Like a Diamond

Chapter 1

GEMMA LOOKED AT MARTHA. Martha looked at Gemma. Which of them would yield first? Really it was Martha’s turn to answer the bell, because Gemma had taken the breakfast up to Mr and Mrs Walker, the butler and housekeeper, only ten minutes earlier. And although Gemma was younger than Martha by five years, they were equal in status, both being parlourmaids.

The bell rang again.

"Let me spare those weary old bones of yours, Miss Unwin," Gemma said as she rose and went toward the door of the servants’ hall.

I’ll save you this. Martha grinned in petty triumph as she cancelled the flag that showed it was the housekeeper’s parlour that wanted some service. (Quite unnecessarily, as it happened, for, until the de Vivians arrived to take up their new residence later that same day, no other interior bell was likely to ring.)

"You are too kind!" Gemma gave a grouchy half curtsey and flounced out.

They’ll want more hot water, my lover. Miss Eddy, the cook, handed her a cloam jug in a knitted cosy as she passed through the kitchen on her way to the servants’ stair. Silver for the master and mistress; cloam for the upper servants; pewter for the scullery and stables. In some households on board wages the butler and housekeeper would have indulged themselves with silver service until the master and mistress arrived, but not the Walkers. They ran the household just as if the master and mistress were away for the day.

All the same, Gemma thought, as she started on the long climb to the housekeeper’s parlour, it was a mercy that the de Vivians were arriving today, at long last.

When a household comes off board wages it suffers as many aches and pains as an old man or woman might feel on waking to a new day. It is bad enough when only a skeleton staff is kept on, but Mrs de Vivian had kept on the full complement from the days of the Deverils, the previous owners of Number One, Alma Terrace, Falmouth, and that made it far worse.

True, Mrs de Vivian had rented all their furniture three weeks back and moved it into the house at once, so that it might acquire the deep lavender-beeswax shine she expected to see her face in when she arrived; and she had moved all their bedding in a week ago, so that it could be thoroughly turned and aired in front of the fire before they had to sleep in them. But the Deverils had left back in February almost two months ago, and for most of that time there had been neither furniture to dust, nor carpets to hide the dust under; nor were there beds to make, nor baths to carry, nor clothes to sponge and press and mend… nor all those myriad services to perform that exhaust the servant’s body and quench the fires of combat. And servants thus liberated have time enough to exploit their knowledge of one another’s strengths and weaknesses, the blind spots, the pet hates, the hopes and fears that drive them all beneath their usually well-disciplined exteriors.

As Gemma mounted the stair, Mrs Walker, the housekeeper, was saying to her husband, James, the butler, "One more week without a family to keep us busy, and there’d have been murder under this roof. More toast? Where is that girl? She pressed the electric button again and heard the distant tinkle. See? It is working."

I believe one more slice would not come amiss, my dear, he replied. That’s what these communists don’t understand with all their talk of working-class solidarity. Take away our masters and mistresses and where’s your solidarity, eh? Flown out by the window, that’s where. There’s only one thing unites us – repression by our middle-class masters, nothing else. We could do with some more hot water, too.

Gemma Penhallow, the younger of the two parlourmaids, stood in the doorway – a slender, good-looking girl of eighteen with light green eyes and pale ginger hair; though it was long and slightly frizzy, she kept it tied in two firmly disciplined buns, above and behind each ear.

You took your time! Mrs Walker snapped, holding up the empty water jug. Arguing the toss with Martha about who should answer the bell, weren’t you! She saw the replacement jug in Gemma’s hand and said, Oh, in a softer tone.

Shall I bring more toast? Gemma asked as she swapped jugs.

Mrs Walker nodded and managed the ghost of a smile as Gemma left. When they were alone again she said, I begin to worry about that girl.

He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the two remaining slices of toast and marmalade. Pray, why, my dear? he asked casually.

The de Vivians have a boy of around twenty – name of Peter. And, from one or two things Mrs de V was saying last week, I gather he’s not the sort who collects stamps and butterflies. She as good as told me that one of their reasons for moving to Falmouth was to break all ties with his present set of cronies – young men of the world.

Her husband sniffed. She’s in for a rude awakening then, if she imagines the young bucks of Falmouth are all Sunday-school teachers.

"Quite. Still, that’s their worry, not ours. Ours is that thing which rears its ugly head when young masters of that age and inclination live under the same roof as pretty young things like Gemma. As we know only too well!" she concluded pointedly.

