THAT WHICH IS HIDDEN – an extract

1

Mercy looked up at the house that was to be her new home. It wasn't as big or as grand as she had imagined. It was part of a terrace, flanked on either side by identical houses, each with steps leading up to the front door. She took the crumpled letter from her pocket one more time. Yes, this was definitely the right address.

      She took a deep breath, the city air thick in her nose, and went up the steps. A metal plate next to the door read Dr Edwin Stephens in curly letters. She knocked gently and for a brief moment she hoped that no-one would answer. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying for, if no one answered, where would she go, what would she do? But then the door swung open to reveal the round, smiling face of a woman.

      "You're here! Come in, come in!"

      The woman ushered her into a warm, bright hallway and closed the door behind her, shutting out the cold and the dark.

      "I hope you're not too tired from your journey? My, what a long way it is! Put your bag there, yes, that's right, just there. We'll take it up to your room later. And your hat and coat and whatnot can go there for now."

      Mercy glimpsed the impression of a brightly patterned rug, of wall-lamps burning brightly and of an ornate grandfather clock as the woman swept her along through the hall. Was she the mistress? The housekeeper? Her dress was very fine — silk by the looks of it — but her manner was so informal.

      "Goodness me, how late it is! You must be hungry. Come through and get warmed up."

      She led Mercy into the parlour, where a fire burned in the hearth, and then stopped, looking her up and down. Mercy was all at once acutely aware of her travel-worn dress, dusty at the hem and creased from the journey. She felt her hands vainly patting at her skirts.

      "I have some bread and butter," the woman said suddenly. "And tea. We must make some tea! I sent the servants to bed as it was getting so late but I'm sure I can manage tea. Now sit. Sit yourself down there."

      Mercy perched obediently on an armchair by the fire. So, this was the mistress then. Mrs Stephens. She was younger than Mercy had thought.

      "Thank you, ma'am," she said. Her voice cracked and she realised dimly that she hadn't spoken to anyone since she had said her goodbyes yesterday morning. And that seemed a lifetime ago.

      "Now, please, have some of this. You must be starved!"

      The woman handed her a plate with some roughly cut triangles of brown bread, spread thickly with butter.

      "Thank you, ma'am."

      She hadn't eaten for hours but forced herself to eat slowly, taking delicate nibbles of the bread. Mrs Stephens took a seat on the other side of the fireplace.

      "How was the journey?" she asked.

⁠      "Very good, ma'am, thank you," she replied, keen to forget the terrific jolting of the carriage, the stares and whispers of the other passengers, the aching in her back and buttocks from hours and hours of sitting on that narrow wooden seat. "It was most kind of you to pay my fare."

      The woman waved her hand with a dismissive gesture. "No trouble at all, Mercy. It is Mercy, isn't it?" She nodded and the woman went on. "Religious, I imagine? Like Faith, Hope and Charity? Well, we need all we can get of those at the moment. Where does it come from? Your name?"

      "Mrs Whitworth chose it, I believe."

      "Of course, of course. You lived with her since you were quite young, I understand?"

"That's right. She took me in when I was only four or five. After my father died. She was very good to me."

      The thought of Mrs Whitworth, of her familiar face, was like an unexpected blow and Mercy was mortified to feel tears welling in her eyes.

      "Oh dear. I am sorry. You've only been here five minutes and already I'm interrogating you! Here, have this. You can keep it." She handed Mercy a handkerchief. "We were so sorry not to be there for the funeral," she went on. "You must miss her terribly. But I hope you shall be happy here. Edwin and I are very glad to have you. Very glad. Now, dry your eyes and I shall go and find my husband. He'll want to meet you, I'm sure."

      Mercy pressed the handkerchief to her eyes, willing back the tears. She must make a good impression. This was a chance for a whole new life and she mustn't sit there crying like a child in front of her new employer. But Mrs Stephens wasn't at all what she had expected. When she had heard she was to work for a doctor's wife, she had imagined a stern, upright sort of person. A smell of camphor oil and sensible shoes. But Mrs Stephens wasn't at all like that. She was bright. And pretty. And that silk dress was beautiful.

      Even the handkerchief was exquisite, thought Mercy as she folded it neatly. It was embroidered with a pattern of ivy leaves and edged with fine lace. And now it was hers. She tucked it carefully into her sleeve. She took another bite of bread and stretched out her feet towards the fire, feeling some life coming slowly back into her cold, tired limbs.

      She knew very little about Dr and Mrs Stephens — had never heard of them, in fact, until the letter had arrived shortly after Mrs Whitworth died, inviting her to come and live with them. Dr Stephens was a cousin of Mrs Whitworth and must have taken pity on her, she supposed. All she knew was that she was to help Mrs Stephens with her work and in return would have free bed and board. She had dreamed all her life of coming to London and now here she was, she could hardly believe it.

