Once a year, we cleaned the attic.

When the winter clouds had started to dissipate and spring appeared over the trees, we were plunged into a spring-cleaning frenzy. The Richardson family disappeared to a secondary home in the North to allow us complete freedom of every room of the house. We had to clean every shelf, air every settee and mattress, wash the floors, and ensure the fireplaces were free of soot. With a week to go until the family would return, it was all hands on deck.

I always thought cleaning the attic to be a strange task. No one ever went in there other than the servants and so there was no real need for it to be cleaned within an inch of its life for the spring. Still, the entire house had to be cleaned from top to bottom and, unfortunately, I drew the short straw.

"It has to be done, Jane. Spring-cleaning the house means the entire house, attic included," Miss Ryan said, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon.

"I know, but we're the only ones who go up there. Why should Mr Richardson care if it's dust-free?"

"I had to do the attic last year," Mary said. "It's easy; you'll be done in no time."

"If you do it properly, it will take as long as it takes. I'll be inspecting your work to make sure it's done correctly."

"Don't forget the chimney. Someone forgot to check it once and soot fell in the dining room when everyone was eating supper. They were asked to find another position," Mary gave me a pointed look — her best impression of Miss Ryan — before smiling.

"The sooner you start, the sooner you'll be finished." Miss Ryan placed a bucket, a scrubbing brush, and a duster on the table. "I'll send someone up to fetch you for luncheon."

"If I haven't died of boredom," I muttered.

Mary laughed and grabbed her carpet beater, disappearing through the back door to take out her frustration on the carpets. If spring cleaning was good for anything, it was taking out any anger on the carpets. I'd rather that than the attic.

I grabbed the bucket from the table and followed Mary through the back door and to the tap against the back wall. The tap spluttered before sending a torrent of water into the bucket. With the bucket full, I returned to the kitchen, grabbed the scrubbing brush and duster, and left the kitchen through the back staircase. There were no windows on the back staircase and all I had to mark my path were a few flickering candles along the wall. I almost tripped several times.

When I emerged onto the uppermost landing of the house, I placed the bucket on the floor to stretch my hand. After a year and a bit of working as a housemaid for the Richardsons, I still struggled to carry the heavy buckets up the stairs and often found myself ending the day with a red line on my palm from the handle. There was no rest when there was work to be done.

Once the ache in my hand had subsided enough, I grabbed the bucket handle once again and walked the length of the uppermost landing. A large window at the far end of the landing allowed for a stream of spring sunlight to illuminate the room. All of the doors and windows had been propped open, allowing a small breeze to flood the place and the smell of clean air to fill my nostrils. Through the open window, I could hear Mary beating the carpets.

At the far end of the landing, tucked almost completely out of sight, sat a wooden ladder that led up to a hatch. How I was supposed to get a full bucket of water up the ladder was a mystery.

"Do you need some help?" Jasper asked, appearing from nowhere. Jasper was one of the gardeners and would seldom be seen in the upstairs area of the house. I decided not to pry, it was not my place to ask questions and I was not in a position to reject help.

"That would be great. No one really thought about how I'm supposed to get the bucket up the ladder."

Jasper laughed. "I'll go up and you can pass it to me. I'll try not to spill it."

"You better not."

I smiled and stepped to the side, allowing Jasper access to the ladder. He scrambled up and stopped halfway, turning to face me and holding out his hand. I lifted the bucket, standing on my tip-toes to hand it to him. Jasper grabbed it and climbed the rest of the ladder until he could place the bucket on the floor to the attic and push it out of the way of the hatch.

"There you go," Jasper said, scrambling back down the ladder. "If you need help getting it out later, give me a yell."

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome." He tipped his flat cap at me and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the landing.

With the scrubbing brush and duster in hand, I climbed the ladder to the attic where the smell of musk and dampness hit me immediately. Once I was clear of the ladder, I crossed the floor to the only window in the room — a small, round one covered in coloured glass — to prop it open. It opened only slightly, but it would be enough. I stood in front of the window and took in the state of the room.

The Christmas decorations were stacked up against the far wall in wooden crates along with a few spare chairs and a broken cabinet. On the other side of the attic was the chimney breast and a small fireplace that had never been used. The fireplace was the only way to access the top of the chimney.

Mary's words echoed through my head and I left the bucket and headed over to the chimney. I grabbed the duster and set about moving the soot and dust from the outer brickwork, scrubbing the bricks until the faded red colour returned. Each brick took about two minutes to scrub and a few times I ended up having to use a little bit of water to remove the marks. It would take ages to clean the whole thing.

I swiped the duster across one of the bricks, the entire thing moving with the duster. I frowned. No one went up to the attic apart from the servants to collect extra chairs for supper or to move the Christmas decorations around. Unless the concrete had started to erode — if that were true, more of the brickwork would be loose — someone had been playing around with the chimney.

With the tips of my fingers, I wiggled the brick around until it popped out of the hole, concrete dust raining down onto the skirt of my dress. I placed the brick onto the floor and leaned closer to the gap, peering inside it. Against the darkness sat a shadow of an object that appeared to have been hastily shoved into the chimney breast.

"What on earth," I muttered.

I reached in and grabbed the object. It was a leather-bound journal, a thick layer of dust on top. After whipping off the dust, I looked on the cover for some form of identification, a name or some initials, but there was nothing. I opened the journal to the first page, squinting against the semi-darkness to try and read the name scrawled on the first page.

In neat, cursive writing someone had written a name.

Catherine Eleanor Richardson

~~~

First Published - February 4th, 2022