park lane by frances osborne (excerpt)

7/31/2019 Park Lane by Frances Osborne (Excerpt)

1/10


2/10

PARK LANE

a novel

Frances Osborne

Vintage Books

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York


3/10

A VINTAGE B OOK S ORIGINAL, JUNE 2 0 1 2

Copyright 2012 by Frances Osborne

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books,

a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House

of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain

by Virago Press, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, London.

Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,

or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Osborne, Frances.Park Lane : a novel / by Frances Osborne.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-345-80328-3

1. WomenEnglandLondonFiction. I. Title.

PR6115.S33P37 2012

813'.6dc23

2012013545

www.vintagebooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


4/10

1

g r a c e c a n j u s t s e e t h e b e d r o o m d o o r h a n d l e

ahead of her. In daylight itd be so bright her face would stare back

from the brass. But its not dawn yet and barely February, so theres

just the night-city glow coming through the glass roof. Size of a

schoolyard, it is, all that glass. Theres as much empty space in the

hall of this house as there is in a church.Shes almost there now, made it along the passageway all quiet,

and with a dead weight in her grasp. Shes not a big girl, either, is

Grace.

The handle is night-cold and turnip-big, fingers only just getting

a turn. Slowly, Grace Campbell, for itll come, and Lord knows

when. If you go quick through it the noise is quicker, though itll be

a screech.

A foot open the door is when it squeaks, but dont you stop still,

Grace Campbell, for the dead lights coming in with you. Another

couple of inches, thats all. There it is, and still the beds quiet.

Shes in; pull the door to or the draughtll gush. A week shes

been here and shes learning fast, though what could get through

those shutters and weigh-a-ton curtains is beyond her. The doorclosed, its pitch, and damp from a nights sleep. Let go the handle

slowly now, oh Lord, whats she in for, the latch might as well be a

hoof on stone.

5


5/10

Theres a noise to her left, a starched-sheet rustle. Grace stops

and it comes again, a slide, a pat of a pillow.

A light comes on, and Grace is in a room of heavy red and green

creeper wallpaper. The room smells of dried roses, and shes facing

a wall of red velvet curtain that has seen better days. Lying in the

curtained bed, blankets up to her nose, is a young woman hardly

older than Grace. Her face, thinks Grace, is so dainty pale that

youd barely see it on the pillow if there wasnt that hair all round,

thick and brown and shining as though it is brushed all day and

night. Graces own dark hair is pulled back and into her mob cap,

sos you cant see it matches her eyes; theyre not like the pairlooking at her from the bed, blue that could be ice or sky, whos to

know which. Puts a fear into Grace, not knowing.

The scuttles near pulling her arm out now, worse when youre

still, even with how her arms are hardening. She cant put it down,

not on the carpet, ever, though theres not a trace of coal dust left

on the bottom. Though she cant hold it for much longer and not

put it down, shell drop it soon enough, and imagine the mess withthat. Not to mention the riot shed be read downstairs. Out it would

be, almost as soon as shed arrived.

The worrys enough to make her angry. Drop the scuttle why

dont you, Grace Campbell, tidy the sheets with your coal-smeared

hands, and tell Miss Beatrice that if shed went to bed at a reasonable

hour she wouldnt mind being woken now.

Good morning?

The very mildness of the words is water on her heat, almost so she

forgets to bob, as well as she can, what with the scuttle and turning.

Ever so sorry, Miss Beatrice. It wont happen again, the door.

Miss Beatrice sits up and her dark hair falls on to her nightdress,

all white like an angels gown. She moves her head, hair like rain as

it comes down.The door squeaks. You cant help it. Well, hardly anyone can.

There is a trick to it but, but, Im not quite up to leaping out of bed

and giving a demonstration.

p a r k l a n e

6


6/10

Yes, Miss Beatrice. Would you like me to get it seen to? Grace

almost has it now, talking all respectful as shes supposed to.

No, I meant . . . Oh, dont worry. I suspect it is an idea of

Mothers so that she can hear when I come in, and shell just find

some other way.

Theres no waiting-up here, thinks Grace, not like Ma and Dad

do. Mind you, it wasnt as if Grace was ever out at those hours.

Three or four in the morning for Master Edward, shed heard from

the footmen, whod be half gone having to wait by the door until he

came in. You wouldnt have thought that was proper, or that Lady

Masters would have any of it.Its Grace whos waiting now, poker-straight, even if the coals are

trying to bend her.

Please. Miss Beatrice tilts her head towards the fireplace.

Thank you, miss, I mean Miss Beatrice, miss.

Get it right, Grace Campbell, she tells herself and attempts

another bob, a rickety one, though, but to the grate, quick. On

your knees and reach right to the back, sweep like youre icing acake. If she doesnt look like shes just out the mine its a miracle

then. Speck in her eye, and a big one, eyes a river but shut it tight,

for you cant stop.

Fires lit, and Miss Beatrices head is back on the pillow, eyes tight

though the lamps still on. Scuttle half the weight now, its back to

the door, tiptoe now.

Whats your name?

Grace, miss.

Grace.

Yes, Miss Beatrice.

I like that name.

Thank you, miss.

Where are you from, Grace?Carlisle. Somewhere Miss Beatrice has never been, Graces sure

of that. At least not to Graces part of Carlisle. Not grand, her street

isnt, though the houses only joined to one other, and all new, even

p e a c e

7


7/10

if the fresh red brick darkened almost as soon as it went up. And

theyd had a maid once. Well, a tweeny. Then Ma said it was an

extravagance, in the circumstances. Grace likes to think the girl

has gone on to better luck.

Long way. Almost Scotland.

