The House at Tyneford by Natasha Solomons Page A

always called Henry), while Billy the gardener (wild hair unpruned, in contrast to the neat shrubs in his domain) sat shovelling food and speaking to no one. Jim, the kitchen boy, chattered to Peter, the general manservant. May, scullery maid, general busybody and personage most put out by my appearance at Tyneford, sat opposite and watched me with round, piggish eyes, and I felt that if it hadn’t been for the others, she would have snarled at me with her small, yellow teeth.
    “I were supposed to be housemaid. Bin scullery drudge fer five year,” she said.
    I said nothing and scrutinised the brown steaming contents of the bowl before me.
    “You’re not ready for promotion. I can’t have you chirpin’ away to the ladies an’ gentlemen,” said Mrs. Ellsworth, drumming her fingers against the table, and I gained the distinct impression this was an argument that had been under way for some time.
    “Enough,” commanded Mr. Wrexham, eyes narrow with outrage. “Elise was engaged under a direct order from Mr. Rivers. I will not have his orders questioned in this house. Is that quite clear?”
    May bent her head and began to sob noiselessly into her dumplings. Mrs. Ellsworth moved to comfort her, but, on catching Mr. Wrexham’s furious gaze, thought better of it and reached for her napkin instead.
    “Mrs. Ellsworth, would you say grace?” he said.
    All the servants bowed their heads, pressing their hands together, forming triangles above their plates. I did not know what I ought to do. I could not pray. I had been forced to leave my family but I would not become a Christian. I knew that every prayer I uttered would carry me further away from them. I closed my eyes and sealed my lips tight shut.
    “For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful. We ask you, Christ our Saviour, to bestow your blessing upon Mr. Rivers and Mr. Christopher and bless all who live in this house. Amen.”
    There was a murmur of “Amen” from around the table and I opened my eyes. Mr. Wrexham was looking at me, mouth pursed with displeasure.
    “You do not wish the Lord to bless this house?”
    “I cannot be praying with you.”
    “And why not? Is our God not good enough for you?”
    I thought of Anna and Julian and the last night in Vienna. I had never really prayed before that night. I was not sure that I ever would again, but I remembered the honey chant of Herr Finkelstein and his song of the Promised Land. Next year in New York. Until I saw them again, that must be my last prayer.
    “I am a Jew.”
    The tone of my voice surprised me. It was strong and clear: an absolute declaration. I had never said those words before; I’d been driven out of my Vienna and across the sea because of them and yet I had never uttered them aloud. There must have been something in my expression, as neither Mr. Wrexham nor anyone else ever mentioned my refusal to say grace again.
    There was a loud knock at the door and Art stomped in, wearing a pair of filthy outdoor shoes, caked in muck that stank distinctly like horse manure. Mrs. Ellsworth scowled but did not scold him, saying only, “Your dinner’s on the warmer in the kitchen. You can go and fetch it yourself.”
    I had forgotten about Art and now wondered why he didn’t dine with us. Peter leaned toward me, confiding, “Art don’t like ter eat wi’ two-legged uns. ’Ee likes ter munch ’is supper out wi’ th’ horses and cows. But Art likes a meat stew right enuff rather than a bit o’ hay.” He guffawed loudly at his own joke.
    “Mr. Bobbin don’t talk nearly as much poppycock as the rest o’ yer,” said Art. “Can’t blame a man fer wantin’ a bit o’ peace wi’ his dinner.”
    I couldn’t blame him at all and wished I could take my bowl and sneak outside to eat beside Mr. Bobbin in the quiet yard. I smiled at Art, and he gave me a quick wink as he left. I felt a flush of happiness at the feeling I had an ally among the household. May gazed at me with