The Novel in the Viola by Natasha Solomons Page A

said Mrs Ellsworth.
    The next quarter of an hour was spent with Mr Wrexham schooling me in how to lay and light a fire. I worked my way through most of a box of matches, several sheets of newspaper and all of his patience, but by the time the morning room door opened and Mr Rivers entered, a hearty blaze roared in the hearth. He bade a good morning to the senior servants and, ignoring me entirely, seated himself at the table with his morning paper.
    ‘Will you be needing anything further, Mr Rivers?’ inquired Mrs Ellsworth.
    ‘No thank you.’
    ‘Well, this is the new house parlour maid, Elise,’ she said.
    ‘Very good. Nice to meet you, Elsie,’ said Mr Rivers, not looking up from his paper.
    I felt irritation prickle along the back of my neck. Elsie, indeed. I wanted to grab the top of his wretched paper and crumple it. I’d never been so rudely ignored in all my life. Mrs Ellsworth ushered me outside and thrust a box of cleaning utensils into my arms.
    ‘Now. You can go and clean the sitting room properly. When you’ve done that, you can start on the bedrooms. Make sure you make them beds up properly, like I showed you.’
    I started to walk away at a brisk pace, until she called me back and issued a further slew of instructions in a low voice.
    ‘Elise. Remember, you must not be visible from the outside. When cleaning the windows, you must duck down and walk away if you ever glimpse any ladies or gentlemen outside on the lawn or terrace. If Mr Rivers enters, you apologise, collect your cleaning things and leave. You must be invisible. You understand?’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Ellsworth. I am to be invisible.’
     
    My hands bled. My nails split and the fingertips on each hand were raw and sliced with tiny cuts. My legs ached like I’d been running for miles across the hills and I’d pulled every muscle in my shoulders and arms. All I wanted was to lie in a hot bath filled with Anna’s lavender salts and then disappear to my soft bed, with a cup of Hildegard’s special kirsch-laced hot chocolate. Instead, I had to clean and scrub and polish and hurry between chores. The house was vast, many times the size of our sumptuous Viennese apartment, and entirely lacking in modern comforts – certainly none that would make the life of a maid a little easier. I found myself sighing like a lover over the memory of Hildegard’s smart new vacuuming machine. Mr Wrexham caught me gazing out of the small arched window above the side porch, staring at the feathered clouds tumbling across the sky like a clutch of ducklings.
    ‘Chop chop, girl! If you’ve time to idle, 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 Racing Post and a silver cigarette case. On second glance, I realised that the dish was filled not with earrings but cufflinks. 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