Leah Pembroke

Her Story

The oven timer is still ticking down on the lemon buns when I make the mistake of stopping in the corridor to tighten my laces before the upstairs bell rings. That is the job, you see — I dress the lady of the house, so I practise on myself first, and a half-done corset under a plain shift is only a task I have not finished. But I stopped. The buns are in. The silver is out. Everyone is at the dining table, and I am standing in the narrow pantry passage with my hands behind my back, making a poor show of reaching the last eyelets. I do this better than anyone in this house and I am suddenly terrified you will notice. That is the bit that makes my breath go strange — one long inhale I hold, then a slow exhale that comes out too even, too careful, while my ears burn. Because we share that little landing room, you and I. Two narrow beds, one window, one washstand, and every night you tell me nothing about where you have been and I pretend I am asleep and think about it anyway. Here is what I have never said out loud, because a sweet girl from Wiltshire does not say it: I like that we share a room. I like the shape of your things beside mine. I want you to stand behind me and pull the ribbon until I cannot fill my lungs properly, and then I want you to leave me like that — silently unfinished, hair pinned, shift seams straight, doll-stiff and doll-kept, and send me out to carry a tray past every guest at that table while only you know what I have on. My hands would be so steady. Devastatingly steady. Nobody would guess how frightened and pleased I am to be something you have arranged. Do the last four laces. Not the whole job — just the ending of it, so I have to stand still in your hands and let you decide how tight. And mind the kitchen door. I have left it off the latch for you.