      Whilst the outside of the house hadn't been very impressive, the interior certainly made up for it. The room was furnished in tones of dusky pink and peach with thick, tasselled curtains that hung all the way to the floor. There were vases and vases of flowers – hyacinths and hellebores and others she had never seen before. A bookcase lined one wall but the room was dominated by a large cabinet in one corner that looked like something you might find in a museum.

      With no sign of Mrs Stephens's return, Mercy went to have a look, her reflection glancing darkly back at her from its glass doors as she approached. The objects were evenly spaced on the shelves, with rectangular labels written in a neat, even hand, laid next to them. A plate, decorated with sprays of painted flowers in blue and ochre, was labelled Porcelain, China, 1700s, and what Mercy took to be a metal tea-pot was, in fact, a Beer-jug, Tibet, date unknown.

      Fascinated, her gaze travelled along the shelf to a wooden cylinder with a narrow slit along its length. At each end a carved wooden head extended, one male, one female, each one with perfectly rendered facial features and curled hair. Tiny jewels were inlaid where their eyes would be. Slit-drum, Congo Basin, 1800-05, the label read. It was beautiful and she thought vaguely that she had seen something like it before. Mercy touched her fingertips lightly to the glass.

      "Wonderful, isn't it?"

      Mercy span round to see a tall, slender man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in black and his auburn hair was cut close to his head and receding at the temples. Not exactly handsome, she thought with a twinge of disappointment, but rather distinguished — and he did have kind eyes.

      "I'm sorry if I startled you," he said. "My wife suggested that I come and introduce myself. I'm Dr Stephens."

      "Pleasure to meet you, sir," said Mercy, bobbing a small curtsey and dropping her gaze to the floor.

      "I see you have discovered my pride and joy," he said, gesturing to the cabinet.

      "Yes, sir, I'm sorry, I ⁠—" Had she been too bold? What was it Mrs Whitworth used to say? Curiosity killed the cat.

      "Not at all. They are there to be looked at, after all. I have rather a passion for collecting. That one is from Africa." He tapped the glass in front of the wooden drum.

      "Have you been there, sir?" She raised her gaze to his and the doctor regarded her for a moment.

      "No," he said after a moment. "No, it was a gift."

      He seemed about to speak again when Mrs Stephens appeared at the door bearing a tray of tea and cups.

      "I hope I've got everything!"

      She placed the tray down with a clatter and began to pour the tea.

      "Well, you must both excuse me, I'm afraid. I have work to do," said the doctor. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mercy. I'm sure my wife will see you settled in. Tell you everything you need to know. Good night." He nodded stiffly and made for the door.

      "Take Mercy's luggage up, won't you, dear? Make yourself useful!" Mrs Stephens called after him.

      "Husbands must have their uses!" she said with a smile as he closed the door behind him. "Do you have thoughts of marriage, Mercy?"

      "Oh, I... No ⁠— I..." Mercy felt the heat rising to her face.

      "There I go again!" said Mrs Stephens. "Interrogating you! You must forgive me. But a pretty thing like you must have her admirers?"

      "Oh, no, ma'am, no..."

      "Such wonderful hair! May I?"

      She reached out a plump hand. Mercy stood unmoving as the woman patted and stroked at her hair. She had endured this many times before but it was no less infuriating for that.

      "Wonderful! Wonderful! So soft. Like a little lamb. Now sit. Please. Sit."

      Mercy returned to her seat and blew into the cup of hot, strong tea, letting the steam rise up and obscure her face. Mrs Stephens was only trying to be nice.

      "So, tell me about yourself," said Mrs Stephens regarding her with a beady look that put Mercy in mind of a magpie.

      "Well, I..." Mercy stuttered. What did she mean? What was there to tell?

      "You can read? And write?" Mrs Stephens went on.

      "Oh, yes." Of course she could read and write. "Mrs Whitworth made sure that I received a good education."

      "Excellent! Well, there will be plenty for you to do here. Helping me with my work, mainly, occasionally helping around the house - although we have Bridget for that, of course. You will join me and Dr Stephens for meals, from time to time. For outings. That sort of thing. You will have duties, of course – I shall explain all of that tomorrow – but you will also have leisure time. I encourage reading. Don't be shocked! I encourage reading and I encourage thought. If either of those things interest you, then we shall get along famously!"

      Mercy felt that somehow she was being tested but wasn't sure what response was expected from her.

      "I'm keen to learn, Mrs Stephens. And I will certainly work hard, I promise you that."

      "I'm sure you will, my dear. I'm sure you will." Mrs Stephens paused, then more thoughtfully, "And I think you could be very useful indeed."

