next to the window, and on the sill rested an ashtray. This was a gentleman’s room, not a lady’s. I heard the door open behind me, and whirled round expecting to see Mr. Rivers, but Mr. Wrexham had glided in, with the smooth grace belonging to the most proficient butlers.
    “This is Mr. Christopher Rivers’ room.”
    “Yes. Mr. Rivers.”
    Mr. Wrexham frowned. “No, Mr. Christopher Rivers. Mr. Rivers’ son. He’s up at Cambridge presently. He returns in a few days. May shall clean the room then. You are not to come up here while Mr. Christopher is in residence.”
    “Why?”
    The question slipped out before I realised it. Mr. Wrexham reddened with displeasure, and I could see that he was debating whether to even answer me.
    “Because Mr. Rivers is making a generous concession to your circumstance. Mr. Rivers does not think it proper that you should be in a young gentleman’s room when he is in the house.”
    Mr. Wrexham reached out and took from me the photograph of the girl, which I hadn’t realised I was still clasping, and replaced it tenderly on the table.
    “The late Mrs. Rivers. A fine lady,” he said quietly, half to himself.
    I studied the gentle figure in the frame with her wispy pale hair and tried to imagine her married to the vigorous Mr. Rivers. I wondered why it was that all old photographs seemed sad.

    The day disappeared in a whirl of dust and exhaustion. May and a gap-toothed girl from the village assisted in the drudgery. I glimpsed a manservant lugging buckets of coal, while a liveried footman carried trays into the library or study. I cleaned four guest bedrooms but none of them seemed to be in use, and they held the musty stench of neglect despite their daily airings. At five o’clock I descended the back stairs to the servants’ hall and tea. A long oak table had been set for supper, and Mr. Wrexham sat at one end and Mrs. Ellsworth at the other. This was the first time I had encountered all the servants together, and there were fewer of us than I had imagined. At ten to five, the two daily housemaids disappeared away to their own dinners in the village so that there were only eight live-in staff seated around the wooden table, cradling bowls of steaming stew and mash. Two low benches rested on either side of the table, with matching high-backed chairs for the butler and housekeeper. The dark panelled hall was thirty feet long, the table running nearly the length of the room, and easily could have seated a staff of forty. The hall echoed with our voices and I wondered when it had last been full. We would have been much more comfortable in the airy kitchen rather than sitting on the hard wooden benches in the gloom. A faded sampler nailed above our heads proclaimed the dreary motto WORK AND FAITH, while the wall was studded with little brass bells, each corresponding to a label: STUDY, DRAWING ROOM, MASTER BEDROOM and so forth. More modern electric service bells had been installed in the kitchen and servants’ corridor, and this antique system lent the hall a dismal air. I sat beside Henry the footman (his real name was Stan, but the footman at Tyneford was