The Pure World Comes

The Good therefore may be said to be the source not only of the intelligibility of the objects of knowledge, but also of their existence and reality; yet it is not itself identical with reality, but is beyond reality, and superior to it in dignity and power.

—Plato, The Republic, Book VI Jack. You’re quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.

Gwendolen. Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no room for developments, and I intend to develop in many directions.

Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, Act I Spring, 1894

London, England A stream of shit and piss fell from the second floor of the Avondale house to the street below, where it mixed with the piss, shit, and mud that already littered the avenue. From the second-floor window of Mr. Avondale’s dressing room, Shirley Dobbins put down the chamber pot belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Avondale and picked up the one belonging to their daughter, Miss Lucinda. A pungent odor wafted out as she removed the lid. Shirley wrinkled her nose and quickly dumped the contents into the street.

Now that’s how you get it done, she thought with a sense of satisfaction. Closing the window and replacing the lids on the pots, she peeked out the door to make sure the coast was clear before rushing along the hall and down the stairs with the pots tucked under her arms. Her employer, Mrs. Avondale, would be mortified if she knew one of her maids threw her family’s nightsoil out her husband’s dressing room window. However, she also wanted her maids to empty, wash, and replace the pots quicker than either maid could manage. Going that pace threatened to spill nightsoil onto the carpet, and Shirley didn’t even want to consider the consequences of such an occurrence.

Hence, she and Nellie dumped the nightsoil out the windows in the morning, a practice common amongst homes not fitted with the new flushing toilets she had heard about. And why not? Doing so was efficient and allowed more time for other tasks.

As she passed by the parlor, Shirley slowed her pace to an unobtrusive amble. Among other things, Mrs. Avondale disliked her maids walking by the parlor too fast while she was in there. Even if those maids were holding chamber pots under their arms and needed to wash them out as soon as possible. Thus, Shirley always had to slow down until she was well past the room.

When she thought she had gone far enough, Shirley quickened her pace. No screech from Mrs. Avondale or stomp of her shoes followed after her, filling the young maid with relief. Down another flight of stairs, through the kitchen, and Shirley entered the scullery. Nellie Dean, the other maid-of-all-work, was elbows-deep in scrubbing the dishes from breakfast and was going much too slow about it.

“Nellie, let me take over,” said Shirley. She did not wait for the younger girl to move, but instead pulled a plate out of Nellie’s hand and started scrubbing. “Look, this is how you hold the brush. See? Scrubbing like this gets everything off faster.”

Nellie suddenly became very interested in her feet. “I-I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Shirley ignored the apology. Apologies and forgiveness took up valuable chore time. “Go wash out the chamber pots and take them back upstairs. And remember what I told you about going past the parlor when the missus is in there.”

Nellie nodded, picked up the pots, and hurried into the back yard. As soon as she was gone, Shirley heaved a sigh. She had not meant to be short with the girl. She was only twelve, and this was her first position serving a family. She was still learning how to do all the chores required for the upkeep of a home, as well as attend to the needs of her employers. Shirley, on the other hand, had begun working when she was ten and had served in two homes prior to the Avondales. After six years as a maid, she should know better than to get annoyed with Nellie, who looked up to her both as a mentor and as an older sister of sorts.

But even with two maids, there was much to do in this house. Too much, if Shirley was honest with herself. While not a mansion, the house had more rooms than those owned by families of comparable class to the Avondales. And the Avondales, wishing to impress all who visited with their wealth and status, made sure no room went unused.

And all those rooms, with their furniture and knickknacks and whatnot, had to be cleaned at least once a week. And that was in addition to emptying the fireplaces, buying food and preparing meals, sweeping the front stoop, polishing the banisters, washing the windows, and, on Mondays, collecting and washing the laundry. Which, even with the help of a local washerwoman who came by on Mondays to assist with the washing, could take a whole day to complete.

This, and several dozen more tasks, had to be completed every day. And every day, Shirley and Nellie had to complete them while also factoring in time to change their uniforms, caps, and aprons for each task. And they had to change in a small closet by the entrance to the back yard at least three to four times a day without poking each other’s’ eyeballs out with their elbows because the Avondales didn’t have servants’ quarters on the top floor.

It was no surprise that, by the time all those chores were completed, both maids would collapse in front of the oven in the kitchen and doze right off. After all, without a servants’ quarters, they needed a warm place to sleep, and the kitchen was warm. Sometimes they were too tired to even remove the cockroaches they crushed as they fell. And there were always crushed cockroaches as they fell.

Of course, the burden of maintaining this house would be greatly alleviated if Mrs. Avondale or Miss Lucinda helped. In most homes, the mistress and her daughters usually assisted the servants with the workload in some capacity if simply hiring more servants was not an option. Shirley would have been thrilled if her mistresses deigned to help her. Work would not be so exhausting, and she would have more time to tutor Nellie in the finer points of housekeeping.

Unfortunately, the Avondales were aspiring to a higher class than they currently occupied. Thus, it was unthinkable for Mrs. Avondale, the wife of the founder of a successful drill and corkscrew manufacturer, or her daughter, who would probably marry a fine gentleman, or even a baron’s son, to do housework! After all, what would the neighbors say?

If Sarah Fagan, the previous maid who had served alongside Shirley, had still been working, it would not be so bad. Sarah had been experienced, and Shirley had worked well with her. But Sarah, dear woman, had retired to her daughter’s in Suffolk for her health, technically making Shirley the head maid of the house. And with a younger maid to train, it often felt like Shirley was the only one doing any of the work.

Well, at least the Avondale’s son, Griffin, was away at Eton. Shirley had to be grateful for that. If she had to deal with him and his antics on top of everything else, she might scream.

