Could it be possible that he is mistaken? This girl is so young—I find it hard to believe that she can have been involved in anything of the sort. Nonetheless, he does mention brightly coloured clothes and a habit of sucking her fingers— and apparently her parting words as he put her out on the street were that she didn’t care “a farthing dip‘ anyway because she already had a position lined up at the Edinburgh Castle (which sounds very like Bessy!).
Despite this, I am strongly inclined to think that what he has been told about the girl is simply malicious gossip, spread by another servant who may have her own reasons for wishing to slander her rival’s name. This kind of thing is not uncommon, I believe, especially in town, where the servants live in close proximity to each other and are in the habit of forming jealousies and alliances.
I have replied to Samuel Levy’s letter by return of post with a number of questions which I beg him to answer.
In the meantime, it would be a terrible mistake to jump to any conclusions. I must admit that, upon reading Levy’s letter, I did become slightly anxious that I was harbouring a degenerate. Suddenly fearing what she might be up to, I tracked the girl down to the kitchen, from behind the closed door of which emerged a loud and repetitive rasping sound, accompanied by heavy breathing. Now that doubt had been cast over her history, I was perfectly prepared upon entering for an offensive or licentious sight to greet my eyes, and I pounced through the door at once—only to discover her in the act of scouring the table, an occupation both innocuous and useful. May I venture to assert that one should be careful not to judge too quickly, even when dealing with the lowliest of persons.
THE MAID WITH A SHADOWY PAST
I believe I can say without fear of contradiction that we know too little about our servants. All the evidence we have about them is written on a single piece of paper, by a former employer, who—for all we know—may be glad to be rid of them and to this end invents an immaculate character for them instead of giving us the lamentable truth. Occasionally, depending upon circumstance, we may not even have a written character for them. Why then should we blame ourselves if something comes to light about a servant’s past which surprises us? Clearly, it would be a mistake to chastise oneself, if this were the case. Even if a servant arrives with excellent testimonials, we take on him or her as a matter of trust. How are we to know what has really gone on in their lives before they come to us? And (some might say) is it really our concern, provided that they perform their duties punctually and well?
My own experiences of recent days bear this out. I have received another communication from Mr. Samuel Levy. In reply to my questions he assures me that there is no mistake about what went on in his brother’s house. It is some relief to learn that Crown House was not, in fact, a public brothel for use by all and sundry, but a “respectable‘ residence, and that Benjamin Levy, who was apparently besotted with the girl, kept her there exclusively, as his sole concubine. This is small comfort, but at least we can be sure that the girl was not wandering the streets like an animal to ply her trade and that she has been sullied by only one ”satyr’. Samuel Levy says that he cannot tell me where the girl came from (because he does not know) but says that she was reputedly sold into his brother’s care by an elder sister, who in return collected a weekly payment from Benjamin Levy’s solicitor (this payment has now been stopped, at Samuel’s command).
One is forced to wonder what kind of person would sell her younger sibling for immoral purposes. Such a person can be no less than a monster. Of course, the family would have been in financial straits after the death of both parents, but surely there are other means of living before resorting to such depravity?
However, one must also consider that—if she didn’t like it—the girl could always have run away from this man. Clearly she did like it, as apparently she remained there for almost a year. According to Samuel Levy, the neighbour’s servants claim that she was hardly ever dressed, and spent most of her time (when not engaged with Mr. Benjamin Levy), reclining on a chaise beneath a chenille rug, eating lollipops and reading novels.
Of course, many of the characteristics that the girl displays—characteristics that I have previously remarked upon in these pages—do fit well with this new information about her. For example, her sultry looks and the unsettling mix she has of innocence and worldliness: these qualities are, I am sure, to be found in girls of her sort around the globe. It is now easy to understand her overwhelming attachment to her “dear‘ Mr. Levy and why she chatters about him in such glowing terms: she was none other than his mistress!