He laughed drily and with little humour. "He’s the one who’s in for a rude awakening if he tries anything with Gemma. Especially since… well… you know."

"I know, she replied ominously. And you know. And that’s the way it had better remain, Walker, dear. No one else here knows. None of the other servants knows why Ruby really left us. So – ignorance is bliss, eh? There’s certainly no need for the de Vivians to hear of it."

I’m not so sure we’re the only two who know – apart from Gemma herself, of course. She may have told Martha. You know the way they chatter after lights-out up there.

Not her. She shook her head emphatically. She felt the shame of it more than anyone. More than the Deverils did. She’s never so much as mentioned it, not even to me. And she has no reason to hold her…

To you? Walker frowned. But why should she mention it to you? I mean, you were there. We both were.

"That’s what I’m saying. I was involved from first to last. I even saw it coming. So she has no reason to be coy with me. I often thought she’d like to talk about it – such a loss. A twin sister! She broke off as a new thought occurred to her. By the by, she said, I forgot to tell you – Mister de Vivian asked me to make sure no one speaks of twins in his wife’s hearing. The young master had a twin once – Peter and Paul, they were – and she never got over Paul’s death, he said. Anyway – to get back to Gemma Penhallow – from that day to this she’s never once referred to the business about Ruby, sister or no. Not to me. Not once. Not so much as a flicker of an eyelid when the topic of servant girls keeping their honour has come up. No! She shook her head again. I agree with you there – she has a hardness in her as would blunt the blade of any young master who tried his luck. There’ll be none of that nonsense from our Gemma. But as for Master Peter…"

"Where is she with that toast?" her husband asked irascibly as he licked remnants of the marmalade from his fingertips.

At that moment Gemma was standing over Bridget Condron, the little sixteen-year-old kitchen skivvy, who was hard at work scrubbing down the front steps. Well? she asked.

Well what? the girl responded pugnaciously.

I told you to get another rack of toast from Miss Eddy, that’s what. And take this down, while you’re at it. She thrust the empty jug at the skivvy.

Bridget butted it aside with her shoulder. And I’m after telling you I’m busy at these steps. Go fill it yourself. Have you no hands on them arms nor legs beneath them skirts?

I’m not going to argue with you, Condron, Gemma said. I’m simply telling you – go and get that toast. At once.

And I’m telling you no. Bridget went on calmly scrubbing the doorsteps. Not unless cook says I may. You go ask Miss Eddy. She’s the one I take my orders from – not you. And I just know what she’ll tell you! She’ll eat you a mile off.

Hellew, hellew, hellew! Henry Trewithen, the valet-footman, parodied an upper-class accent. All the jolly jollies, eh! He rubbed his hands enthusiastically. Trouble on the lower decks? Muttering among the serfs? He noticed a thread sticking out of his white gloves and picked it off fastidiously. Can’t have that.

Piss off, yew! Bridget cried, not even pausing in her toil. "Some of us has to work around here."

She was scrubbing so hard she did not see the shock her words – or that one word in particular – had given the two upper servants. A lesser man than Trewithen would have burst out laughing, but years of maintaining a poker face while waiting at a table where outrageous things were being said came to his aid. Besides, to laugh at so shocking an outburst with young Gemma there would have lost him all her regard. At the slightest suggestion of coarseness, in word or gesture, she turned into a veritable ice-maiden. He leaned over Bridget and, tipping her a wink where Gemma wouldn’t see it, said severely – and in his normal Cornish accent, If you ever use such coarse language again, maid, you’ll be out of this house within the hour. Have you got that?

Yes, Mister Trewithen, she intoned in a tendentious singsong, half sighing the words.

"I wouldn’t have you touch their toast now," Gemma said, salvaging what dignity she could from the girl’s refusal to obey her. She stumped off through the house, down the long corridor to the kitchen.

Take a tip, my lover, the footman said when she was safely out of earshot. Never use a coarse expression or tell a coarse tale or make a coarse gesture when that one’s around.

Jaysus! Bridget relaxed and mopped her brow. What is she – a runaway nun or something?

She just will not tolerate coarseness, that’s all. And somehow she makes the rest of us conform. When my sister called and took a dish o’ tay with us, two weeks ago it was. Your day off, I believe? Anyway, she told a harmless little tale – leastways, the rest on us thought it harmless enough, but not Miss pure-as-the-driven-snow Gemma! She told my sister…

What tale? Go on – tell us. My arms think my head’s a tyrant. The girl sat back on her heels and trained her large, searching eyes on him.