She heaved another sigh as she wiped the last of the pans dry and hung them in the cabinet. Just fight through it, she reminded herself. One day, you’ll be the head housekeeper of a large manor with a large and well-trained staff working under you, and you can use this story to show the new maids how one rises to the same position as you.

Her stomach rumbled then. She was hungry. Breakfast was not something indulged in by women of her profession. Instead, they ate bites of whatever leftovers from the family’s breakfast were available and made do on that. Shirley left the scullery to see what was available and instead found Lucinda Avondale stuffing the last rasher of bacon into her mouth. She caught Shirley’s look of surprise, smirked, and made satisfied chewing noises.

“Absolutely delicious,” she said, her Queen’s English as distinct from Shirley’s London cockney as day was to night. “You know, I thought I had my fill at breakfast. But that bacon you and the other girl prepared was so tasty, I just had to have more.”

Shirley’s anger flared. Not for the first time, she wanted to give this pampered young woman a good kick in the backside. However, she managed to keep her temper in check and cleared her throat. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Lucinda?”

“Oh, I am content,” Lucinda replied, laughing in that loud, contemptuous way she had. “Seeing that ugly face of yours was pleasure enough! Oh, but you and Billie or whatever her name is should pick up the pace. Mother is becoming rather annoyed that the beds have not been made yet.”

“Nellie and I will take care of it now,” Shirley replied as the younger girl returned from placing the chamber pots upstairs again. “Right, Nellie?”

The younger girl was confused, as would anyone upon walking in midway through a conversation, but nodded her head and uttered a quiet, “Yes, miss,” anyway.

With a loud hmph!, Lucinda swept past Nellie and back into the hallway, probably to the drawing room to work on her sewing. Pushing her temper deep down so she would not have to deal with it, Shirley grabbed Nellie by the wrist and pulled her upstairs again.

That was a low blow, she thought, remembering how Lucinda had snatched up the last shred of bacon. Wanted more, my foot! And does she always have to bring my looks into it?

Shirley was well aware she was far from the most beautiful young woman in London. While her brown hair was unremarkable and her face alone was far from horrible, she had a lazy eye that was always looking out to the side. And while her vision still worked well enough for her to clean, cook, read, and write, that one eye tended to offend and horrify some people. In fact, whenever the Avondales held dinner parties, she was often relegated to the kitchen while Nellie and a servant hired for an evening’s work waited on the guests so as not to upset them.

Lucinda, however, had a perfect face and eyes, which she loved to brag about in front of Shirley whenever she got the chance. And while the obnoxious brat had red hair, a color most certainly out of fashion with high society, it was more of a wine-red than an orange-red. In some lights, it even looked black, which instantly made her more desirable.

With her looks, along with being the daughter of the president of a drill company, it would not be unreasonable to expect Lucinda to marry into the upper classes, or maybe into the peerage! Because of these factors and Shirley’s position relative to Lucinda, the young woman believed with all her heart that it was not only her privilege to constantly mock Shirley, but her right.

Hard to believe she’s only a year younger than me, Shirley thought, the way she acts. I wonder if she uses those same manners when suitors come to call. She allowed herself a private smirk. Well, even if she manages to get a husband, I’m certain he’ll be upset when he realizes how much nightsoil she passes most nights.

***

Somehow, despite how the morning had gotten away from them, both maids managed to complete their morning chores in time to serve Mrs. Avondale and Lucinda a light luncheon in the dining room. As Shirley placed a platter of cold pheasant from last night in the center of the table, she checked Mrs. Avondale’s expression. Her employer ignored her, focused entirely on studying and making notations on a piece of paper in front of her. Good. That was a good sign. When Mrs. Avondale paid attention to her at lunch time other than to ask for seconds, it was usually because she was displeased with something her maid had done.

Nellie set down a bowl of greens and stepped back. Like clockwork, Shirley stepped forward to pour the ladies some water.

“Shirley,” said Mrs. Avondale, still perusing her paper.

Shirley stiffened. Just her name. No request for a certain food or anything else related to the meal. Either Mrs. Avondale had a task for her, or Shirley was about to be punished for something she did wrong. And experience had taught her that it was usually the latter.

Gulping, she turned towards her employer. “Yes, ma’am?”

For a minute, her mistress did not reply, instead taking some cuts of pheasant and placing them on her plate. Then Mrs. Avondale thrust the paper she had been writing on a moment ago at Shirley. “Mr. Avondale and I are hosting the Martins tomorrow evening. I want you to go to the market after luncheon. Purchase everything on this list. I will give you the funds for it all before you go. Do not leave a single thing out.” She placed extra emphasis on the last sentence.

While she kept her face impassive, Shirley exhaled with relief as she took the page, which turned out to be a menu. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

She examined the menu. Mock turtle soup, venison, lobster, pheasant—goodness, the Avondales did enjoy their pheasant, didn’t they? Ice cream for dessert. Various wines, sherry, and coffee. This would be a rather exorbitant dinner party. She would need to consult Sarah’s recipe book in the kitchen before going out to be certain, as well as what was in the pantry, but she had a fairly good idea of what she would need and which shops she would have to visit.

Having assigned Shirley her task, Mrs. Avondale turned her attention to a slice of pheasant. “I will be heading out after luncheon to visit Mrs. Simon. My husband will be accompanying me there, so there is no need to call a carriage. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Shirley.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Nellie.

“I will not be gone long. When I get back, I expect tea to be ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her orders given, Mrs. Avondale finally began eating, conversing with her daughter in between bites on the latest gossip in their social circles and plans for an upcoming trip to Germany the family were to take next year, should Mr. Avondale’s business continue to do well. Shirley and Nellie took their opportunity to step out and get started on the afternoon chores, returning to the dining room every few minutes to refresh Mrs. Avondale’s and Lucinda’s glasses and see if they needed anything else.