Grace nods, mouth shut in case her thoughts come out. Your

impulses, Grace, Ma says. Hold them in and youll go far, well be

right proud of you.

Dont worry about the door. I dont usually wake. Maybe its

because I hadnt heard your step before.

Grace waits; she cant walk on, not while Miss Beatrice is talkingto her, not until shes been told she can. Thats the rule shes been

given, even if Miss Beatrice has stopped talking and is just looking

at her.

Then Miss Beatrice says thank you, sweetly, as though she means

it. Of a sudden theres a warmth in Grace, the tip of a smile spread-

ing on her and pride that is the first since she came to Number

Thirty-Five last week. Out it comes, before the words are throughher head even, Cup o tea, Miss Beatrice?

Is anyone in the kitchen yet?

What to say to that? If the kitchen maids arent in there by now,

itll be their last day. Shes out of the room and back along the

gallery, where she treads careful and quiet down the middle of the

carpet, thick and red enough for a palace. A palace cant be much

grander than this house, with all the drawing rooms and saloons,

they call them, opening into one another with doors near the size

of the front of a house in those side streets Ma always told her to

avoid. Theres a ballroom at the back, too, whole width of the

house, and at the front theres five windows, overlooking Hyde

Park. Inside could do with a lick of paint, take a year to do it, it

would, Graces guess, more even. Wallpaper needs doing too, onlyso much as you can hide behind paintings, and some of those paint-

ings, well . . . Grace can feel herself blush. Theres a dozen of them

where the people arent wearing any clothes at all.

p a r k l a n e

8


8/10

Grace hurries. Theres Lady Masters room to do, and her ladys

maids, and Master Edwards. Mary is putting her hand to the big

rooms. The large rooms suit Mary, shes a big girl. In their bed at

night Grace is hard pushed not to find herself up against all that

thick blonde hair and a chest that the rest of her follows behind.

Mary knows how men look at her, she does, and sometimes wiggles

a little as she walks, as though her hearts on her sleeve for the

taking, which in a way it is, even for Grace. Lets be sisters, Mary says

to her in their bed at night, like there were no division between

them, and Mary not second housemaid to Graces third and Grace

doing the chamber pots.Pots! Shes forgotten the pot in Miss Beatrices room. Will she

now have to do it in front of her, holding a vinegar rag stinking

worse that whats in the pot itself? Perhaps Miss Beatrice walks to

the bathroom at the back, the younger ones, they surely do that.

What an idea, putting Grace into the bedrooms when she is so new.

Years of practice it must take to do it quiet, and there wasnt a

chance of that. Grace has to be up and running fast.So whys she gone and offered tea to Miss Beatrice when she

shouldnt be doing tea now and itll make her late? She was soft,

wasnt she, after what Mary told her. Miss Beatrice, Mary said when

they lay talking at night, had her heart right broken. Just the other

day.

Stories that Marys told, Grace shouldnt believe half of them,

but shes a way of making things sound true, pushes any questions

there are right aside. Even about the tall one, that shed swum from

her das dock well, not his, but where his work is right across the

Thames and back again. In the East End, too, where the rivers

wider, for thats where shes from, Mary. East End might as well be

on the Continent for the distance it sounds away. Yes, says Mary, its

another place, and lose yourself in it you do, before you can blink.Its still night in the kitchen, downstairs under the street. All

freezing grey cavern it is, ceiling only just above ground along the

north side of the house. The windows are on the top half, being the

p e a c e

9


9/10

only place that overlooks the pavement, and even thats only on to

a high-walled, not-so-wide street at the side that sees little light.

Why its painted grey in here is beyond Grace. The rest of the floor,

the housekeepers and butlers rooms, the servants hall, even the

passageways, are brown and yellow, and the colour gives a bit of

brightness, yellow, warm, too. The kitchen is all black ovens and

pots, the only softening the long bare wood table running the

length of it. Seat thirty, it would, but the kitchen only crowd

around one end of it, rest of it is piled high with choppings and

stirrings.

The ovens heated an hour now, still coal dust in the air, thoughthat could just be Graces own fingers, the smell stuck to them.

Waters already on, tiny bubbles there too. Grace and the kitchen

maids are over the top, three frilly mob caps in a row.

Theres bubbles, that means its done, says Grace.

Hardly see them.

Its hot enough.

Stew-tea, thats all youll get. But it aint my job.No, says Grace, looking at the slag heap of greased plates.

Fire or sink, Grace wonders as she climbs the stairs with Miss

Beatrices tea on a tray, which is the better? Better she says, not

good, for better was simply better than worse.

p a r k l a n e

10


10/10
http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/park-lane/id505838595?mt=11http://www.randomhouse.com/book/221557/park-lane-by-frances-osborne/9780345803283/online_storeshttp://www.indiebound.org/product/info.jsp?affiliateId=randomhouse1&isbn=0345803280http://www.powells.com/partner/32442/biblio/9780345803283?campaign=RandomHouseOBLhttp://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=VD9*lkiWNd8&subid=&offerid=229293.1&type=10&tmpid=8432&RD_PARM1=http%253A%252F%252Fsearch.barnesandnoble.com%252Fbooksearch%252FisbnInquiry.asp%253FISBSRC%253DY%2526ISBN%253D9780345803283%2526cm_mmc%253DRandom%2520House-_-RandomHouse.com%2520Outbound%2520Link-_-RandomHouse.com%2520Outbound%2520Link-_-RandomHouse.com%2520Outbound%2520Linkhttp://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0345803280?ie=UTF8&tag=randohouseinc-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0345803280

park lane by frances osborne (excerpt)

Documents