      Mercy sipped again at her tea. Mrs Stephens watched her for a moment and then glanced at the watch she wore on a chain at her waist. "I expect you're exhausted. I know I am. My husband often stays up late working. He's a terrible sleeper. But I must have my sleep or else I am a complete buffoon in the morning! Have you finished your supper? Very well, this way."

      She led Mercy up two flights of stairs to the top floor of the house, where two doors stood either side of the landing.

      "This one is yours," Mrs Stephens said, opening the door to the right, "Bridget's in the other one. You can meet her tomorrow. She's a good girl, if a little lazy. Irish, you know, but we're doing our best with her. You should have everything you need. I'm out and about in the morning. Meetings and the like. But I'll be back in the afternoon. We can talk more then."

      With that, Mrs Stephens went back downstairs, the candle she held casting large, looming shadows on to the wall as she descended.

       Mercy went into the room, closing the door softly behind her. The room was small and plainly furnished — a wardrobe and dresser, a wash-stand in the corner and a table next to the bed — but it was clean and it was quiet and it was hers. Her luggage was on the floor by the bed and she began to carefully unpack her things, hanging her one good dress in the wardrobe and laying her nightgown across the bed, smoothing out the creases.

      Here was her prayer-book, given her by Mrs Whitworth when she was small. She held it to her nose, did it smell of Hanbury? Of home? She liked to think it did. She placed it on to the table next to the bed where a fresh candle had been lit. And here was her most treasured possession; her sketchbook and pencils. She hadn't had room to bring all of her materials, had cried bitter tears at saying goodbye to her paintings and drawings, even her early attempts that were rather clumsy and unskilled. They were like old friends and leaving them had been hard.

      She flicked through the book, which still had plenty of blank pages to be filled. There were studies of hands, which she always struggled to get right, a few attempts at Mrs Whitworth's cat, a portrait of old Sarah, one of Mrs Whitworth's maids who had always been such a great friend to Mercy. Here was a sketch she had made of the house. How strange to think she would never see it again. She closed the book, she mustn't dwell on the past. This was her home now.

      She went to the window and peered out between the curtains. A heavy fog obscured the view but she knew it was out there. London. Where the streets were paved with gold and anything was possible — or so they said. A movement below caught her attention. She had the impression of a dark figure. Glimpsed in the greenish light of the gas-lamp. But then it was gone. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light? Mercy drew the curtains.

      Soon she lay cocooned in the crisp, white sheets that were scented with lavender. Her tired mind raced from thought to thought whilst her body seemed to rock from side to side as though she were still in the carriage. I'm wide awake, she thought, and then she thought no more as she fell instantly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

2

Mercy was woken up by a strange noise. For a moment panic gripped her as she struggled to understand where she was, disoriented to see the door and window not in their usual places. Then she heard the sound again, it was someone calling. She remembered where she was now and saw fingers of light were creeping in around the edges of the curtains; it was morning.

      "Agaboa!"

      There was that calling again. It sounded closer now. Mercy got out of bed, the chill air causing the hairs to rise from her skin, and went to the window to look out. The sky was silvery grey, shot through with rose and apricot. Roofs and chimney-pots stretched out impossibly far in every direction. What a wonderful painting it would make.

      "Agaboa!"

      She looked down and saw a grimy-looking man making his way past the house, a sack slung over one shoulder and a stick with a hook on the end in his other hand.

      "Rag-a'-bone! Rag-a'-bone!" he called, more clearly now, each time with the same sing-song quality.

      Mercy watched him picking through the ashes and dirt discarded in the gutter but finding nothing, he moved on down the street. Her eye was caught by a movement outside one of the houses across the street, where a maid was vigorously shaking out the front doormat, beating it with one hand so that clouds of dust flew up into the air. Further down, an old man was leading a donkey, laden with vegetables. All around, a growing orchestra of sound; the clip-clop of horses' hooves, the swish-swish-swish of a street-sweeper's brush. A city coming to life.

      At home – her old home, she corrected herself — her room had looked out over the garden, with not a building or a person in sight, save for the odd glimpse of the gardener.The only sound had been birdsong or the mooing of the cows from a nearby field. She felt a sudden rush of excitement at all this noise — all this life — and she washed and dressed in a hurry, eager to start the day.

      And yet she found the house silent, all the doors closed. Of course, she remembered now, Mrs Stephens had said she would be out all morning. There was no sign of Dr Stephens, either, she wondered which one was his door? Mercy paused on the landing, unsure where she should go.  She found herself drawn towards the kitchen, from where the sweet and spicy smell of stewing fruit grew stronger as she went down the stairs.