Finally, with luncheon done and the plates in the scullery for cleaning, Shirley consulted Sarah’s recipe book before entering the closet to change. With her apron hung up and her coat slung over her arm, she left the closet and dipped into the scullery. Nellie was already washing the dishes and was doing it the correct way this time.

“Excellent work,” she said, stepping beside Nellie. The younger girl jumped and turned to Shirley with startled eyes.

“O-oh! Thank you,” she said nervously.

“You remember what’s for supper tonight?”

Nellie nodded, a glint of confidence in her eyes. “Cockles and lamb, with boiled and seasoned potatoes. I’ll get started on them as soon as I’ve finished with the tea.”

Shirley smiled. Nellie may have been inexperienced when it came to maintaining a house, but she was born for cooking. No matter the dish, the ingredients, or the preparation involved, she took them all in stride and cooked them to perfection, even if she had never seen the recipe before. Shirley had no doubt that one day, Nellie would be the head chef of a large household. Perhaps even a noble family, if life was kind to her.

Though I won’t tell her that, she thought as she went to find her employer. It won’t do to give Nellie too big a head at that age.

After receiving the funds to purchase the ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner and a lecture on what should happen should she come home without even one item, Shirley went out the back door in the kitchen and into the back yard. She then strolled around to the front of the house and then took off in the direction of the Underground. This was another requirement for working for Mrs. Avondale: family members and guests used the front door. Servants and handymen used the back door. Shirley had no idea if this was some oddity of Mrs. Avondale’s, as the last two homes she’d worked for had not cared which door she’d used, but she didn’t care enough to ask. Or was it that she was too wary of punishment to ask?

As she made her way down the block, she heard horses’ hooves and glanced behind her. A hansom cab had stopped in front of the Avondale house, and a man in a suit had stepped out. It was Mr. Avondale, right on time to escort his wife to her friends’ home and then go about whatever business he had. Paying it no further mind, Shirley headed off, unaware of the significance of that last glimpse of her employer’s husband.

***

Things were certainly noisier than usual when she arrived at Covent Garden, which in Shirley’s opinion had the finest produce and meats in all of London for the best price. It was also fun to walk through: up until about sixty years ago, Covent Garden had been a sprawling open-air market filling up all the streets and creating crowded and unsanitary conditions. To help alleviate this issue, the market was reorganized in a brick-and-glass building. While this had helped for a while, the market had continued to grow and was now back to spilling out onto the surrounding streets.

Shirley visited here as often as she could for groceries, and when she did, she liked to look around at the many shoppers, the stalls hawking everything from food to clothes to tea sets and even a variety of exotic animals, and imagine the consternation of the politicians who had hoped their big building had forever rid the city of this disorganized market.

Today, though, something seemed different. Crowds at Covent Garden were nothing new. In fact, it was the crowds that kept the market growing and continued to cause traffic problems. But today, it seemed even more crowded, especially by one of the entrances to the building. Shirley approached and saw that everyone had gathered around a raised platform in which a man with a pointy beard, a bright red coat, and a top hat was speaking to the crowd. Some sort of performance was occurring.

“Now, watch closely ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” the entertainer called with an American accent. Beside him on a table was a clear glass tube about a meter tall and rounded at the top. The entertainer picked up the tube and showed it to the audience, revealing the bottom end of it was attached to a pump. “This process is how they create the lightbulbs Mr. Edison produces in America! You see, they burn out quickly if oxygen is within the bulb! Oxygen, as you might well know, is what is in the very air we breathe! But remove it, and the bulb will glow bright enough to keep your streets lit at night for over a year. Observe!”

The entertainer began to pump, explaining what he was doing over the loud sucking noise the instrument made. “I will draw out the oxygen from this tube. I will then disengage the tube from the pump.” He did as promised, being careful to keep the tube vertical before pulling an egg out of his pocket and pressing the palm of his hand against the tube’s opening, the egg resting inside. “And now!”

The entertainer turned the tube over, and the egg fell. Instead of breaking at the bottom as Shirley had expected, however, the egg slowed to a stop midway down the tube. Nothing had caught it or slowed it down, at least not as far as Shirley could see. It had just stopped in midair of its own accord.

The audience oohed and aahed in appreciation while the entertainer showed off the mysterious floating egg, a big, toothy grin on his face.

“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. What you are witnessing right now is known as a vacuum. So long as the tube remains free of air, the egg will slow and stop before it can hit the bottom and break. And do you realize what these vacuums can do? Why, some of the greatest inventors and businessmen in this glorious empire are using vacuums to pump well water from deep beneath the Earth! The principles behind the vacuum and the pump are what allow the trains in the Underground and throughout the country to move from one place to another so fast. They suck and pull all the material in a space out until even the tiniest motes of dust are unable to stay in it! In the case of trains and wells, they are sucking and pulling water to create movement or to slake your thirst! That, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, is the wonder of the vacuum! The wonder of science!”

The audience, including Shirley, clapped enthusiastically. The entertainer beamed and bowed. “And over the next hour,” he continued, “I will continue to demonstrate for you the wondrous scientific principles behind many things you take for granted! Perhaps someday, you’ll take what you learn here and become the next great scientist or inventor! Now observe!”

While the entertainer set up his next science trick, Shirley slipped away and made her way inside. The science the man was demonstrating was interesting, but she had errands to run, and what he was showing people did her no good, anyway. It was not as if his vacuums would help her clean any faster or anything useful like that.

Shirley went about her shopping, moving between booths and shops as she sought out each item. To her relief, all that was required for Mrs. Avondale’s dinner party tomorrow night was in stock, fresh, and even discounted in some places. By the time she left an hour later for the Underground, Shirley had plenty of change left. She was certain Mrs. Avondale, who could be quite tight-fisted at times, would be happy to receive so many coins back. She might even let Shirley keep a few. Doubtful, but one could hope!