What on earth is the householder to do upon learning such a disturbing set of circumstances? I must admit that I have become somewhat disheartened since receiving this letter, and have even harboured some doubts about the likelihood of fully domesticating this girl. How can it be possible, given what I now know? Despite some progress in other areas, we are still stuck at 40 stand/sit repetitions and I begin to despair of coaxing more out of her.
I have even begun to find her presence a little unsettling, although I try not to show it. At one point yesterday, as we worked, I had reason to be standing next to her and—quite by accident—my sleeve happened to touch hers. The shock of brushing so close against her was overwhelming. It was as though a spark had leapt up my arm and shot into my heart. I hardly know how I managed to stop myself from crying out. I simply gasped and clutched at my chest, but managed to pass off this state of agitation as a mild digestive disorder. The girl expressed concern for my welfare and begged me to rest while she made me a drink. She busied herself with the teapot, apparently very happy to have me present in the kitchen while she saw to my needs. Indeed, she seemed almost elated to be tending to me. I must say that, despite everything, she does seem a sympathetic little soul, but I do wish that she would not fuss over people quite so much, with quite so much familiarity. It is unnerving to have her so near at hand, rubbing one’s back and tucking a rug over one’s knees.
Of course, there are some people—lovers of scandal and the like—who might derive a thrill or base excitement from proximity to a person of her sort, but I need hardly say that I am not one of them. It is true, I have always been interested in those less fortunate than myself (as evidenced by my youthful preoccupation with the poor), but my curiosity is always scientific in origin and owes nothing to the emotions.
A MOMENT OF TRIUMPH
It is with great pleasure that I record an unprecedented 55 repetitions of the stand/sit test, as performed by Bessy this morning. Recently, as the preceding pages will confirm, I had been very disheartened about her progress and, in fact, had almost made up my mind to get rid of her, fearing that she was beyond my help. In this spirit, I made a small, rather desperate wager with myself: if I could get her beyond her usual 40 repetitions then I would retain her services; if not, I would give her notice.
In truth, I did not expect her to perform and so it was with great excitement that I saw her hesitate for a second as she sat on her 40th repetition, before bobbing up swiftly into a hitherto unheard of 41st! I caught my breath and believe I must have held it through a subsequent 14 repeats as, when she finally desisted and requested permission to get on with her work, I almost fell to the ground in a dead faint! When asked what had caused her to have made such an advancement she simply shrugged and said that she didn’t know for sure, only that she thought it might give me “pleshur‘. Pleshur indeed!
Given this remarkable breakthrough, I have elected to keep her here. The poor wretch should be given a second chance in the world! Otherwise she might end up once again at the hands f an exploiter or debaucher. Good sense also proclaims that it would be a waste of time and effort to dismiss her now that she knows how things are run. She is clearly capable of concealing the details of her history from anyone she encounters. I have tested this ability by (amongst other things) asking her supposedly “innocent‘ questions about her stint at Mr. Levy’s residence and she did not betray herself with so much as a blush. Indeed, she has the ability to talk around a subject in a way that makes the listener forget what they asked in the first place. Of course, there is the small consideration of the inconvenience to my research, were she to leave, but this is of secondary importance. What really matters is allowing this subject a new start and helping her to make the most of a decent life in service. She will never be as perfect as dear Nora, but I will use her to demonstrate that a decent servant can be made from even the lowliest of prostitutes (and I have altered the title of this section accordingly). I now have no qualms about retaining her and am very interested to see what can be achieved.
This admission may perhaps have excited in the reader feelings of horror and outrage, who might have expected me to dismiss the girl without question upon learning about her shadowy past and I am prepared, briefly, to look into these attitudes to discover whether they are justifiable. I find that there is no cause for revulsion. It is possible for a householder to turn a blind eye to a servant’s past, as long as said householder is vigilant and does not take advantage of the situation.
