Without A Heartbeat
Chapter 3

Scarlett stood in the entrance hall to Oakley Manor feeling unsure of what to do with herself. Clutched in her clammy hands was a bundle bag containing nothing but a change of clothes. Everything around her looked expensive: the chandelier that hung above her head, the numerous portraits of ancestors and the frames that held them, the rich white and gold wallpaper that covered the walls and the elegant side tables pushed against them. But for Scarlett, the most luxurious things of all were the large ivory statues that had been placed around the grand hall. Each one of them had been carved to represent animals that were as terrifying as they were magnificent, most of which Scarlett could not place. Just a single one of the statues probably cost more than she would ever be able to repay in her lifetime should she accidently break it.

The house was quiet, but in the background she could hear the low hum of voices. A door creaked open and Scarlett was met with the sight of a stern looking woman sweeping towards her from the opposite end of the hallway like a ghostly apparition. The woman was thin and pale, her cheekbones high and angular. She wore a sombre black dress, drawn tight at the waist. A spotless white apron covered her lower half to the ankles and a matching bonnet had been firmly tethered to her head. Odd, round spectacles covered her eyes, the lenses as dark as night. Her uniform made a sharp swishing sound as she walked and was coupled with the hard knock of her boots on the floorboards. The woman stopped a few feet away from Scarlett and gave a curt nod, folding her arms behind her back.

“You are the new girl correct?”

“Y-yes ma’am,” answered Scarlett, trying not to stare at the peculiar glasses. She found herself wondering if the woman was blind. She certainly didn’t move as if she were.

“Well girl, servants are not permitted to enter through the front entrance under any circumstances. You should count yourself lucky that the master of the household is not here. Should I catch you doing that again, your time at Oakley Manor will be very short.”

“Sorry ma’am,” said Scarlett quietly, taking care to use her broad accent.

“Name?” she demanded.

“Scarlett Reid, ma’am.”

“I am Housekeeper Margaret Ellison, but from now on you shall refer to me as Mrs at all times. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mrs.”

“Good. How old are you?”

“Fifteen, Mrs.”

“And your family lives in one of the cottages on the land? Your father tends the potato fields, correct?”

Scarlett nodded. “Yes, Mrs.”

“Are you religious?”

“Yes, Mrs.”

“Protestant or Catholic?”

Scarlett paused. “Uh Protestant Mrs.”

“Good. Master Clarke despises both Catholics and non-believers.” The Housekeeper lowered her head slightly. “What is in that bag?”

“Just clothes, Mrs.”

Mrs Ellison gave a snort. “Herbert!”

The shrill sound of her voice was so loud it made Scarlett jump. A moment later a thin man with a back twisted by arthritis appeared at a set of open French doors at the far end of an adjoining drawing room. He was carrying a rake in one hand.

“You called for me, Mrs?”

The housekeeper snatched the bundle from Scarlett’s fingers and marched it through the drawing room, dumping it in the man’s hand. “Groundskeeper, see to it that these are disposed of.”

He nodded. “Yes, Mrs.”

When he had gone, she marched back to Scarlett, who was feeling less at ease by the second.

“Everything that you need at Oakley Manor will be provided for you. Is that clear?”

“Err…yes ma’am.” She grimaced. “Sorry, yes Mrs.”

The woman let out a harsh sigh. “Follow me.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and headed back the way she had come, boots echoing around the expansive entrance hall. Scarlett hurried to follow, almost tripping over her own feet as she struggled to keep up with the marching woman.

“You shall work as a scullery maid,” the woman said over her shoulder. “You will report to the cook through the kitchen assistants. You are never to talk to her without being addressed first, do you understand?”

“Yes Mrs,” answered Scarlett breathlessly.

“Your main duties will be cleaning and scouring the floor, stoves, sinks, pots and dishes, as well as anything else around the manor you are asked to do. You will not refuse any command given to you, nor complain, and you will never answer back, or you will be out on your ear.” Housekeeper Ellison turned suddenly and Scarlett almost bumped into her. “Your position is the lowest in the household. If you follow orders and work hard, it is possible to gain a promotion. But if you cause a single wrinkle in the smooth running of this establishment…”

“I understand Mrs, I’ll work hard.”

The woman appeared to consider the answer for a moment. Then she simply nodded and pushed open the tall door they had reached.

Scarlett had to bite her lip to stop herself gasping at the kitchen she saw before her. It was twice the size of her entire cottage and stocked to bursting point. The black tiles she stood on had been polished into an obsidian shine. A large Welsh Dresser had been set against the far wall and held an array of expensive china crockery. Shelves ran around the room in tiers and were crammed with copper pots and pans, all jostling for space. More still held jars of spices, herbs and dried fruits. A dominant iron stove stood at one end, a mystery of doors and compartments, topped by a thick, black tube that disappeared into the chimney. An open door showed a larder stacked full of cheeses, as well as an array of jams, home cured meats and root vegetables. In the middle of everything was a wooden table that would not have comfortably fit anywhere in Scarlett’s home. It was loaded with a rainbow of fruits and vegetables that made her mouth water. In Scarlett’s home there was never quite enough to eat, so the dull growl of hunger had become a familiar enemy.

