Chapter Text
Chapter 1
June 1938
Long before she found herself on a train heading to northern England Rosana Thaler hadn’t given the country or its inhabitants much thought. Her first impressions were… Well, not very impressive.
What little she could see out the window led her to believe England had only two color schemes: Dark grey and light grey. Some English towns, hedgerows, fields, and roads passed uninterrupted. England appeared bland and melancholy as if the constant rain had washed the surroundings of both hue and humor.
Leaning her forehead against the glass, she tried to imagine her colorful life back in Vienna. The deep, smooth chocolate brown of the sacher tortes, her rich, red damask bedroom curtains; her yellow cream custard for dessert; blue and green leather books, and white dresses at the opera ball. Each memory exploded with color, light, music, and of course, family.
The letter from Gallifrey Hall remained crumpled in her hand. Signed by Mrs. Harriet Jones, the Housekeeper, offered her employment as a parlor maid to the Noble household. Included were instructions for travel and, more importantly, an exit visa. Her mother had given prayers of thanks when the letter had arrived. Rosana - Rose, as she had always called her - was one of the lucky ones, Jacqueline Thaler had told her only child.
Poor Shareen Adler has been looking for two months and hasn't gotten any responses. Her mother and father have sold everything and will move out of their apartment soon, your advertisement must have stood out and shown you are an educated girl.
And of course she was educated - in literature, history, arts and music. Her parents had insisted that their only child be well rounded and, incidentally, possessed the economic means to make it happen. But educated did not mean talented, and it seemed talent was part of the magic combination that promised safe passage for a Jew in 1938 Vienna. Talent, money and luck.
Pete and Jackie Thaler had two of the three in spades. JackieThaler was a celebrated opera singer. Pete Thaler was an accomplished author. The Metropolitan Opera in New York City offered to file for exit visas on Jackie's behalf and a few publishing houses were doing the same for Pete. Unfortunately neither option extended to their twenty year old daughter. Something Rose didn’t understand.
Most girls your age are engaged or married by now, you know that, Rose. You aren’t a child anymore, at least in society’s eyes. You need another option that will get you out of here, and then we will be reunited in New York.
No one ever said it outright, but Rose understood the subtext. Visa options were limited because she was unmarried, without extraordinary talent, bright, but not gifted. There was nothing special about her. Even her job as a teacher had been short lived when Jews were forbidden from teaching non-Jews. By May, when more and more Viennese Jews began leaving, or worse, disappearing, Rose finally sat down to apply for a domestic servant visa in England, the only viable escape for girls like herself. Her advertisement was brief and to the point.
Viennese Jewess, 20, looking for work as a domestic servant. Speaks fluent English. Rosana Thaler.
Rose tried to forget the relief in her Mother’s eyes when the letter from Gallifrey hall arrived. She would never, however, forget her father’s tears.
*********
The long train ride out of Austria had been crowded and loud. Multiple transfers took her deep into Aryan territory, where appearances mattered. Rose’s blond hair and pretty face helped her through a few quick inspections and form most of the journey she traveled without incident.
That changed when the train approached the Belgian border. A group of Catholic nuns in full habit had joined her carriage in Munich, fingering rosary beads in silent prayer. Those fingers paused when Rose opened a paper bag carrying apples from Vienna. Four sets of eyes discreetly followed her movements as she removed her treasured contents and handed them out to the occupants. Barriers removed, Rose and the sisters spoke pleasantly over the sweet fruit as they pulled into the border station.
A deep voice over the intercom instructed all Jewish passengers to disembark immediately, making Rose wish she hadn’t eaten at all. There had been rumors back in Vienna about this, Jews arbitrarily arrested and taken away. Already the platform was filled with fidgeting, nervous faces. Single women, families with crying children, older couples huddled together. Swallowing back apple-laced bile, Rose reached for her luggage. A small, wrinkled hand stopped her.
“Stay with us,” the nun next to Rose encouraged.
