Aspirations of a Lady's Maid, стр. 28
She caught the first horse-drawn omnibus that passed, paid the conductor and climbed up the outside circular stairway to sit on the cramped benches, crowded with people going to work. Fortunately, despite the cool breeze, it was a pleasant summer’s day and Nellie enjoyed the feeling of sun on her face as she travelled through the jostling streets.
She changed buses several times before arriving at his Belgravia address. The affluent street was so calm and tranquil after the noise and commotion of the rest of the city. Nellie looked around at the well-tended homes and the almost empty street. Unlike the rest of London, the roads in Belgravia weren’t jam-packed with traffic. She could actually hear the sound of birds tweeting in the trees. It was such a stark contrast to the rest of the city, where such quiet sounds would be drowned by the hubbub of a multitude of people and vehicles.
But here, life was lived at a more genteel pace. No one had to rush to get to work on time, no one had to jostle through the crowded markets to do their daily shopping.
It was a different world for a different class of people. She looked up at the impressive three-storeyed white façade of his town house and its black wrought-iron balconies. Then she looked down at the two buttons beside the gate. One for servants, one for visitors, clearly demarking the two worlds of the people who occupied his house.
She firmly pressed the one for visitors, pushed her way through the gate, marched up the outside stairs and stood defiantly at the front door. She was here at Mr Lockhart’s behest. She wasn’t doing the work of a servant so she would be treated with the respect she deserved.
The door opened and the footman looked her up and down. She wasn’t dressed as a servant, but nor was she dressed as a member of the gentry or aristocracy. Nellie could almost see the footman’s mind working, trying to place her into the correct classification so he would know how to treat her.
‘There’s no need to look at me like that,’ she said. ‘I’m not a servant and, no, I’m not a visitor either. But you may have noticed Mr Lockhart didn’t return home last night. So, if you want to know where he is, you’re going to have to let me in and tell his valet I need to talk to him.’
The footman’s eyebrows momentarily rose, then he stepped back to allow her entry. He walked quickly through the house and Nellie had little time to take in the grand entranceway, with its black-and-white-tiled floor and sparkling chandelier suspended from the ceiling, three storeys above them. They rushed up the richly carpeted curved staircase with its polished brass banister and into the upper servants’ sitting room. The footman asked her to wait, then departed.
Nellie was impressed. The upper servants’ sitting room was a cut above most she’d seen. It was spacious. The furniture was new and comfortable. And it had large windows with a view over the street. It seemed she had to give Mr Lockhart credit for something. He treated his servants well.
The valet rushed in, his stern expression exactly what she’d expect from a senior servant. ‘Where is he? What’s happened? Tell me now!’
Nellie shook her head. It never failed to amaze her how the upper servants adopted that terse manner when addressing anyone they considered their inferior. It was as if they forgot that they, too, were servants.
‘Presumably you’re Mr Lockhart’s valet. It seems you forgot to introduce yourself. I’m Nellie Regan.’
The man gaped at her, then collected himself. ‘I’m Mr Burgess and, yes, I’m Mr Lockhart’s valet. So, Nellie, where is he and what has happened?’
That was better, although he had assumed he had the right to call her by her first name, something that he would never do with someone he considered his equal. But Nellie decided to let that go for now. ‘Mr Lockhart was set upon last night.’
The valet gasped and Nellie held up her hands to reassure him. ‘He’s not badly injured. Well, he’s badly bruised, but he’ll live. He stayed at my rooms overnight as the doctor said he shouldn’t be moved in case he’s got a broken rib. Mr Lockhart asked me to come and tell you what has happened.’
‘Right. You wait here. I’ll organise everything.’ He rushed out, leaving Nellie alone in the sitting room. She wandered out into the hallway and looked over the banister down at the grand entranceway, then up to the high ceiling and the elegant chandelier. The doors were shut so she couldn’t see into any rooms and Nellie wasn’t quite rude enough to go exploring. But what she could see was magnificent. The hallways were laid with rich, deep red carpets, and Nellie was tempted to take off her boots to feel the thick wool under her stockinged feet. The walls were lined with large oil paintings, an array of marble sculptures and other artworks. Nellie doubted any of them had been sourced from flea markets. What Mr Lockhart had made of her rooms above her shop she couldn’t imagine, but she doubted he would have been impressed.
But what of it? Her rooms and her business were all hers and she was proud of what she had achieved. She didn’t need anyone looking down their nose at her because they were born into the sort of wealth that allowed them to have a three-storey town house in a wealthier part of London.
The valet rushed back up the stairs. He sent Nellie a disapproving look for not remaining where she had been told and signalled for her to follow. They raced back down the stairs and out the front door into the waiting carriage.
‘Give your address to the coach driver,’