Gregynog Hall I

Gregynog Hall, Tregynon, Cymru

Dear Miss Jones,

I, Lady Henbury, write to you from Gregynog Hall to introduce myself and to further illuminate the expectations regarding your position as my maid. Lord Henbury has informed me that you come most highly recommended by Lord Hendwr, having previously served as lady’s maid at Plas Dinam House. It comforts me greatly to learn that you were held in such affection and esteem by both Lady Hendwr and the household staff. Lord Henbury read aloud to me a letter of reference from Plas Dinam, and we were much impressed by the high regard in which you are spoken of.

It is of the utmost importance to me that I am attended by an attentive, capable, and educated maid, particularly as I am not yet familiar with Wales. I should greatly value the opportunity to learn from you of local stories, customs, and dialect; the prospect excites me more than I can easily express.

Gregynog Hall is a considerably larger estate than Plas Dinam and as befits such a place you will find the household staff rather more numerous than you may be accustomed to. Your chambers here shall, I trust, be of a finer aspect than those previously at your disposal. You are encouraged to bring with you all that might afford you comfort in your new surroundings. In addition, suitable attire will be provided for you from London.

It is my sincere wish that you should find pleasure in your employment here, for I hold that the contentment of those in my service has a most profound effect upon my own constitution.

I look forward to your arrival.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Henbury

Gwendoline placed the letter on her desk and leaned back in the hard, wooden chair. Candlelight danced against the small pane of glass in the deteriorating window frame, reflecting the figure of a doe carved from birch wood. The slow, rhythmic flicker of the flame created a hypnotic effect, and weariness settled over her.

She had spent the day by the River Camlad, shaping the little figure, a comforting visage for something far older that dwelt in the darkness of the Clun Forest. Time had slipped her by as she worked, and it was only much later, in the dim of the evening, that she finally read the letter. Thus far, she had dealt only with the new English Lord—and what strange dealings they had been… at last, to hold a letter from the Lady herself brought a peculiar kind of relief.

Gwendoline could detect the faint trace of the Lady’s perfume upon the pristine parchment, a welcome change from the persistent scent of damp and rotting wood that clung to her far meaner lodgings. Perfume was a luxury Gwendoline could scarce afford for daily use, though she kept tinctures of other kinds, secret, hidden away in her chamber.

At twenty-eight years of age, she had spent the greater part of her life in the service of her so-called “betters”. From the age of fifteen, she had begun work as a ‘tweenie', a lowly maid tasked with assisting the other domestic staff as they moved between floors, summoned wherever and whenever they were needed. It was the lowest-paid position in domestic service, but the meagre wage she earned was enough to keep a roof over her mother’s head and her own.

As the years passed, through hard work and quiet resilience, she gained valuable experience and gradually worked her way into more respectable and prestigious positions among the household staff. Now, having secured employment at a far grander, English-owned estate, she felt a sense of elation she could scarcely remember experiencing before. It was, at long last, a mark of how far she had come.

Gwendoline smiled to herself as she carefully flicked through the pages of her mother’s Black Book. She had come so far, farther than she had expected. Her mother would be immeasurably proud. Reverently, she wrapped the Book in black cloth, its pages carrying the weight of generations. She placed it among the possessions she was to take with her to Gregynog Hall. Nothing else held such value, no glittering gold, no shimmering jewels, no treasure in all the universe could compare to the sacred knowledge contained within this Book, passed down from mother to daughter through generations shrouded in shadow and mystery.

In three days’ time, she would again meet with the English Lord and at last be introduced to the fair Lady Henbury, whose likeness she had thus far only glimpsed in portraiture. What fine portraits they were too. Gwendoline lay in her bed, the flickering candlelight dancing upon the ceiling, imagining what life must be like for them both.

She thought of what it would feel like to sit for a portrait oneself, adorned in one’s finest garments, while an artist labored for weeks, perhaps months, to immortalize one’s image. It must be terrific to be so regarded, so esteemed, that one’s likeness would be so painstakingly preserved. The thought filled her with a quiet excitement.

She sighed, setting aside the day-dreaming, striving to calm her restless mind. She willed her body to relax as she sought to conjure a clearer vision of their daily lives. It was vital, she reminded herself, to cultivate a stronger empathetic connection if she were to truly understand them. She imagined Lady Henbury at her toilette, preparing for bed in a softly lit chamber, carefully unpinning her hair, the delicate rustle of silk as she disrobed for the night. Gwendoline pictured her slipping into a grand, canopied bed beside the English Lord, and found herself wondering at the nature of their union. Was it a loving, tender intimacy they shared, or a more distant arrangement of necessity? How deeply, she mused, should she allow herself to imagine their closeness?

“Focus. That doesn’t matter, not yet. You’ll learn soon enough,” she chided herself gently, dispelling her astral wonderings for the evening. With a final, lingering glance at the room’s wavering shadows, she blew out the candle’s flame. Darkness came to the chamber once more, enfolding her, promising to carry her somewhere entirely unknown, and thrilling.