As Shirley neared the station, a man pushing a cart piled high with books called out to her from the other side of the street. “Hello, pretty miss! Interested in some literature? We have the best romance novels, the latest stories from Robert Louis Stevenson and Jules Verne, and the pick of the lot for penny dreadfuls, both individual and collected!”

Despite knowing better—Shirley would be drawn into a conversation she was frankly uninterested in if she looked and that might lead to being coerced into buying something off the cart with her own pocket money just to get rid of the bookseller—she turned her head in the cart’s direction. Even from across the street, the books’ titles jumped out at her in big, bold letters: Claudius Bombernac, Poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe, Carmilla, Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, A Christmas Carol, The Mudfrog Papers, No Thoroughfare, and many more. However, it was the little bound booklets on tan or yellow paper with their lurid artwork underneath lurid titles, the penny dreadfuls, that drew her eye. How could they not? They were just so horrid.

A String of Pearls; or the Story of Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street: a demented-looking man with a twisted smile and a bloody straight razor in his hand grinned out at the world from the front cover. Varney the Vampire; or the Feast of Blood: a skeletal man wearing a sheet stood over a sleeping woman with a look somewhere between thirst and carnal lust on his face. And—

Mrs. Ripper, the Bloody Queen of Whitehall. The picture on the covered showed a beautiful, blushing bride linked arm-in-arm with a man whose face was half-human, half-demon. In his free hand, the man held a large butcher’s knife dripping with blood. A subtitle underneath the picture proclaimed, The True Story of Jack the Ripper, as Related by His Wife.

Jack the Ripper.

Panic burst like a volcanic eruption in Shirley’s chest and seized hold of her heart and lungs. Blood rushed loudly in her ears, and a cold sweat broke out over her. “Um…no, thank you, sir,” she stammered to the bookseller. “I have to be off now. I’m needed at home.”

She turned and ran towards the entrance to the Underground, ignoring the concerned cries of the bookseller and the stares of passersby. She nearly stumbled down the stairs, pushing her way through the crowds to get to the gate, pay her fee, and rush through the gate. By the time she was on the train, her breathing was quick and shallow.

It took a few moments for her to realize that the other passengers were staring at her. A few were even whispering. She had to calm herself down, lest she bring shame upon herself and, by extension, the Avondale household for causing trouble in public. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus and steady on her breathing. From what she had heard as a girl, there were men in India who could breathe like this and achieve a state of grace on par with the divine bliss of the sainted. She had no idea if this was true, as she had never met an Indian man to ask, but it helped her calm down enough that she was able to breathe normally. More importantly, it stopped her from drawing stares.

This is all that bookseller’s fault, Shirley thought, leaning back against her seat. He called me pretty. I get called that so rarely. Even as she thought that, though, she knew it was not true. It was not the bookseller’s fault, but the fault of those horrid books. Especially that bloody volume she had noticed. Mrs. Ripper; the Bloody Queen of Whitechapel. That illustration. The Ripper.

Shirley rubbed her forehead as if to clear it. Even six years after those murders, they still had a hold over her. Especially after she had read those articles in The Sun last month. All her memories of those days came back to her so easily lately. Even cheap, silly books trying to profit off someone else’s tragedy could send her into terror and remind her of when she lived in the Whitechapel area with her mum. Could force her to remember things better left not thought of.

As the train rocked back and forth, she checked her bag to make sure none of the groceries had been disturbed, and that took her mind off the Ripper. Satisfied that all her purchases were still there and intact, she continued to quietly focus on her breathing until she reached her station. By the time she had emerged into the daylight again, Shirley had managed to push all those bloody thoughts away and was even able to hum a little as she made her way back to the Avondale house.

Then, she spotted the police wagon in front of her place of employment. Her heart went cold.

Ignoring the normal rules which required her to enter through the back entrance, Shirley raced along the street, holding her skirt up in front of her as she went. By the time she reached the front stoop, her hair had come undone from under her hat, and she was panting. Nevertheless, when she noticed the front door was unlocked and slightly ajar, her strength returned tenfold, and she burst through the front entrance, determined to find out what had happened.

Two surprised bobbies stared at her as she lost her balance and nearly fell to her knees. One of them asked who she was. She ignored them both as she saw Nellie and Lucinda sitting on the stairs, the latter sobbing and holding a handkerchief to her face. Lucinda’s eyes fixed on Shirley, and a fresh wave of tears gushed from her eyes.

“Oh, Shirley!” she wailed, jumping up and running to her. Shirley had just enough time to straighten herself before Lucinda threw her arms around her and buried her head in the maid’s bosom. Grabbing the wall for support, Shirley mechanically embraced the sobbing girl with her free arm. She had expected—well, she had not known what to expect. She had seen the police wagon sitting out front and had assumed the worst, she guessed. But Lucinda hugging and seeking support from her? Entirely unexpected. Shirley was unsure of how to react.

She turned to Nellie. “What happened?”

The younger maid, who looked to be on the verge of tears herself, sniffed and cleared her throat. “It happened just after you left,” she explained. “The master picked up the missus. They left to see the missus’s friend, turned onto another street and then…”

But whatever happened, Nellie couldn’t continue and instead dissolved into tears, hiding her face in her sleeve. One of the bobbies finished for her. “There was a crash. It appears the axle on the cab was rotted through and chose that moment to break. The wheels fell out, the carriage went over and rolled down the street. Both…both occupants were pronounced dead at the scene.”

Lucinda’s wails gained new energy as the bobby finished, and she squeezed Shirley tighter. Shirley rubbed her employer’s daughter’s back, unable to respond. Once again, death had come for someone she knew, and, while it was nowhere near as horrible, it had been just as unexpected.

