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requires assistance in dressing. She must have at her disposal (at the very least) a second pair of willing hands. A woman without the means to properly look after herself might as well withdraw from society, for she will never be “looked after” by her equals or by any self-respecting gentleman. One public gaffe, or ill-managed piece of attire and she is left to embarrassment, sentenced to make her way between parties and parlours, alone. Each new day, every new gown, presents the opportunity of elevation or disgrace.

    The daily grooming rituals Mrs. Wentworth undertook were to remain, as best as I could manage, invisible. “Still,” Nestor explained as we climbed the stairs to her bedroom, “if one observes carefully, you can see the subtle fruits of a maid’s labours displayed on her lady’s person. It’s in her visage, the confidence she carries on her face. If her hat never loses purchase on her head, it is a tribute to you. If her skirts brush the toes of her shoes without ever tripping her up, then you may rest easy at the end of the day.
    “Your role is quite simple,” he said. “Comb the lady’s hair, read to her, serve her tea, help her dress: be whatever she requires, whenever she requires it. You, my dear, are the foil behind the button.”
    I stopped short in the middle of the corridor, thinking I could never live up to such high expectations. Mama must have misunderstood what it was that Mrs. Wentworth wanted in a girl. Had she known, I was sure she wouldn’t have sent me away.
    “Miss Fenwick?” Nestor said, turning back with a look of concern. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes, sir,” I answered, palms sweating, feet aching. I’d assumed I’d be cooking and cleaning, not seeing after Mrs. Wentworth’s personal needs.
    “You’ll do fine,” Nestor reassured me. “Much better than the last girl, I’m certain of it. Miss Piggott she was called. The poor thing was always at a loss, even when it came to the simplest of tasks. I can’t blame Caroline for the cruelty she inflicted on that one. I assure you the child brought it upon herself. She put Mrs. Wentworth in a terrible state, making Caroline’s life even more difficult than it already is.”
    Looking at the floor, I tried to will the queasiness in my belly to stop.
    “Come now, Miss Fenwick, don’t worry,” Nestor said. “What Caroline put you through this morning was nothing but a test. She’ll come around, you’ll see. Besides, Mrs. Wentworth’s the one who put Caroline out of sorts, not you. In all the years that she’s served in this house, the poor woman has never once been considered for the position of lady’s maid. She gets passed over for the job every time, and it upsets her beyond belief. I’ve told her she mustn’t dwell on it, that it’s simply a matter of Mrs. Wentworth preferring to have a younger, more impressionable girl by her side, but she won’t hear it.”
    As we approached the door, Nestor lowered his voice and gave me a final list of instructions. “Be sure to add hot tea to her cup whenever she lets it rest for more than five minutes. Place her napkin in her lap, folded in half, tip to tip, the point facing to the ground. Mrs. Wentworth doesn’t approve of having it the other way around, she says it makes her feel like a dagger’s coming right for her. Always inquire as to how much sugar she’d like in her tea, even though her answer will always be the same—none. Assure her that Caroline is happily preparing her eggs just as she likes (poached, with an inch of moon around the yolk) and that there will be toast points to accompany them, and marmalade, and—”
    My face must have shown the trouble I was having in trying to commit Nestor’s words to memory, because he stopped mid-sentence. “Forget the marmalade and the toast points. Don’t fret, my dear, morning tea is easily pantomimed. The only thing you need remember is to have a bit of grace and common sense.”
    Mrs. Wentworth was