Rose whispered. “But I’m a Jew.
“Not today,” the sister declared, holding her hand.
Outside, fear had found its voice. Shouts and cries rose from the crowd on the platform, as armed German soldiers began prodding and herding them towards the exit. Inside, three catholic nuns and one undeclared Jew sat in quiet prayer. An SS officer stuck his head in the carriage door, glazed at the four women and moved on.
When the train started moving again, the nun kindly held Rose’s hair back as she vomited in the bag that had once held the apples.
*******
Disembarking at Hayfield Station, Rose found her elegant trunk dumped unceremoniously near her feet. The closer she got to Gallifrey, the more nervous she became, tucking imaginary wisps of hair behind her ears or nibbling on her thumbnail, a nasty habit her mother hated. The air smelled mossy but was a relief compared to the stale body odor of the overcrowded train. She looked around the half empty platform, wondering if anyone from the Hall remembered she was coming. As if on cue an elderly man came up the platform straight for her. His slow walk and many wrinkles proclaimed an advanced age, while his bright eyes told another story.
“Rosana Thaler?”
“Yes. You may call me Rose.”
His eyes scanned her appearance, finely stitched derby hat, tailored, (albeit) rumpled dress, and unmarred shoes. Rose detected surprise in his face before he turned away. “Name’s Wilf,” nodding at her trunk. “This yours?”
“Wolf?” Rose repeated the familiar Austrian name with sudden homesickness.
“Not Wolf. Wilfred, Wilfred Mott, miss.”
Understanding softened his words, but he shuffled out of sight to get a trolley, loaded it and headed towards the exit.
Only one motorcar remained in the station, an older model, splattered with mud. Wilfred pushed past it and stopped next to a cart and horse. Sighing, Rose chastised herself. Of course, a gentleman such as Doctor Jonathan Noble would never send a motorcar to the station to pick up his newest servant.
Wilfred raised an eyebrow when she awkwardly clamored up to the wooden bench next to him, but without a word led the horse away from the station. The cart jostled and rocked over the pockmarked road causing Rose to tighten her grip on the side rails. She didn’t dare look back lest she jump down and race back to her mother, her father and a Vienna that had already ceased to exist many months ago. Instead, she clasped her hands and stared straight ahead, letting the cart take her slowly to a way of life as foreign as the stars.
Wilfred’s voice was soothing as they rode, making non-sequiturs as easily as he handled his mare. Rose learned about Gallifrey hall (over 300 years old), the recent weather (warm but wet), the latest sheep birthing event (3 lambs!), and Mr Copper’s losing battle with modernization (radios). It didn’t seem to matter to Wilfred that Rose had never seen a sheep before, nor knew who Mr Copper was; she was a captive audience. She longed to ask him about the Noble family and, in particular, the patriarch, Doctor Noble. What type of man was he? Cultured, kind-hearted, funny, approachable - well, obviously, being a Doctor he was well educated, but what about his character? But her mother had warned her about that typed of invasive questioning, so Rose rode in silence.
Along the way though, something softened inside. On the train, rose had resolved to hate England, her faraway exile; but it turned out she was wrong. Something about the land they passed was hypnotic; a patchwork of scraggly purple, yellow and brown hued heather on one side, lush, green fields on the other. The contrast in texture and color was striking and she braved her voice to ask Wilfred about it.
“You’re in the Peak District, Miss Rose. Prettiest country in all of England if you ask me!” Wilfred pointed to the left. “To the North is the Dark Peak, to the south, the White, and Gallifrey Hall smack in the middle - spitting distance from either one.”
Ironically, Gallifey Hall sounded perfect. A place of limbo where she’d bide her time; tucked in between the Peaks, trapped between Vienna and America.
Turning left, Wilfred lowered down to open a large iron gate, led the cart through and shut it behind them. Sensing home, the mare perked up quickly bringing the Hall into view.
