room, ballroom, library, a medieval tower, ice house,

kitchen garden, lake, box hedges, fernery, fountain,

waterfall, trout pond, deer park, gazebos,

a beech-lined drive, and, in the steaming, belching

bowels of the castle, the cavernous kitchen

where Emma spends her every waking moment,

and the moist cellar next door, where she sleeps.

EMMA

I’M THE SCULLERY MAID, the skivvy, the flunky

in Mr Mallory’s empire – the kitchen.

Up before dawn to scrape ash from the range,

black-lead it, light it, then keep it going all day.

Then it’s breakfast for Lord Harrington, his wife

and their two ‘flawless beauties’ my age, so I’m told.

Kidneys, kedgeree, tongue, ham, cold game pie,

woodcock, bacon, boiled, fried or poached eggs,

mushrooms straight from the dark house, toast –

most of which they waste anyway. (More for me.)

When I arrived years ago the sight of all that food

made me quite sick. (Gout and good riddance to them.)

For dinner it’s soup, fish dish, three meat dishes,

a savoury and a dessert all served à la Russe

from the sideboard by footmen who are obsequious

to their superiors and condescending to the likes of me.

I believe in words. I read them, remember them,

load them into my mouth – and fire.

ONLY WAY to escape is through marriage.

The local fellows? Philanderers! Braggadocios!

I tell them to ‘go fuck’ themselves too.

Mamó would be so proud of me.

Mr Mallory used to brush against my breasts

until one day I said, ‘Leave off my appendages, Sir’

in front of Mrs Mallory, the housekeeper, wife.

(Poor man, fancy waking up next to a bulldog?)

Had me sieving rhubarb consommé for hours after that.

Not seen Uncle Lorcan since he brought me here.

He writes at Christmas but Mr Kempster the butler

opens our letters in the pantry, sullying them.

Uncle Lorcan says there’s a home for me in London.

He’s old now, even his children have children,

but Mamó would rise from the dead,

wispy hair stuck about her like a dusty spider’s web,

and walk through these thick castle walls, howling.

I might finish at midnight, or dawn, if there’s a ball,

I can hear the waltzes and unstoppable merriment.

Before sleep I sit up reading by candlelight.

Pride and Prejudice is my favourite. Enya is a ladies

maid upstairs. She appropriates books for me.

I’VE ALREADY won some green ribbons at the staff fair

in the three-legged race with Enya. (How exciting.)

Seen the performing horses and the mind-reading dog.

I’ve swung my hips brazenly inside a hoola-hoop,

tried croquet, and I’m in the queue to climb the greasy pole

for a slice of plum pie (Isn’t His Lordship munificent?)

when I see my future husband’s head immersed in a bowl

before coming up with a green apple in his mouth.

Spluttering, he shakes water from his hair like a horse,