The Novel in the Viola by Natasha Solomons Page B

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 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 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 underway 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