you, dear girl?”
She was shy to the point of being crippled whenever in my presence. Her life had been blighted by extreme poverty and misery, and it disabled her confidence. Peggy was put in the workhouse, along with her mother, at the age of twelve. Sadly, not long after they arrived, her mother died of the Consumption leaving her alone to fend for herself. She had no choice but to remain until Mr. Fitzgerald, who had contacts through an east-end charity, assisted her to find paid employment with me. Cook possessed a formidable character with a tyrannical hold over her kitchen. She was also guilty of successfully driving away countless assistants through the decades. For reasons unbeknown to the entire household she softened, gently taking Peggy under her wing as she learned the ropes. I was content to give the poor girl a room at the top of the house, with a clean bed and a small wage. The workhouse was no place for her wounded soul; she did not possess the hardness needed to survive. At fifteen years of age, she seemed grateful enough for the work, although she made little eye contact with me and rarely smiled.
“I’m very well, sir,” she replied in the quietest voice, her eyes lowered.
“That’s good to hear, Peggy. Can you please cut me a slice of that delicious pie? I did not have dessert with lunch.”
I couldn’t help but stare at her long wiry fingers, badly damaged by the harsh work she was forced to endure prior to coming here. Her fingernails were in the process of recovering, but her hands were aged and dry. She had been little more than a slave, as in ancient Rome when young girls were held by predators in captivity without mercy.
Peggy reminded me of Linka, a young slave girl I managed to free on a wager in the year 62 AD. She was beautiful and luck shined on her, when in her freedom, she met and married a young man of good standing. They went on to have four children and were deliriously happy until her untimely death at the age of thirty-four. I hoped one day Peggy would find the same security.
“There you are, sir, a piece of pie.” She handed me the plate, a napkin and a fork but alas, still no smile.
I took the pie upstairs to my desk, where I proceeded to prepare a telegram to Bernie. I was expecting Roderick later, as he usually stopped by on his way from the office. Unfortunately, he was impatient to return to Virginia, his discontent showing more with each passing day, something I selfishly chose to ignore. I was to be disappointed, neither Roderick nor Marianne made an appearance, even though it was her night off. I dined alone and continued to read a fascinating new book, The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. I had known real characters that were vastly different in behavior from one moment to the next. Sometimes so shocking to see the change, I would prefer to walk or run the other way. I asked myself if this could be Jack, seemingly an upstanding citizen by day, at night becoming a monster.
Edward came into the study, his tall frame slightly stooped and his hair peppered with grey as age slowly caught up with his mortal body. “Sir, will you be requiring anything else, before I retire? It appears Miss Marianne is not coming this night.”
“I am just fine, Edward. I will finish this chapter and retire to bed.”
“I bid you goodnight, sir.” He was the epitome of politeness and respect. But I knew little about him other than he came highly recommended from Cyril, who praised his many years spent with an upper class family in Grosvenor Square. Unfortunately, they fell on hard times and had to dismiss most of their staff. After many years of loyal service, my previous butler, George, went into retirement and moved to Devon to be with his aged sister. I did the honorable thing and purchased them a comfortable cottage to enjoy and see out their remaining years. His sister, Agnes, was a devout Christian and I am certain to this day George