Black crepe on the windows. Black crepe on the mirrors. Black crepe on any surface that could possibly hold a reflection. Black fabric over every surface in the drawing room, where the caskets were to be laid out. Black aprons over dark grey uniforms and new caps with black bands for the maids. An entire new wardrobe of black mourning garb for Lucinda, bought earlier this week from Black Peter Robinson’s mourning warehouse. Black here. Black there. Black everywhere. A sea of black.

Since the carriage accident last week, Shirley and Nellie had put up the majority of the black to reflect the Avondale house’s state of mourning. It was important, especially in families of good reputation and standing such as the Avondales, to display their mourning in everything from their dress to the decoration of the household to even their conduct. By the unwritten rules of mourning, Lucinda had to cut off all socializing so she could mourn and focus on her loss in peace. This period of mourning was to last, according to the standards of English society, about six months. Afterwards, Lucinda could slowly allow color back into her wardrobe and maybe socialize a little. Maybe.

Shirley did not know who had set these standards for mourning or why. When her mother had died, she had been too busy learning to be a maid to mourn, and she had not been close enough to her mother by then to feel anything, anyway. But Lucinda had been very close to her parents, and they to her. Therefore, it was not just because of the custom that Lucinda was observing the mourning ritual. She needed to. Thus, Shirley and Nellie had hung up the black crepe and transformed the house into a dark and cheerless place. It was enough to make Shirley, who had not much cared for her employers, feel a pang of sadness at their passing.

Still, it was for the Avondale children, whom she had cared for even less, that Shirley felt most aggrieved. Lucinda, who had been a confident and snide young woman with a healthy appetite before the accident, had become quiet and withdrawn and only picked at her food during meals. The poor girl had even taken to asking Shirley or Nellie to sleep in her bed with her at night, something Shirley only did because she felt sorry for the girl and did not want to cause her more upset. Thankfully, Nellie was more often willing than she was to sleep in Lucinda’s room, so Shirley was spared having to do so most nights.

Griffin, however—

“Shirley, would you please come in here?”

Shirley, who had been dusting one of the vases on the second floor, jumped as she heard her name called. Did he know I was thinking about him? she wondered.

Steeling herself for what was to come, she strode over to the room that had formerly been Mr. Avondale’s office. Now his son Griffin occupied it, along with Mr. Leopold, the Avondale family’s solicitor, who had been visiting the home every day since Griffin had returned from Eton. What sort of legal matters the passing of one’s clients required so many daily visits, Shirley had no idea of, but from the way both men holed themselves up there every day, it must be quite serious.

Both gentlemen stopped talking as she entered the office. The younger, Griffin Avondale, was dressed in a black dress shirt, black vest, and had a black armband on his right sleeve. Mr. Leopold, on the other hand, wore a simple grey suit, the only evidence that he was mourning someone being the thin black armband on his coat sleeve.

“What may I do for you, Mister Griffin—I mean, Mr. Avondale?” Shirley corrected herself. Now that Griffin was the head of the household, she had to address him accordingly.

“Mr. Leopold is done for today,” Griffin replied. “Would you please see him out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And afterwards, would you please bring up a pot of tea?”

She stiffened. “Of course, sir.”

Griffin and Mr. Leopold shook hands before the latter picked up his briefcase and followed Shirley out the door. After the solicitor was gone, she went to the kitchen, where Nellie was preparing a soup for supper that evening. The younger maid glanced up from the soup pot as Shirley walked in. There were red circles under her eyes.

“Nellie, have you been crying again?” Shirley asked.

She nodded and turned back to the broth. “I always get teary when someone I know dies,” she explained. “My mum used to say it was one of God’s gifts, that I could mourn for everyone who passed, no matter who they were or what they’d done in life.”

Shirley had no idea how to respond to that, so instead, she informed Nellie that Griffin had asked for a pot of tea. Nellie nodded and gestured her head at a large metal kettle sitting on the stove. “Just boiled some water for Miss Lucinda. Should I bring it up—?”

“No!” Shirley said quickly and a little louder than necessary. She coughed. “I mean, I’ll take care of it. You handle the broth, alright?”

Nellie did not comment on Shirley’s odd demeanor but instead turned back to her soup. Taking a deep breath, Shirley gathered a teapot, cup, and saucer, threw some tea leaves into a strainer, and poured hot water through the strainer and into the pot. She then carried all three items on a sliver tray upstairs, steeling herself again for another meeting alone with Griffin Avondale.

As she entered the office, taking care to keep the door open, Griffin looked up from a letter he was writing. “Just set it on the desk, Shirley,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” She placed the tray down, turned to go, and felt a large hand engulf her tiny wrist, followed by a pair of lips on the back of her hand. Her head whipped round, and her eyes fell on Griffin, who was staring at her with a gaze she had never seen directed at her from anyone else.

“Mr. Avondale—!”

“Shirley, have you thought at all about my offer?” he asked.

She snatched her hand back. Griffin, in response, stood, shortened the gap between them, and grabbed her by the shoulders. His face was a portrait of earnestness.

“Mr. Avondale!” Shirley repeated.

“Please, Shirley,” he replied. “I love you. Marry me.”

She stared up at his face. He was handsome, with blonde hair that was long enough to be rebellious but not too long to be improper, an angular face, and expressive blue eyes. It was enough to make any girl swoon in his arms.

Which was why she hadn’t allowed Nellie to bring the tea up for him. Shirley hated to think what might happen if Griffin made advances on the younger maid like this.

She twisted free from his grip and glared at him furiously. “Mr. Avondale, you shouldn’t make jokes like that!”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“All the more reason not to say it,” she replied.

“When will you take me seriously?” he asked.

Shirley crossed her arms in front of her chest. She would not back down.

