Wildflower Hill (16 page)

The car turned in to their street on the stroke of ten. Beattie was waiting nervously outside the front gate, while Lucy watched from the verandah.

“There it is, Mummy!” she cried.

“Go back inside. Be a good girl for Margaret.”

“I’ll be a good girl for Jesus,” Lucy said solemnly.

Beattie blew her a kiss and stepped into the car. It smelled of oil and leather. “Good morning,” she said to the driver, a large man with a head that seemed carved out of stone. He didn’t respond. Intimidated, she sat back and looked out the window. The town sped by. The narrow dirt road wound uphill, exposing a view of farmland under sunlight on both sides. They thundered over mud puddles with alarming speed. Within twenty minutes, they were turning between two tall stone gates and in to a long driveway. To the west was a small compound of sheds, stables, and a stringy-bark cottage. Up ahead, Beattie could see the homestead: lofty and looming, built of sandstone, with huge windows peaked like cathedral windows and tall chimneys standing out from the tiled roof. A mile behind it stood a forest of eucalyptus, fluttering their gray-green leaves against the morning sunshine, but the garden around the house itself was an English garden. Roses and
poplars. The car pulled up near the front door, and Alice, the housekeeper, hurried down to greet them.

“Thank you,” Beattie said to the driver as she climbed out.

Alice said, “Don’t bother to speak to Mikhail, he knows ten words of English altogether. Come on, there’s plenty to do. Mr. Blanchard’s having guests for lunch.”

Beattie was whisked in the front door, then Alice paused a moment in the reception hall. She jabbed her finger in three directions. “There, there, there . . . you are not allowed to go.” Now she indicated to the left with a nod. “You will come in and go straight to the kitchen. I have you on kitchen and laundry duties. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Yes, Alice.”

“You’ll work from ten until six daily except Sundays. Mikhail will fetch you and drop you home. During shearing season, there will be longer hours, but that’s not until spring. As it is, there’s only Mr. Blanchard and three staff here—me, Mikhail, and Terry, the farm manager—though Mr. Blanchard has guests most days and most evenings.” She grimaced. “You won’t see them. Keep your head down and stay in here.”

“Here” was a long kitchen with floral wallpaper and flat wooden benches. There were built-in cupboards painted pale blue, and a large refrigerator that throbbed monotonously. A tall window at the end of the room let in white sunshine. Beattie went to the window and looked out over poplar trees to the gate, then down over green fields and hills, dotted with dirty white sheep.

Alice opened a door and pointed down the stairs. “Laundry
is down there. I’ll leave the key in the gas for the copper so you don’t have to come find me. I’ll bring down anything that needs to be washed. Mostly sheets and towels for the guests. You can sew?”

Beattie nodded.

“If you see anything needs mending, put it aside and save it for quiet times. Usually, around three, it’s quiet until five. You’ll be paid twenty shillings a week, but you’re on one day’s notice. If you let me down, you’re gone, and you won’t be paid for that week.”

Twenty shillings! Beattie knew it wasn’t much, but she’d had nothing in her purse for weeks, so it sounded like a fortune. The sun from the window was warm on her body, and the warmth penetrated all the way to her heart.

Lucy liked praying. She had always prayed before bed with Mummy listening, but Margaret had shown her a new way to pray, without saying the words out loud. Just between her and God. And so sometimes she went up to her room, kneeled by her bed and put her head on her clasped hands, and prayed so hard that her ribs hurt for Daddy to get well and come back.

But still he didn’t.

One day, while Mummy was at work, Margaret found her and asked her what she was doing. Lucy realized she had been crying and Margaret must have heard it. Margaret looked after her well, giving her little jobs to do, and pointing out the words in books, and giving her cuddles when she was feeling sad. Mummy was out a lot. She felt as though Mummy were
shrinking in her imagination, and Margaret was growing bigger. Daddy was the biggest, but she had started to forget his face, like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing.

“I was praying,” Lucy said. “But God isn’t giving me what I want.”

“What do you want? Some silly Christmas treat?”

The thought of Christmas without Daddy made Lucy cry harder. “I want my daddy.”

