Her tone was pleading. Mrs. Burns, behind a pile of turnips, did not appear particularly honored by the request. But she rose from her stool, let the woman present her to Mrs. Watson, and welcomed her. When the woman had rushed off, she asked whether Mrs. Watson could peel turnips with a knife without injuring herself.
Mrs. Watson hesitated. As a child, she had regularly helped in the kitchen at home. But as a firmly middle-aged woman, she had not performed menial tasks for some time.
“If you can’t peel vegetables, I suppose I could set you to brushing and washing them, but that’s rougher work.”
“I’ve peeled any number of potatoes and turnips, only not recently. May I try a few and see if I’ve still got the knack?”
Thankfully, those old skills returned quickly—she had once been capable of peeling apples in a single strip. Mrs. Burns did not bother hiding her surprise. Nor did she bother to praise Mrs. Watson for not being a complete disgrace in the kitchen. “Good. We’ve much to do.”
Mrs. Burns did not immediately strike Mrs. Watson as beautiful. But before long she had already remarked the housekeeper’s lithe figure and fine-boned features. She peeled turnips with a seriousness others reserved for prayers—or battle planning.
Mrs. Watson, too, focused on the turnips, until they had reduced the pile by about two thirds. Someone came for the basket of peeled turnips and both Mrs. Burns and Mrs. Watson helped in carrying the heavy container to the kitchen table, where they would be chopped and added to the large cauldrons.
When they returned to their stools in the peeling area, Mrs. Watson judged that it was an opportune time to begin a conversation. “Are you employed here, Mrs. Burns?”
Mrs. Burns shook her head. “I’m a volunteer, Mrs. Watson.”
“But not an inexperienced one. Do you come often?”
“Once every week.”
“I admire such dedication.”
Mrs. Burns shrugged. There was a refinement to her motion. Put her in a proper frock and she would not appear any less a lady than the wives of Dr. Swanson’s colleagues. Mrs. Watson had earlier thought Mrs. Morris perhaps overly suspicious. She still didn’t know enough of the truth of the situation to judge. But having met Mrs. Burns—and heard Dr. Swanson’s praise—one thing becameclear: If Mrs. Burns wanted to become the next Mrs. Swanson, she had a very realistic chance of succeeding.
“Would you happen to be in service, Mrs. Burns?”
This provoked a slightly wary glance from Mrs. Burns. “Yes.”
“You are sacrificing part of your half day to be here.”
“Not today. My employer is away on holiday so my time is my own.”
“You didn’t take the chance and go away yourself for a small holiday?”
“There are maids in the house—someone must keep an eye on them. And holidays are expensive,” said Mrs. Burns with a trace of regret. “The more I save now, the sooner I can leave service.”
If Mrs. Burns were scheming to leave service by marrying an employer, would she be so careful with her money?
“You’re still awfully young. Retirement must be many years away.”
For the first time a spark came into Mrs. Burns’s eyes. “Ah, but by my own estimate, and I estimate very conservatively, I’m only three years away from retirement.”
“Really?”
Mrs. Watson was amazed. She knew that it was possible for those in service to accumulate decent savings, given that they did not need to spend their wages on food or lodging. But few people in any line of work had the discipline to hold their expenses to only the bare minimum. It was all too human, especially for those whose work was monotonous, to seek pleasure and seek it hard.
“I used to be a lady’s maid, and I was very good at dressing hair—other ladies would beg my mistress to lend them my service. I do believe I’ll stay in London for a bit and teach some young girls my skills in hairdressing. But even without that, I should have enough money.”
Mrs. Watson shook her head. “That’s marvelous.”
“I know. Three more years. But sometimes every day can seem that long.”
“Are your master and mistress too demanding?”
“My master is all right. No mistress—he’s a widower. But his daughter has come to stay with him and she has disliked me from the very beginning.” Mrs. Burns pulled her lips. “She hasn’t been unpleasant or anything. But you just know when someone would rather you be gone. Her husband is at sea right now—I can’t wait for him to come back and for her to leave. Only three years to go—I don’t wish to move to a different household.”
She tossed a peeled turnip into the basket. “But I will if I must.”