Perhaps in the world of novels, relationships between servants and their masters could occur. Perhaps in those worlds, or even in far off places like America, India, or the Australian continent, romantic love might actually exist. They may even, on occasion and despite all opposition, prosper.

But Shirley lived in the real world, in London, and she knew that romantic love was just a fairy tale for upper class women and girls to sigh over. The reality was every marriage was a match made by considerations other than love, and it was without love that she considered marriage, on the rare occasion when it came up, to anyone. It was with those other considerations she had considered Griffin Avondale’s proposal the first time he’d made it, after she’d begun working for his family and he’d been home from school for holiday.

Obviously, she had said no.

The first problem with Griffin’s suit was that Shirley was a maid and Griffin was the son of a drill manufacturer. Well, technically he was now the drill manufacturer, though he had no say in the running of his company yet. But that only widened the gap between them. Griffin would be expected to marry the daughter of another wealthy businessman, or perhaps one of the daughters of a nobleman, if the match was advantageous to the nobleman’s family as well.

What was Shirley compared to one of those glittering ladies? Just a maid, the daughter of a no-account unmarried drunk from the infamous Whitechapel neighborhood. She was much too far below his social station. Their union would ruin him socially, which would likely inhibit his business and financial prospects and send them into poverty.

And then, there was Griffin himself. She did not know him very well because he was usually at Eton College instead of at home with his family. But he was now her master as well as the son of her former master, and she knew the risks. Any maid who went to work in a house where a man lived had heard the stories. Men would seduce their maids, promising them everything they ever wanted, all to get them into their bedsheets. Sometimes, they did not even bother with the seducing. Sometimes they just took them to the bedsheets, whether the maid wanted them or not.

The result, inevitably, was the same. The maid would end up pregnant and forced out of her job. The man of the house would abandon her and go on about his merry life, perhaps only inconvenienced by his wife’s accusing eyes and cold silence. Meanwhile, the maid would be declared a fallen woman, which was only a thinly veiled accusation of being a prostitute. She would be shunned from any job as well as from respectable society and would have no means to care for herself or her baby once it was born. The story usually ended with a back-alley abortion, the baby being sold off to someone, alcoholism, the maid resorting to prostitution so she could earn money for food, the baby dying, the maid dying, or some combination of all the above.

In short, Griffin Avondale was a man whom Shirley could not afford to become entangled with. If he were serious with his feelings towards her, they would likely lose more than they gained by their union. And if he were not, she would be abandoned once his lust was sated and forced to fend for herself with his bastard while he courted ladies more in line with his status.

And if she had to guess, Griffin was not serious about his intentions. After all, a dark voice in the back of Shirley’s head reminded her, what would he want with a low-class girl with a funny eye?

Griffin was waiting for her answer. Shirley took another deep breath and calculated how best to phrase her rejection without losing her job. “Forgive me, Mr. Avondale, but I’m afraid you and I are ill-matched for one another. I suggest we both look for more appropriate prospects in other quarters.” And with that, she turned and walked as fast as she could out of the office.

“Wait, Shirley!” Griffin called. Footsteps clattered behind her, and she was sure he was going to grab her again and pull her back into the office. She turned around to fend him off—

From below, there were three sharp raps on the door. Shirley stopped mid-turn, and Griffin stopped mid-stride. She coughed. “Excuse me, Mr. Avondale.” She headed down the stairs and to the door. From her bedroom on the second floor, she heard Lucinda’s door open behind her.

“Who’s visiting now?” she called.

Shirley reached the door and opened it. “Avondale residence,” she recited, examining the new arrival.

On the stoop was a man she had never seen before. He was tall and thin with a sunken face and long, brown hair slicked back from his forehead with some sort of pomade. He wore a smart suit that, along with the carriage sitting on the street behind him and the way he held himself up, hinted that this man was of high class. Maybe even nobility.

And the grave expression on his face warned that he did not care for silliness or to be kept waiting.

“May I help you?” Shirley asked nervously.

“I’m here to see the Avondale children,” said the gentleman.

“I can take your card, sir—” Shirley began. Normally, instead of actually meeting with the mourners, well-wishers left cards to indicate that they had stopped by and were thinking of the family. It was a good way to show you cared without having to make yourself uncomfortable with the ever-present specter of death.

“I am not here to leave a card like the other well-wishers,” the man interrupted. “I am Sir Joseph Gregory Hunting, the third baronet of the House of Hunting, as well as family to the deceased. And I will see my great-nephew and niece.”

Shirley raised an eyebrow. Sir Joseph Gregory Hunting? Baronet of the House of Hunting? Great-nephew and niece? Lucinda had told her during one of the nights they had spent together that she and her brother had no other family. Also, were not baronets a type of nobility? Yes, she was sure of that. They were lower than barons, but they still had titles and land and all the other fancy things that came with being born noble. If that was the case, surely Mrs. Avondale, who was always seeking to move her family up higher in society, would have mentioned a connection to a noble house, let alone informed her daughter of that fact. Could this man be some sort of imposter? A confidence man who wanted to take advantage of two young and desperate mourners?

“Let him in, Shirley,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see Griffin and Lucinda descending the stairs. The older Avondale glared suspiciously at the new arrival while the younger, dressed entirely in black, kept glancing between her brother and this man claiming to be her relative with confusion.

Orders given, Shirley stepped aside. The man entered and appraised the siblings with his eyes.

“I do not believe we have been introduced,” said the man as Shirley shut the door behind him. “I am Sir Joseph Gregory Hunting—”

“I know who you are,” Griffin cut in.

“I do not know him,” Lucinda said in a small voice. “Who is he?”

“I am the Baronet of House Hunting,” Sir Joseph answered. “As well as your mother’s uncle.”

“Mother never said she had an uncle,” Lucinda murmured.

