The House at Tyneford by Natasha Solomons Page B

ill-concealed dislike.
    After the meal we cleared away the dishes into the sink in the back scullery, where May stood up to her elbows in soapsuds, scrubbing and complaining under her breath. The other servants vanished to their duties, while I trailed after Mrs. Ellsworth and Mr. Wrexham into the kitchen. I hovered in the doorway, not knowing what I ought to do next.
    “Elise. You are to wait at table tonight,” said Mr. Wrexham. “Mr. Rivers has a guest and it’s Henry’s evening off.”
    “And I’m very happy to take his place, Mr. Wrexham,” said Mrs. Ellsworth.
    “No, thank you, Mrs. Ellsworth,” he replied. “The child must learn. She has been engaged as house parlour maid and she shall fulfil those duties.”
    I watched the pair of elderly servants. I guessed that they had lived in this house together for twenty years, and yet they never spoke to one another without using a formal title. Mrs. Ellsworth stifled a little sigh and sat down at the kitchen table. Mr. Wrexham laid a fresh place setting around her and handed me a pair of forks and a willow-patterned dish filled with dried peas.
    “Now serve Mrs. Ellsworth her vegetables.”
    Every night at supper, one of the maids, or later Hildegard herself, had elegantly placed vegetables and potatoes on my plate. Now that it was my turn, I did not find it so easy. The peas tumbled onto Mrs. Ellsworth’s lap, or else I dropped the forks. I was scolded for leaning in too close (“This is not a common public house, girl”) and for standing too far back (“How can you wait on a lady from such a distance? A little common sense, please”). After half an hour, Mrs. Ellsworth stood up.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Wrexham. I have a dinner to cook.”
    She walked over to the vast cooking range and clattered pots, while Mr. Wrexham returned the dish to its place on the dresser and poured the dried peas back into a jar. He handed me a clean apron.
    “Tonight, Elise, you shall serve the water and collect the empty plates.”
    I frowned; I had succeeded in placing nearly all of my last forkful of peas smoothly on Mrs. Ellsworth’s plate—only one had disappeared down the back of her neck. I felt quite cheated at being relegated to water duty but decided it was best not to argue.
    “Now sit down,” said Mr. Wrexham.
    I sat, wondering what was to be the next lesson. Perhaps the art of the wrist flourish when unfolding a napkin? But then I felt Mr. Wrexham’s hands in my hair. I whipped around to come face-to-face with a gleaming pair of scissors.
    “No hysterics, please. Your hair must be cut.”
    “No. No. I cannot.”
    I backed away from him toward the oak dresser at the far end of the kitchen. My heart pounded in my ears and the stew in my belly bubbled. I kept my eyes fixed on the long blades. I must not blink. Must not blink. In my mind I saw the scissor-man in Struwwelpeter coming at me with his cry, “Snip, snip,” ready to slice off my hair.
    “I will not cut it,” I half shouted, half cried, edging farther into the corner.
    “Elise. Stop making such a fuss,” said Mrs. Ellsworth. “And Mr. Wrexham, you’re frightening the girl. She’s turned quite white.”
    Mr. Wrexham lowered his scissors and folded his arms. “I cannot have anyone waiting in my dining room with long hair. It’s undignified and unsightly. And unclean.”
    Mrs. Ellsworth turned to me, her face almost sympathetic. “In England, dear, all maids must have their hair cut short. It’s a mark of position. And hygiene,” she added, as though we Austrians knew nothing of cleanliness.
    I closed my eyes, blinking back the threatened tears. Margot had admonished me to be good. I must not be dismissed, not over something so silly.
    “Then I shall cut the hair. But I shall cut. Not him.” I pointed to Mr. Wrexham, now lurking behind the hulking table.
    Mrs. Ellsworth gave a curt nod. “Very well. Give Elise your scissors, Mr. Wrexham.”
    He placed them on the table and slid them toward me. I