      The kitchen door was open but she knocked softly nonetheless. There was a young woman adding coal to the fire who now turned to face her, hand on hip. "Oh," the girl said and went back to her work, shovelling the coal from a bucket next to the fire and then prodding it vigorously with a poker, causing the flames to catch and grow, sending sparks flying.

      "Good morning," Mercy said, summoning up her confidence. "You must be Bridget?"

      "Must be, mustn't I," said the girl. She wiped her hands on her apron and tucked some unruly strands of russet hair under her white cap.

      "I'm Mercy." The girl did not respond. "I expect Mrs Stephens has told you about me?" Mercy went on, all confidence now ebbing away. "May I?" She gestured to the table that stood in the centre of the room, flanked by two benches.

      "Suit yourself."

      "I wasn't sure what I should do."

      Bridget said nothing but took up a wooden board, on which sat a plump loaf of bread, and put it down on the table in front of Mercy.

      "Help yourself. I've work to do." She threw down knife, butter and plate, muttering, "Haven't got time to be waiting on everybody hand and foot. Cook's day off and so muggins here has to do everything." She hesitated for a moment and then retrieved a jar from one of the shelves. "Jam," she said.

      Mercy held out her hand with a 'thank you' on her lips but Bridget sniffed and placed the jar on the table, avoiding Mercy's outstretched hand, then went back to the fruit that was bubbling and steaming on the stove. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and Mercy could see the power in her muscled forearms as she lifted up the pan of fruit to pour it into a ceramic bowl to cool.

      Mercy ate in silence, watching the girl as she moved about the kitchen. She was a little younger than Mercy, maybe sixteen or seventeen. She was like Titian's Venus, with her red hair and pale skin. No amount of milk baths or vinegar scrubs would make her own skin that colour and Lord knows, she'd tried.  She recalled with embarrassment how Mrs Whitworth's cook had once caught her dusting her face with flour in an attempt to make it paler. But Bridget's hands were red and chapped, whereas her own were smooth, she thought, as Mercy looked down at her own fingers, each with its neatly curved nail.

      Bridget now took a huge lump of dough from beneath a cloth and began to knead it on the other end of the kitchen table. Mercy's plate shivered and jumped as the dough was beaten into life.  In truth, she jumped a little too; there was a fierceness in this girl and the air around her seemed to crackle. Mercy soon finished her breakfast and left, her words of thanks met only with an impassive stare.

      She hovered again on the stairs before deciding to fetch her pencils and sketchbook. She had loved to draw ever since she was young, and it was a comfort now, in this strange new house, to have the familiar feel of the pencil in her hand, the blank page before her. She liked to draw portraits and so she began now to create a likeness of Mrs Stephens, calling to mind her sparkling eye and bright smile.

      She was a difficult subject, though, as her face was so mobile and seemed always to be changing. No, that wouldn't do. Her chin was too broad and her brow too low. Mercy began again with a study of Bridget, smiling to herself when she managed to capture the maid's surly expression.

      What about Dr Stephens? She'd only seen him briefly but she found that she could recall his face perfectly; the long, slender nose and thin lips, the faint eyebrows and the kindly eyes beneath them. As she moved her pencil back and forth across the page, his face came to life, perhaps looking a little younger than he actually was but yes, that was definitely him.

      "My, do I really look so stern?"

      Mercy turned to see Dr Stephens himself watching her from the doorway. She closed the sketchbook and sprang to her feet, dropping her pencil in the process. It rolled across the rug and Dr Stephens bent to pick it up.

      "I'm sorry, sir⁠ — " she began, wishing that the ground could open up and swallow her whole.

      "Here you are," the doctor said as he passed her pencil back to her.  'And no need to apologise. It's really very good. May I?" He gestured to the book.

       Mercy hesitated ⁠— she rarely showed her drawings to anyone ⁠— but felt she had no choice but to hand it him. He took it and sat on the sofa, turning the pages slowly.

      "My, these are very accomplished," he said. Did he really mean it? "What's this one?"

      Mercy moved closer and the doctor gestured for her to sit beside him. He was holding the book open on one of her few drawings that wasn't taken from life. It was a building, circular in shape with a conical roof.

      "I don't really know," Mercy said truthfully. "I just found myself drawing it." She had drawn the building more than once, in fact, had wondered herself where it came from ⁠— a dream? A fairytale?

      Just then they heard the front door open and Dr Stephens stood abruptly as his wife came into the room.

      "Catherine, it seems we have an artist in our midst," he said.

      "How marvellous," Mrs Stephens said, taking up the book.

      Mercy held her breath, praying that Mrs Stephens wouldn't see the rather unflattering drawing of herself. Thankfully, she only glanced through the book. "Very good, very good," she said. "Now, let's see what other talents you have, Mercy. I think it's about time we set you to work!"

      And she closed the book with a snap.