Margaret came in and scooped her up, then sat with her on the bed, an arm around her waist. Margaret had a pretty face, much like Lucy imagined the Virgin might have looked.

“I don’t want to have to tell you this,” Margaret said, “but you need to know. You are innocent, you are still holy in God’s eyes. But your parents did bad things. It’s a waste of time to pray for them to change. You must worry about your own soul, not theirs.”

“What bad things did they do?” Lucy gasped, shadows gathering in her mind. She thought of Jesus on the cross, dying for their sins. And them being so ungrateful. Why, she had never seen Mummy pray once!

“You’ll understand when you’re an adult. Now, you mustn’t mention this to your mother. God wouldn’t want you to.”

Lucy nodded. “So if I can’t pray for Daddy to come back . . .”

“You should pray instead for the strength to stop loving him, so it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Stop loving Daddy?
Lucy knew God wouldn’t want her to do that. She decided she would keep praying just the same. She would be clever enough not to cry when she did.

*  *  *

Over the next few weeks, Beattie fell into a routine. She sewed for Margaret from five in the morning until ten, when she would kiss Lucy goodbye and climb into the car with Mikhail. On Sundays, after Lucy came home from Sunday school, Beattie would take her to the general store for an ice cream, and they would walk down to the creek—now a harmless trickle—and look for turtles. Beattie did not meet her new employer, Raphael Blanchard, though she came to know him through his clothes. Fine shirts and silk robes. It felt strange to be handling the underwear of a man she’d never met, but she kept this thought to herself. She did as she was told, never went anywhere in the house but for the kitchen and the laundry, and knew the satisfaction of stable work, a safe home, and money for food and shoes. It wasn’t the life she had dreamed for herself, but it was a good life nonetheless. As each week passed without any contact from Henry, she began to feel sure that she had truly escaped him.

As soon as she’d saved some pennies for a stamp and an envelope, Beattie wrote a letter to her parents back in Glasgow. In truth, she had no idea whether they would accept her. Her mother had disowned her on that last awful day, but she hoped enough time had passed for forgiveness. After she posted the letter, she idly wondered if she should return home. But Scotland or England didn’t feel like home now. Lucy had been born here, and the sunshine and broad sky
were in her soul. It wouldn’t be right to take her back to a miserable flat in a stinking city.

The reply came surprisingly quickly, though the return address was not her parents’. It was that of Mrs. Peters, the woman who had lived in the neighboring flat.

Beattie’s skin prickled lightly, and she noticed her fingers shook as she picked open the envelope. Lucy was running about in the front garden, pretending to be a butterfly, and Margaret was sweeping the front verandah and humming a hymn. Mikhail would be here with the car any minute, but Beattie wanted time to hold still, all movement and noise to stop, as she concentrated very hard on what the letter had to say. Even so, only snatches jumped out at her.

. . . the new residents of your parents’ flat passed me your letter . . . sorry to say I have no good news for you . . . your mother took the fever and went quickly . . . blessedly quick, she didn’t suffer . . . your father wandered like a ghost for days . . . a fall down the stairs . . . nothing they could do to save him . . . certain that they thought of you often and well . . .

Tears obscured the words on the page. Beattie drew in a sharp sob, determined not to upset Lucy. She sniffed back the tears quickly, hurried inside to hide the letter under her pillow. Outside, she could hear Mikhail’s car pulling up, the peremptory bleat of the horn. Life went on, life had to go on. Her stomach clenched with regret, and she remembered Charlie
Harris, what he had said about having lost both his parents somewhere in the past.
Just me in the world now, looking after myself
. Palming away tears, she hurried back through the house and outside. There would be time to cry tonight, after her shift, curled up with Lucy in bed.

B
eattie had been working at Wildflower Hill for six months before she met Raphael Blanchard. She had glimpsed him once, on her arrival, when looking at the upper story. She’d seen his profile at the window, but he hadn’t seen her. She’d had an impression of dark hair, pale eyes, and youth, but nothing more. Meanwhile, Alice came down to the kitchen every day after lunch to catch the passing warmth of the stove, and she’d told Beattie bits and pieces about Raphael. He was the fifth son of a minor earl in England, and had been charged with expanding their business interests in the empire, but Raphael had little interest in business, much less sheep. He hired a farm manager and kept himself busy with his social life. Mikhail was the general handyman and gofer, and he drove out three or four times a day to pick people up and drop them home.