A TEMPORARY PAUSE
For the past week or so, I have been anxious that the subject may have formed too great an attachment to me and I am sorry to recount that my fears have not been without foundation. This has become inescapable over the last few days. Yesterday, while we happened to be tidying my press in preparation for my husband’s return, the girl blurted out something that seems to go beyond the bounds of what might be viewed as appropriate, professing a love for me and stating that she would do anything for me, including laying down her own life to ensure my happiness. Needless to say, I had to bring our little rendezvous to an abrupt end and have tried to avoid her company ever since.
Then today, I had to send her on an errand to the village. As I was describing the purchase I required, I noticed that she had leaned towards me and seemed to be actually sniffing me, in the area of the neck. I do not think I was mistaken. So unnerved was I by this that I recoiled and, anxious to get away from her, I muttered something and fled to my room. Moments later, I remembered that in my hurry to escape, I had neglected to tell her about my husband’s arrival. (It had been my intention to call something out to her about it as she left. In this way, I would not have to explain too much, or deal with any of the sulks that were sure to be forthcoming when she learned that our little idyll was to be disrupted.)
Readers might be forgiven for thinking that I have been misguided in (perhaps) cultivating her affection a little too much. However, I do not believe that to be the case. Such coaxing is a perfectly acceptable means of managing a young girl. If a servant becomes too engaged then it is hardly the fault of the mistress. The girl should have been more in control of herself.
I have come to the conclusion that I must now disengage from her. This is easily enough done: henceforth, I will simply avoid her as much as possible and, by whatever means, attempt to distance myself from her. This must be done carefully, so as to avoid making her feel rejected. I can imagine that she might make things very awkward for me, were she to be offended.
Here was where the entries in
The Observations
ended. After that, it was nought but blank pages, waiting to be wrote upon.
I have to admit that despite all evidence to the contrary—and right up to the last—I did hold out a glimmer of hope that Arabella was making up all what she’d wrote. That there was no such person as Nora and that missus did not really mean the rotten things she said in there about me. Or perhaps she wasn’t writing about me, only about another girl called Bessy.
Of course deep down I knew the truth. It was a desperate blow to learn that she had found out some aspects of my past, let’s just say I would have preferred her not to know. But what was worse was how she thought of me. Hells teeth, how can I explain the wretched despair I felt, except to say that my heart was banjaxed. I was no more than a “thing‘ to Arabella, a thing that might be experimented upon, toyed with and cast aside at a whim when it had outgrown its use.
Bad cess on her.
I closed up the ledger and put it back in the drawer, just as I had found it. Then I locked the drawer and returned the key to her pocket. After that I went upstairs to the room she had give me, curled up on the mattress and pulled the blankets over my head. I wanted to die. I felt rotted right down to my socks. Of course, you get over these things in time, but the fact is that I was still a child and easy hurt and all the scutting bedding in the world could never have hid me from my shame and humiliation.
8
Depression
As it not always the way that when you get a shock to the system your body retreats into illness? So it was with me back then at Castle Haivers. That very night I was struck down with a terrible gut-ache and fever and for the next few days I remained in bed unable even to lift my head except to boke off into a bowl. This was desperate inconvenient for the missus so it was. Not particularly the boking but me being abed, especially now that the husband was home, but there was flip all could be done about it, even if I had wanted to work I could not have. Not a word of a lie I sweated so much that my hair curled! And I succumbed, in my fevered state, to a series of godawful nightmares. In one I was a witch with crooked wee fingers. And when I awoke, still ensnared by my dream, I threw back the sheet raging for it was white in colour and I was convinced that now I was a witch I loved only black things. In another, a great boil appeared on my thigh and when I squeezed it all this stinking guff oozed out and kept oozing for it seemed that my body was filled with a foul clay. And in a 3rd nightmare, I stole into the missus room and found a book she was writing in which it was plain that she did not care to be my friend and did not like me except as a thing to be experimented upon. Moreover she had snooped into my past and to top it all I learned that I would never measure up to her perfect darling Nora not in a month of Sundays, Oh no I do apologise, I am mistaken, that was not a dream at all that was
the simple facts of the matter.