“She told me,” Griffin revealed. When Lucinda turned to him with eyes full of uncertainty and hurt, he explained, “Mother believed it was better for you not to know. Apparently, her uncle is something of a scoundrel who has driven off everyone close to him. Not to mention he spends all his time experimenting with odd sciences. Some of which could be deemed occult.”

He said all this with distrustful eyes pointed at Sir Joseph. For his part, Sir Joseph remained unperturbed by the accusations. “I do admit, people who concern themselves with gossip and superficial matters have reason to be concerned over me,” the baronet replied. “My wife died, as well as my son and daughter. All three died untimely deaths. And instead of trying to find a replacement for my wife to produce replacement heirs, as some of the other gentlemen of British society would have done, I decided to devote myself to more fruitful pursuits.” He made a face that left no question of how he felt regarding the route the other gentlemen of British society would have taken. “Misunderstandings regarding my decisions have, as you can see, led to obnoxious and baseless rumors about me and my activities. Not to mention, the slander to my reputation has led to my estrangement from my closest family members.”

“And you’re here to fix that estrangement?” Griffin asked, his suspicions clearly not assuaged.

“I am here because my niece and her husband died. Even if I was not welcome in their company during their lifetimes, I will at the very least pay my respects afterwards.” He fixed Griffin with a contemptuous glare. “Especially when one of my niece’s children is in need of care, and the other can’t provide that care.”

Griffin stared at Sir Joseph, aghast. “What do you mean by that?”

“Do not think I’m unaware, young man,” Sir Joseph replied. “Your father owned the company he helped to found, but you have no ownership over it, do you? If my sources are correct, the board of directors has elected to cut the Avondale family off entirely once they have finished handing over control of the company to its new president. Am I wrong?”

All eyes turned to Griffin, who had the face of a man recently shot in the chest. Lucinda’s eyes were welling with tears. “Griffin, is that true?”

“No, it’s not!” Griffin spat. “Mr. Leopold and I are working on regaining control of the company. And once we’re done—!”

“Once you are done, the company will still be in the hands of its current president, and both you and your sister will have lost everything paying fees for Mr. Leopold.” Sir Joseph’s face remained impassive while Griffin had that shot expression again. “And what if you are required by the courts to pay the company’s solicitor’s fees? Please, young man. I may be considered eccentric by the standards of our society, but I am not a fool. Even I realize this will be a difficult case at best. Mr. Leopold probably made you aware of all that, did he not?”

“He…well, he…I—”

Griffin appeared on the verge of joining his sister in weeping. Shirley could tell he was struggling to keep himself under control despite the roil of emotions he was feeling.

Sir Joseph nodded as if confirming something he’d always known. “Your father probably hoped that you would marry well enough to live a life of leisure. It is a familiar story. Many fathers in the upper strata of England work hard and build business empires with the hope that their sons will never have to work when they reach adulthood, let alone run those empires. They were doing that in my grandfather’s generation. It is only unfortunate that your father did not live long enough to see his plans grow to fruition.”

“You leave my father out of this!” Griffin almost roared.

“Does that mean we will have to sell our home?” Lucinda asked. “Everything we own?”

Shirley had been wondering the same thing as well. She was no expert, but she knew her numbers and had done her own finances for years. A house the size of the Avondale’s required at least two competent maids to keep clean. Then, there were any repairs that needed to be done to the home or anything inside. The gas company had to be paid once a month. And of course, there were necessities such as food and toiletries. All those costs could pile up after a while.

Which begged the question: how long could Griffin afford to keep her employed before she would have to find work elsewhere? Hopefully long enough for him to write a letter of recommendation. Without one of those from a previous employer, it was extremely difficult for maids to find new situations. Some even became destitute without steady means of work and had to look for other means to support themselves. Marriage, perhaps, or working in a pub or coffeehouse. Some turned to prostitution or begging.

And a few, those with no other choices and despairing of any hope, went to the workhouses.

Shirley thought she would kill herself before she turned to one of those places for help. On the surface, they were supposed to offer charity, warm beds and food, and training for jobs. But in the reality, they were often cold, underfunded, run by the cruelest of men and women, and left any who entered with a more damaging mark than the one God placed upon Cain. Indeed, some who entered workhouses to find work ended up never finding work, or their dignity, ever again.

But there was time enough to consider new positions and workhouses later. Shirley turned her attention back to Griffin, who was struggling with how to answer his sister’s tear-filled question. He was saved from this predicament by Sir Joseph clearing his throat. “Lucky for you, I may have a solution to your situation.”

“You do?” said Lucinda hopefully.

“What is it?” Griffin asked warily.

“Young Lucinda should be with family,” Sir Joseph explained. “I am family. She can come live with me at Hunting Lodge—that is the name of our family estate. My grandfather had a sense of humor, as you can imagine. Anyway, she can live with me, and you can use your remaining funds to go to Oxford or wherever it was you were accepted for university.”

“No,” said Griffin.

“But Griffin—!” Lucinda began.

“I said no!”

“Do you really have any other choice?” asked Sir Joseph, his voice indicating that there was no other choice, and they all knew it.

Griffin opened his mouth to say something, but Lucinda placed a hand on his arm and gave him a meaningful look. The young man closed his mouth, groaned, and finally murmured, “Give us time to discuss it.”

They disappeared up the stairs and into the office, leaving Shirley alone with Sir Joseph. Remembering that she was still the Avondales’ maid, she turned to the elderly baronet and said, “May I show you to the drawing room while you wait, sir?”

“Please,” Sir Joseph replied.

Shirley led Sir Joseph into the drawing room. The baronet glanced around at the black crepe and then sat down on the French couch. Whether or not he approved of how his late niece and her husband had decorated their home, Shirley could not say.

“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” she asked.

He nodded, and she left for the kitchen. When she got there, she found Nellie waiting for her, eyes alight with excitement and consternation.