It was a fine winter morning. The sun had been late to get up, but now it shone clearly, lending its golden light to the trees and fields. When Beattie arrived at work, Alice was in the kitchen, sitting at the little table with her head in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” Beattie asked, hanging up her coat and tying on her apron.

Alice looked up. Her face was flushed, and she held a crumpled hankie in her hand. “I’m sick,” she croaked. As if to prove it, she succumbed to a coughing fit that seemed to go on for minutes.

Beattie fetched her a glass of water and put it at her elbow.

Alice brought her coughs under control and sipped the water. She blew her nose loudly. “Beattie, you’ll have to serve lunch today. I can’t be coughing all over the food.”

“Of course. You only have to tell me what to do.”

Alice looked at her blearily. “There’s just one rule. Don’t make eye contact with Mr. Blanchard.”

“He doesn’t like it?”

“Not for his sake, Beattie. For yours.” Alice shook her head. “Just keep your head down. He’ll only have one guest with him: Mr. Sampson, his lawyer. Wait until they are deep in conversation, then be invisible. Leave them their food, and leave the room. Two courses: soup and roast. I’ve already got the roast on.”

They worked in the kitchen together that morning, while Beattie turned Alice’s warning over in her mind.
Keep your head down.
He must be a tyrant, a terrible bully. How did Alice put up with him, if that were the case? She grew more nervous as the day wore on. After Henry, she’d hoped never to have to deal with a domineering man again.

At last it was time to take the soup up to the dining room. Alice gave her directions, and after forcing her hands to be
still, Beattie finally emerged from the kitchen to see a little more of the Wildflower Hill homestead.

Directly opposite the kitchen was a room used for storage. Its door was closed. Stairs led up to the sleeping areas. Dark wood paneling absorbed the light. Behind the stairs were a sitting room and a large dining room. She found the door to the dining room, could hear men’s voices from within. Perfect timing. She balanced the tray on her hip, opened the door, and slipped in quietly.

Head down. She caught the smell of cologne, under it a less pleasant musty smell. She registered the same tall cathedral windows in the room, and folding French doors opening to a damp, lichen-spattered patio. She didn’t look at the men, and they kept talking as though she weren’t there. A bowl in front of each of them—Alice had set the table that morning—and she was on her way out again.

But before she made it to the door, the conversation stopped abruptly, and an imperious voice said, “You’re not Alice.”

Beattie turned, tucking the tray under her arm. Was she still to keep her head down? It seemed rude, and she didn’t want to be scolded for that. She lifted her gaze and smiled politely. “I’m Beattie, sir.”

Raphael Blanchard would have been very pretty had he been a woman. He had thick, dark hair that curled around his brow and round, pale blue eyes with long lashes. His face was white, though shadowed with stubble, and his hands were long and flaccid. He bore the distinction of being both
thin—his arms and legs appeared almost wasted—and carrying too much fat around his middle. Beattie couldn’t help but be reminded of a doll she made once with Lucy: a stuffed sock for a body, sticks for arms. She glanced briefly at his companion, an older man with a salt-and-pepper beard who smiled at her kindly.

Raphael didn’t smile, though. “Beattie, who are you, and why are you bringing me my soup?”

“I’m your maid, and Alice is sick.”

“Are you new?”

“No, sir, I’ve been here nearly six months.”

“Six months! And I’ve never met you!” His eyes rounded in surprise. “Alice has been hiding you, hasn’t she?”

“No, sir. I work in the kitchen and the laundry. There’s never been any reason to come out before today.” Slowly, Beattie realized that Raphael wasn’t angry at her. She relaxed a little and smiled. “I’ll be off now. Main course is roast beef.”

“I look forward to seeing you again.” His gaze roamed over her face and body hungrily, and Beattie felt a prickle of revulsion.

Back in the kitchen, she confessed to Alice. “He saw me, but he was very nice.”

“Of course he was,” Alice muttered. “Just don’t let him be
too
nice to you, if you know what I mean. That’s how we lost our last maid.”