A round woman with a smiling face was chopping onions with the speed and skill of someone who had been doing it for many years. Underneath her apron she wore a bright red gown that appeared to match her jolly disposition - just like the black dress matched the housekeeper’s. The cook was being assisted in her food preparation by two girls in grey uniforms, who Scarlett imagined could only have been a few years older than she was.

When the cook noticed the new arrivals, she set the knife down and wiped her hands on her apron. “Good afternoon, Mrs,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Bridget.” The housekeeper gestured a hand towards the girl. “This is Scarlett Reid.”

“Ah, so you must be tha’ new addition ta’ my workforce.”

Scarlett noticed that the cook had a strong Irish accent, unlike the housekeepers, which was clipped and foreign sounding. Added with the wink the woman gave her, it made the girl feel more at home and helped soothe her jangled nerves. At least they’re not all like Mrs Ellison, she thought with relief.

“Answer her girl!” snapped the housekeeper.

Scarlett hadn’t realised there had been a question. “Err, I’m the new Scullery maid, ma’am, er Mrs err…Cook.”

“This one has a lot to learn,” sighed the housekeeper as she swept over to the far side of the kitchen “Come on.”

Bridget rolled her eyes to Scarlett, who grinned in return before she scurried off after the marching woman. She noticed that a section of Housekeeper Ellison’s dark and surprisingly greasy hair had wormed its way free of the bonnet, but she didn’t dare say anything. They reached a set of slatted doors near a basin sink. Mrs Ellison unhooked the latch and Scarlett was surprised to see a narrow staircase leading upwards. The housekeeper lifted the edges of her dress and made her way up, making a minimal amount of noise.

These areas are known as the servant passages,” she said as the girl hurried to follow. “There are two in every room, one leading up and one leading down, apart from the attic and cellar, naturally. They are common in large houses such as this, so that the help can navigate around the manor without being a nuisance to the owners. The mark of a good servant is one who is rarely seen and never heard.”

The housekeeper hitched open the door at the top of the stairs and stepped into a corridor so narrow, Scarlett’s shoulders almost touched the sides. They passed a few identical doors until they reached one at the far end. Inside was one final flight of twisting stairs that led them into an attic room crammed with rows of cots. They beds were well worn, legs bowing and mattresses swollen and lumpy. But the sheets at least appeared clean. Each cot had a small table next to it and a wooden box at the base. There was a single window on the wall opposite the beds, and a shelf at the far end that held a multitude of candles and parlor matches, as well as a dish filled with soap bars.

Mrs Ellison pointed towards the first cot in the run. “Since it doesn’t look like the runaway Maria will be returning to the manor, this is where you will sleep. Both your uniforms are inside that box there, along with a nightdress, one change of regular clothes and a copy of the Bible. I assume you cannot read of course, however there are pictures inside that you can use to aid your prayers.”

Scarlett bit her tongue as she felt her hackles rise. After all, Mrs Ellison was simply being realistic. However, there was a note of venom in her words.

“It is your responsibility to wash your own clothes in your free time,” she continued, gesturing towards the shelf. “You are permitted the use of one bar of soap and one candle per week. If you use either too quickly, then you will have to ask to use someone else’s,” she smiled, “or get used to darkness and the smell of yourself. You will be working twelve hours a day, seven days a week, with one Sunday off twice a month. Days begin at five am. Any questions?”

It took Scarlett a while to find her voice and even though her words were small, she still had to squeeze them out. “I was…wonderin’ about my wages, Mrs.”

Mrs Ellsion sniffed and raised her nose as if she had caught a bad scent. “Master Clarke pays well, even for your position. Your wages will be fifteen pounds a year, paid on a weekly basis, minus any deductions for breakages or damage to the property.”

Scarlett gave a nod. “Thank ya, Mrs.”

“Anything else?”

“No, Mrs.”

“Good. Get yourself changed and be back downstairs in ten minutes.” She pointed a slim finger at Scarlett. “When you come, bring those clothes to be disposed of.”

Without another word, Mrs Ellison slipped from the room like a shadow, closing the door with a harsh tug. Scarlett stood in the same position for a moment, overwhelmed into inertia. She knew working at the manor would be hard, but she didn’t suspect it would be so hostile.

Think of Da and Ma. Think of Connor.

Blinking back the tears, Scarlett moved over to the box and knelt down. Glancing about her first, she surreptitiously slipped The Monk from its hiding place inside her frock and slid it to the bottom, underneath the Bible. Then she lifted out each part of her uniform and lay them down on her cot.

Slowly she began to change.

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