“What’s with all the shouting out there?” she asked. “Who’s the man in the fancy clothes you showed into the drawing room? I couldn’t hear anything from here!”

“But you were watching?” Shirley asked, eyebrow raised.

Nellie immediately realized her mistake and blushed. “Just a peek to see what all the fuss was about.”

Shirley sighed. “Put a kettle on, and I’ll tell you. Come on, quick-like!”

By the time the tea was ready, Nellie was caught up and gazing at Shirley with eyes full of concern. “So, what’s going to happen to us? I mean, if the Master can’t afford to pay us no more?”

Shirley didn’t answer. Instead, she took the tray with the teapot and cup on it and carried it out to the kitchen, leaving Nellie to stew in her own worry. Sir Joseph was in the same spot she had left him, looking horribly bored with his wait.

“Your tea, sir,” she announced, laying the tray down before him.

“Thank you, Shirley,” he replied. “It is Shirley, isn’t it?”

“Um, yes, sir. Shirley Dobbins, sir.” She straightened, not used to being addressed by guests in such a manner, let alone guests of such high station. Normally guests would let Mr. or Mrs. Avondale know what they needed, and they would tell Nellie to have Shirley prepare it in the kitchen, where her lazy eye was not a problem.

Speaking of which, was Sir Joseph staring at her eye? Was he upset by it?

“Your eye,” he said then. “Was it like that at birth?”

“I-I think so, sir,” she answered, inwardly flinching. She wished she could sink into the floor, as she had every day since childhood when other children would make fun of her eye.

“Does it cause issues in your work?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir,” she replied. “I mean, no one has found any fault in my work before because of my eye.”

“Really?” he said, keen interest splayed across his face. She blushed, feeling like an exhibit in one of those traveling freak shows she had heard of. “How long have you been working as a maid?”

“Six years this November, sir.”

“Six years! So you were how old when you started?”

“Ten, sir.”

A sudden thought occurred to her: could Sir Joseph be interested in her in the same way Griffin was? Did he perhaps prefer girls around her age with deformities like hers? Maybe it was a familial trait passed along the males of Mrs. Avondale’s family. It would go a long way to explain some things.

Before she could reason it out any further, however, there was a clatter of feet on the stairs. Griffin and Lucinda reappeared. The former still looked ready for a confrontation while the latter seemed hopeful for the first time since her parents had died.

“Alright, Sir Joseph,” said Griffin. “We have decided to accept your proposal—on one condition.”

“Oh, don’t look so serious, boy. I’m not going to hurt your precious sister. What do you want?”

“First, I shall be living with you as well,” he replied. “Not always, just during the holidays. And as soon as I’m able to support my sister, you will allow her to leave and live with me if she so wishes.”

“Fine,” he said, speaking with the air of a man who had been expecting something like this. “I had planned to open my home to you in any case. Anything else?”

“No, that will be all.”

“Th-thank you, Uncle,” Lucinda uttered nervously. “We appreciate your generosity.”

Sir Joseph, however, acted as if he hadn’t heard her. He turned to Shirley. “How would you like to come work for me at Hunting Lodge?”

Shirley felt her eyes go as wide as dinner plates. Across the room, she noticed similar surprise on Griffin and Lucinda’s faces. “M-me, sir?”

“My staff tells me they need another maid if they are to keep Hunting Lodge livable,” he replied, speaking as if this were an annoying triviality he was only mentioning just to get it out of the way. “And from the appearance of this house, you seem to have all the skills my housekeeper could ask for, despite your condition. Or is this house’s upkeep due to another in the house?”

Shirley thought of Nellie and shook her head. “No sir. I lead the housekeeping in this house.”

“Shirley has been acting as our head housekeeper since Sarah Fagan retired some months ago,” Griffin explained.

“Excellent!” Sir Joseph clapped his hands together. “I can pay you seven pounds a year. How does that sound?”

Shirley felt her heart skip a beat. “Seven pounds?”

“Fine, eight. I will not go any higher, though.”

Eight pounds a year? Shirley had to put a hand on a table to keep herself from fainting. That was well above what Mrs. Avondale paid her as a maid-of-all-work. And on a baronet’s estate, no less! The upwards progression for her if she worked hard and was successful at a place such as Sir Joseph’s knew no limits!

But what about your new employer?

The voice in Shirley’s head raised a good point. He had seemed overly interested in her eye, and there was still the possibility that he held the same sort of fascination with her as Griffin did. If, once she was at his estate, his odd attentions continued, what would she do?

“Please say you will come, Shirley!” Lucinda threw herself at Shirley, eyes wide and pleading as she desperately grabbed at her sleeves. “I want you to come! Please say you will join us at Hunting Lodge!”

This time, Shirley had to grab both the table and the mantlepiece above the fireplace to stay steady. What is with this girl lately? she wondered.

Griffin said something as well about her working for his great-uncle, but she did not catch it. All she heard was the baronet’s words: “I will need a decision before I leave, please.”

And like that, she decided. To the baronet, she said, “Yes sir. I would be more than grateful to come work at your estate.”

Griffin smiled while Lucinda gave a very unladylike cheer and buried her face in Shirley’s bosom again. Sir Joseph’s mouth twitched upwards in a smile. “Excellent. Now Griffin, shall we sit down and discuss the details of you and your sister’s move to Hunting Lodge?”

The men sat down to discuss while Shirley led Lucinda out of the drawing room, the latter gabbing away at her about how excited she was for Shirley to join them. She paid no attention to the noise, however; she was too busy trying to figure out what to tell Nellie. From their conversation, she had a feeling Sir Joseph would not want to take on such an inexperienced maid to his estate. It would fall to Shirley to break the bad news to the younger girl, and she was not looking forward to it.