Gallifrey Hall was impressive, dark and ominous in the creeping darkness. Its large, three story stone structure blended in well with the ragged, northern landscape it flanked. Decorative spires and numerous chimneys were tall shadows in the fading light. Rose imagined it would be the perfect backdrop for an Edwardian novel. Or a murder mystery. Papa loved those, the darker the better. He would have found Gallifrey Hall’s menacing frontage delightful.
The Cart passed by the wide circular drive that led to ornately carved wooden doors, stopping instead in the back courtyard. Wilfred unhitched the mare, nodding Rose towards the back door left ajar. She swallowed, smoothed her dress, and stepped inside, blinking to adjust her eyes to the dim interior.
Silence met her as rapid conversation ceased. A woman with an air of authority approached, hand outstretched.
“You must be Rosana Thaler. Harriet Jones, housekeeper.”
“Yes, I know who you are. Please, call me Rose. “
“Good, you pay attention. And your advertisement said fluent English so at least that was true. Sit down. Leave it to Wilfred to bring you by during dinner service. Lynda, fetch her something to eat.”
Platters piled high with steaming peas, stuffed quail and roasted potatoes reminded Rose that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast ten hours earlier. Simultaneously famished and nauseous, she sat to eat thick, rich beef stew and warm flakey bread that a younger girl, Lynda she presumed, set down in front of her.
“Well, appetite is one thing we won’t have to worry about,” Mrs Jones noted.
The rest of the household staff was briefly introduced as they filtered into the kitchen while she ate. Mr Copper, the butler and head of household eyed her up and down, inspecting her hair, cleanliness and general presentation. His stoic expression did not let on whether she passed his perusal. Harold Saxon, the first footman, gave her a nod as he entered the kitchen, pronouncing her nare Rose-ana, drawing out each syllable. Adam Mitchell, stable hand, shot her a wide grin while stacking firewood near the stove. Lynda, the other maid, smiled eagerly before getting shooed away by Mrs Jones.
“You’ll meet the others in good time. Her Ladyship is entertaining tonight, so we’ve no time to introduce you. The Doctor is away in Paris. Be home in a fortnight.
Mrs Jones dropped a set of maids’ clothes in her lap, the material heavy and stiff. “You aren’t going to be needing those fancy clothes much around here.”
Rose looked down at herself. She hadn't thought her clothing fancy. The topper had long gone from light blue to a darker dirt-stained shade. Her dress certainly wasn’t formal, but she guessed the material and cut might have seemed dressy for the English style.
Subconsciously she reached up to adjust her cream, straw derby hat and tried unsuccessfully to hold back a face splitting yawn.
“Well, you’ll be no good tonight. you can barely keep your eyes open. Upstairs to bed. Tomorrow we will start first thing.” Mrs Jones directed her to the stairs and a sparse, but clean, maid’s room three flights up.
Rose’s room in Vienna had a high ceiling, fireplace, and large windows left open to let in the breeze. In the small attic room of Gallifrey Hall, the air was stale. If she crouched down in front of the window she could see a tiny scrap of stars and the darkness of the surrounding land, the Peak District. Although exhausted, she started to unpack her trunk, delicately placing each of her dresses on the bed. She didn’t know what caused her to weep as she picked at the dresses’ hidden hems. Exhaustion, relief, homesickness, loneliness; all were valid candidates. Opening the tiny stitches that Jackie had sewed took time, and with each pull, Rose felt her heart clench. Jackie Thaler, daughter of Alfred Hoffman, acclaimed Viennese Jeweler, had inherited exquisite jewelry. As the final threads of the careful sewing fell away, some of her mother’s most valuable pieces - gold chains, pearls, diamonds, and other loose gems spilled onto the bed - enough to purchase a ticket to New York when the time came. Until then, Rose tucked away the jewelry in the back of a drawer; mentally noting that she would need to make a small bag for them. Quickly stripping and not bothering with nightclothes she sank into a dreamless sleep.