The black silk of the gown, together with the six starched petticoats which flounced out her skirts so widely that she might have almost have had crinoline beneath, produced a veritable symphony of rustling as she bustled along. Mrs Pritchard had gone to town after luncheon and thus it was her duty, as senior upstairs servant in the housekeeper’s absence, to greet the visitor whose carriage she had seen approaching from the blue drawing room. The honour of this office was new to the maid, and it made her heart swell with pride, but it also made her somewhat apprehensive. She wished, once again, that the bodice of her uniform was not so perilously low-cut. As she looked down, she could see her breasts jiggle in front of her, pushed up by her corset and barely contained by the wisp of lace above the garment’s supporting quarter-cups. Even more, she wished that Mrs Pritchard had not insisted she wear the leather collar and cuffs again. The visible tokens of her servitude seemed so inappropriate for one in such a position of responsibility.
