A Countess Below Stairs Read Online Free PDF

mother’s room, found her absorbed in a game of dominoes in which the new housemaid was cheating, with an expertise which shattered him, so as to let the old lady win.
    ‘I’m sorry I’m late, Mother,’ he began.
    ‘Sh! Be quiet, Cyril. I don’t need you,’ said the old woman, gleefully moving a piece.
    Only when Anna had left did she ask again: ‘Who is that girl? Why is she dressed like that?’
    ‘I’ve told you, she’s the new housemaid, Mother.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ said Mrs Proom.
    - - - -*
    Anna had been at Mersham for a week before she met the first member of the family. In addition to the Lady Mary Westerholme, the dowager countess, Mersham had for many years provided sanctuary for the present earl’s great uncle, the Honourable Mr Sebastien Frayne. It being Louise’s day off, Anna was instructed to take up his tea.
    ‘You want to listen outside the door,’ Peggy told Anna. ‘There’ll be some music playing on the gramophone. If it’s that stuff all loud an’ wailin’ an’ women shrieking and that, you want to watch out. Specially there’s one called the Libby’s Tott or something. If he’s playing that you want to keep the tray between you an’ him and put it down and run quick. But if it’s that stuff that sounds like church, you know, all on the level and not much tune, then it’s all right to have a chat. Not that it’s ever more than a bit of a pinch and a grope, but you not being used to it like…’
    It was with a sinking heart that Anna, pausing outside Mr Sebastien’s door, heard the unmistakable sound of the Liebestod issuing forth. Isolde was dying and she was dying hard. Bravely, Anna knocked and entered.
    Mr Sebastien Frayne was reclining on a large Chesterfield, his eyes closed in ecstasy, his hands folded over a large stomach. He was close on eighty and seldom left his room, which resembled the den of a musical badger, strewn with manuscript paper, ashtrays, music stands and books. There was egg on his dressing gown and his white hair was dotted with cigarette ash, but the eyes he turned to the door were the blue and candid eyes of a child.
    ‘I have brought you your tea, sir,’ said Anna, above the soaring voice of the soprano issuing from the huge horn.
    Mr Sebastien’s eyes gleamed. A new maid. At first sight unpromising in her absence of curves, but on closer inspection not unpromising at all. In fact intriguing. How did she manage to get a dimple in a face so thin?
    ‘Put the tray down here,’ said Mr Sebastien craftily, moving closer to the edge of the sofa and patting the low table beside him.
    Anna advanced. Suddenly the music surged and gathered force, its leitmotif transfigured in one of Wagner’s brilliant changes of key and, as the bereaved soprano prepared to fall ecstatically upon her lover’s corpse, Anna gave a deep sigh and said, ‘Oh, say what you will, but it is beautiful.’
    Mr Sebastien looked at her sharply, his seduction campaign of tired lecheries momentarily forgotten.
    Anna was standing in the middle of the room, the tea tray clasped to her breast, her huge, peat-coloured eyes shining. ‘Who is it singing? Not Tettrazini, I think?’
    ‘Johanna Gadski,’ said Mr Sebastien. The best Isolde in the world, without a doubt.’
    ‘My father didn’t care for Wagner. He found it too excited.’ The music had made Anna dangerously forget her status. ‘He and Chaliapin used to argue and argue.’
    ‘Come here,’ said Mr Sebastien, his eyes razor-sharp under the bushy white brows.
    She came forward and put down the tray. The music was mesmerizing her; she had turned to the gramophone like a plant turns to the light. Now she was right beside him. He could put an arm round her waist, pull her down on to the sofa, give her a kiss…
    ‘Stay and listen,’ said Mr Sebastien, not touching her, ‘it’s nearly over. Sit down.’
    ‘I must not sit down,’ said Anna. ‘I am the maid.’ Even Wagner could not efface the thought of Selina