He chuckled. Don’t get your hopes up. I said ’twas a harmless wee tale about a little girl who wouldn’t let a little boy into her bedroom. She was in the bed, see? And the boy asks why not. And she says ’cos she’s got her nightdress on and her mammy told her never to let little boys into her bedroom when she’s got her nightdress on. And then there’s a short pause, see, and then she calls out, ‘All right, you may come in now. I’ve tooken my nightdress off!’ That’s all. I said ’twas harmless enough, but Miss lawdy-daw Gemma didn’t think so. She told my sister to apologize or be gone. Honest! Go and never come back. You could have cut the air and sold it to the silent monks. So you just mind your Ps and Qs when she’s around, see?

They were both laughing as a furious Gemma emerged from the kitchen with a full rack of toast. Nice for some! she said as she started back up the stairs to the housekeeper’s parlour.

Keep out of her way for a while, eh? was his final advice to Bridget as he set off after Gemma.

He caught up with her on the first landing. Don’t be too hard on the kiddy, eh, Miss Penhallow? he suggested as he followed her up the passageway. She is Irish, after all.

What’s that to do with it? Gemma snapped. You’re in my way.

He leaped aside like a dancer. She’s a fish out of water here, that’s what I mean. God knows where she ought to be but…

About time! the butler barked at Gemma as he jerked open his door and saw the pair of them standing there. Do we think we have time to stand around gossiping, eh! Is the silver out?

Yes, Mister Walker, Trewithen replied.

And spread with Silvo?

Yes, Mister Walker.

"Well, cut along and start polishing. I’ll be down as soon as I’ve shaved – which I would be already if someone had hurried up with the toast."

Trewithen stared at Gemma, daring her to admit that she had tried to palm the chore off on little Bridget; but Gemma just muttered something about the stove not wanting to draw, what with the wind being in the northeast. The butler didn’t even bother to listen.

God knows where she ought to be, Trewithen went on as if their previous conversation had suffered no interruption – a trick familiar to all in service – but if we treat her right and don’t try to iron out too much of her spirit all at once, we could make something useful of her, don’t you think?

Gemma pursed her lips but did not argue.

He pressed his point home. Act of charity, eh? Never know when we’ll be in need of help ourselves. Eh? He bent forward and peered up at her, for she was trying to turn her face away. Eh?

She relented and smiled at last. Has anyone ever been able to stay angry with you for longer than ten seconds, Mister Trewithen? she asked.

Angry? He spoke as if the word amazed him. Were you angry with me, my lover? Why should anyone get angry with me?

Well, I’m not, she said. And to prove it, I’ll give you a hand with the silver – if you have a spare pair of gloves.

You shall have the best, he promised, leading the way to the butler’s pantry, whose door he unlocked with a flourish; Trewithen did most things with a theatrical flourish. Sometimes Gemma wondered if he was entirely sane.

She put on her gloves and, picking up one of the smaller pieces, polished the Silvo off the cartouche. So that’s the de Vivian coat of arms, she murmured, gazing at the engraving. A hussar about to chop a toy bridge in half. What’s it mean?

The valet put on a superior face. "I don’t know about making something useful out of little Condron out there – we’d better start with you, my ’ansum. That is not a coat of arms, it’s just the crest. And it’s not a hussar about to chop a toy bridge in half. The proper heraldic description, in case you’re interested, is: ‘Issuing from a bridge of one arch, embattled, at each end a tower, a demi-hussar of the Eighteenth Regiment, in dexter a sabre, in sinister a pennant, flying to sinister, gules.’ So there! And the motto, Vive revictmus, means ‘Live like a man who knows he will survive.’ See?"

She stared at him, open-mouthed in admiration. How do you know these things, Mister Trewithen? she asked.

I don’t, Miss Penhallow – or I didn’t until last week. But the minute this silver arrived, I went down the library and looked it up. He glanced slyly at her. As a matter of fact, you Penhallows have a crest, too – but I suppose you know that.

She laughed, not believing him for a moment.

It’s true, he assured her.  ‘A goat, (passant,) azure…

"A what?"

A goat…

She shook her head and laughed. "I’m not going to believe that. You’re codding me, as little Condron says. A goat, indeed!"

Believe it or not, he went on mildly, it’s a fact. A goat means wisdom, by the way, so you needn’t think it’s an insult. Your goat is ‘hoofed and attired’ – that means with horns – ‘or.’ So there you are!

Or what?