The Novel in the Viola by Natasha Solomons

tightly closed to preserve the Chinese silk wallpaper and a Turner seascape of the rocks in Mupe Bay. The painted sea crashed noiselessly against the glistening rocks, as storm clouds swirled. Mrs Ellsworth informed me in a voice heavy with pride that this was the most precious painting in the house, insured for more than a thousand guineas. She paused by the vast stone-carved fireplace, inset once again with the family crest and twining ivy. The yellow sandstone was blackened at the back with soot and smoke, and the ashes of an old fire fluttered in the grate.
    ‘Each mornin’ you’re to clean out the fireplaces in the main sitting room, the dining room and the mornin’ room. If ladies are visiting in cold weather then you are to go quietly into their rooms and put a match to their fire. Fire must be laid the night before, mind.’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Ellsworth.’
    I stifled a yawn. I had never been so bored. The list of tasks stretched endlessly before me, and I knew with quiet certainty that I would never remember half of them, and a fierce scolding was inevitable.
    ‘Did you understand how to use the beeswax on the floor?’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Ellsworth.’
    ‘An’ you saw how to polish them ornaments without breakages?’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Ellsworth.’
    ‘You can come back and finish cleaning in here later. Mr Wrexham likes to show new housemaids how to light a fire properly.’
    I hurried after Mrs Ellsworth out into the panelled hall and into a cheerful dining room laid for breakfast. My first lesson had been upon the importance of walking fast: a maid is never idle, and dawdling is idle. For the next twelve months, I must proceed everywhere at a jog, as though upon urgent business of state, even if I were merely returning an eggcup to the pantry. I learnt that a stroll was a privilege of the wealthy. When I thought about it, I had never seen Hildegard amble; she hurried everywhere with the same expediency as Mrs Ellsworth, and even in our quiet hours chattering together in the kitchen, her hands were never still – her knitting needles click-clicked, she darned the tears in my clothes, or dusted sugar over buns plucked from the oven.
    In the morning room, a silver coffeepot rested on a hotplate, releasing a delicious aroma and my mouth watered – since my arrival in England I’d had nothing but thick black tea, which I found quite revolting. These curtains were open and the bright sunlight streamed through the tall casement windows. Outside lay a terrace with stone balustrades woven with tangled vines. Low terracotta pots brimming with scarlet geraniums were set at regular intervals beside white-painted tables and chairs, while beyond the terrace, smooth lawns sloped down towards the sea. It was so beautiful that I couldn’t help but smile.
    ‘Harrumph. Another dawdler,’ said a voice.
    I looked around and saw a white-haired man, with the deportment and authority of a conductor, standing beside Mrs Ellsworth. I suppressed a giggle; I’d never actually heard a man say ‘harrumph’ in real life before. It was a word I’d only ever read in storybooks, while trying to improve my English.
    ‘Elise, meet Mr Wrexham. Mr Rivers’ butler, valet and the head of staff here at Tyneford.’
    I hesitated, far more awkward before this austere old man than I had been last night when confronted with Mr Rivers himself. Was I supposed to shake his hand? To curtsy?
    ‘Most pleased and delighted in the . . . shaping of your . . . acquaintance, sir,’ I said, keeping my hands firmly at my sides.
    He stared at me with narrowed eyes. ‘Is the girl attempting humour?’
    ‘No, I don’t believe so, Mr Wrexham. I think her grasp of the English language is a trifle peculiar.’
    ‘Well. Give her some improving books. This won’t do. She must be able to wait on English ladies and gentlemen, without causing confusion or embarrassment .’ He pronounced this last word as though it was a capital offence.
    ‘Yes, very good, Mr Wrexham,’