“My name is Alice.” She scooted over to the edge of the bed and put her bare feet on the floor. “I’m in service, just like you.”
The girl shook her head and said something that sounded like a stream of gibberish—but of course it must be another language. It sounded nothing at all like English. “I have no Anglich,” she repeated, more slowly.
“You don’t speak English?” said Alice.
The girl nodded, smiling again. So much for trying to communicate with her or elicit her sympathy!
The maid pointed to herself. “Gitla,” she said. “Gitla Mandelbaum.” Yes, then she must be the Mandelbaums’ daughter. The mother a housekeeper, the father a butler, and daughter a maid—that was often how it worked when entire families were in service.
Well, if they were reduced to pantomime—“Alice,” said Alice, pointing to herself.
Gitla nodded, then said something in that foreign language of hers, and gestured for Alice to come along. This must be her promised bath?
Sure enough, Gitla led her to a bathroom at the end of the hall. The bath was already filled with water. Beside it stood the bucket in which Gitla must have carried the water—several trips up and down, since the water was comfortably deep. On a stool beside the bathtub were a towel and robe. Gitla gestured toward the bath, then curtseyed and walked back out into the hall, shutting the door behind her.
Alice listened intently, but there was no sound of footsteps receding. She tiptoed to the door and peeked out through the keyhole. Yes, Gitla was still standing there, leaning against the wall. So she wasn’t just a maid—she was a guard as well! There was nothing to do now but take a bath, and goodness, she needed one! Mrs. Poole would have been shocked by how dirty and, yes, smelly she was.
She immersed herself in the bathwater, which was still deliciously hot, and scrubbed herself with a bar of Castile soap she found on the towel. Just for good measure, she washed her hair as well. There was no vinegar to rinse with, but she rinsed her hair as well as she could in cold water from the tap.
She put on the robe, leaving the soiled nightgown neatly folded on the chair, then called out, “I’m ready!”
Gitla opened the door and gestured for her to come out, saying something incomprehensible. It was strange not being able to talk to someone! This was how Mary must feel in Europe, where everyone spoke different languages. But Mary had Justine and the others to translate, whereas Alice must do her best without a translator. Somehow, communicating by pantomime, Gitla led her back to the room, then combed her hair and dressed Alice in the blue silk frock that Mrs. Raymond had picked out. There were stockings to go with it—goodness, silk stockings, with embroidered clocks! And a very fine pair of button boots that Gitla fastened with a boot hook.
By this time, her hair was almost dry. Gitla patted it once more with a towel, then braided it and tied it at the bottom with a blue silk ribbon. Alice had never worn such fine clothes in her life. Evidently, Lydia Raymond was not a kitchen maid! Alice felt like a perfect fraud.
“Ślicznie Panna w tym wygląda,” Gitla said, looking at Alice as though pleased with her handiwork.
And then Alice was left alone again. With an apologetic smile, Gitla locked the door behind her. What now? There was nothing she could do until Mrs. Raymond or Miss Trelawny came to get her, so she looked at the bookshelf—The Cuckoo Clock by Mrs. Molesworth, The Water-Babies by Mr. Kingsley, The Little Lame Prince by Miss Mulock.… She had read all those books at the orphanage, where they had been considered improving literature. Someone had planned this room for a child. But what child? It took a moment for the truth to dawn on her. She was the child. All that time she had been locked in the coal cellar, this room, with its clothes that were a little too large for her, its books that were a little too young, had been waiting for her. Planned by whom? Mrs. Raymond? She could not imagine Mrs. Raymond planning any such thing, and yet who else could have done it? Sometimes, at the orphanage, she had imagined that she was not an orphan after all, that one day her mother would come for her. Who would she be? A soldier’s widow reduced to penury who had been unable to keep her daughter? A fallen governess who had sought to hide her shame? In her dreams, her mother had always loved and wanted her, but had been forced to give her up due to unfortunate circumstances. As she had grown older, she had put such dreams aside. And now her mother had come for her—kidnapping her, imprisoning her, wanting her to work for a man such as Moriarty, who was, she could tell, what Mrs. Poole called a wrong ’un. She did not know what to think.
She was quite hungry by the time a key turned in the lock again. This time, it was Margaret Trelawny. She was no longer dressed in a black walking suit. Now she had on a very attractive black afternoon gown with a neckline that was, Alice thought, a little too low for mourning attire—after all, she must be in mourning, or why would she be wearing black? Around her neck was a magnificent gold necklace with a pendant that looked like a large ruby carved in the shape of a beetle. Surely that was not proper under the circumstances either? In mourning one wore a set of jet beads, or perhaps a locket with the braided hair of the beloved dead inside. But it certainly did look striking on her white neck, framed by the black collar.
“Why, Lydia, don’t you look lovely!” she said. “Come on down. The meeting is about to start, and there will be tea—I’m sure you’d like some. I asked Mrs. Mandelbaum to send up some of those little cakes she makes so well. At least, I think I did. The Mandelbaums don’t speak English at all—well, Gitla knows a few words, but they’re recent immigrants. And of course I don’t speak any Polish. But Abram Mandelbaum speaks a little German—he was a school teacher in his own country—and my father taught me German so I could help with his research. At any rate, there will be food of some sort. Now, here’s what I want you to do.…”
Alice nodded. As she followed Miss Trelawny down the hall, she mentally repeated to herself what Margaret had told her: Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to; when you are spoken to, answer clearly but briefly—no need to volunteer more information than you are asked for; listen carefully to the conversation and remember what you have learned; make sure to eat and drink, so you can keep up your strength. She was not at all sure whether she should like Miss Trelawny. Certainly, she was much kinder than Mrs. Raymond or Professor Moriarty—after all, she had gotten Alice out of the coal cellar. And yet she was in league with them. In league to do what? Alice had no idea. Well, for now she would follow Margaret Trelawny’s instructions to listen and learn.
As she put one foot on the stair, she heard it again—a groan, this time from behind her. It was long and drawn out. Someone was in pain. Should she ask Miss Trelawny about it? But Margaret Trelawny was already halfway down the stairs. Listen and learn, she reminded herself. Listening and learning had gotten her out of bad situations in the past, at the orphanage for example. Whoever was groaning so piteously, she would have to find out about it later.
At the bottom of the stairs, Miss Trelawny led her to the common room, with its plush chairs, dark paneling, and brocade curtains. Portraits of solemn old gentlemen looked down from the walls. Seated in the armchairs gathered around the fireplace, in which a fire had been lit, was a collection of gentlemen much younger than the ones in the portraits. Among them, in the armchair closest to the fireplace, was Mrs. Raymond. She was still in her soft gray dress, with lace falling over her shoulders and arms, and her black hair was swept up in the most modern style. She looked quite romantic, like a duchess in a society magazine.