“Over the past few months, I have been subjected to the hospitality of many families in the vicinity, and I feel socially indebted to them,” Edward explained.
I waited for him to elaborate.
“As you clearly have a reduced workload, it is high time I reciprocated the kindness of these families and start inviting them here for evening meals.”
“I see.”
“Obviously you will need more staff, so I would like you to advertise for whomever you feel you require.”
“I will attempt that, sir.” He cleared his throat and studied his hands. “And I would prefer it if you cooked the meals rather than Mrs. Kemp producing bland, heavy stodge for my genteel guests. I will leave it in your capable hands to arrange this tactfully and discreetly.”
I mentally raised my eyebrows at this last request but agreed to carry out his orders.
My immediate response to the need of more staff was to consider Nancy, the poor scullery maid from Barton Manor. What an opportunity it would provide for her to better herself! But to my shame and eternal regret, I rejected this charitable idea because she would need to live-in. I preferred to employ local girls so that our evening arrangements would not be discovered or discussed. I silenced my conscience by arguing that it would not be right to rob Mrs. Milton of a dutiful member of staff.
Finding suitable staff was easier than anticipated: I simply asked Agnes if she knew of any young, industrious girls in the neighbourhood, and she soon came up with some suggestions. There was a great lack of employment for young women in the area, and many of them followed their mothers by taking up seasonal agricultural work, which was poorly paid, unpredictable in availability, and back-breaking.
Mrs. Kemp and I interviewed four girls and selected the two who seemed the most willing and quick of mind: Molly and Clara. Agnes had the task of instructing them in all cleaning matters, and I provided instruction on waiting at the table—after consulting a few books on the subject.
Mrs. Kemp was pleased with extra help in the kitchen, but this was slightly overshadowed by the fact that she now had two more mouths to feed. We agreed that they should learn all-around tasks and not become either a housemaid or kitchen maid so that we would have greater flexibility.
As we were busy training the new maids, Edward was becoming more and more absorbed in his new hobby of shooting game. At social functions the conversations of the males predominantly centred on the latest shoot, the quality of their guns, and the amount of game bagged. Each, praising up his fellow marksmen, felt secretly assured that none was as accurate a shot as himself.
While at first Edward privately scorned the fashion, as he was invited to more and more shoots, he found it necessary to purchase a good gun. Before long he became known for his shooting prowess. He soon could regale the events of an afternoon’s shoot, shot by shot, as well as any man.
I was amused to learn all the reasons (or rather,
excuses
) for a poor performance, including rough terrain, unhelpful beaters, wrong wind direction, and even uncooperative birds.
Edward began hosting shoots on his own land, and the need to invite these gentlemen and their wives for a meal became pressing. Once the new maids were reasonably competent in their new roles, I let Edward know that we were ready to attempt entertaining, and he promptly sent out invitations. I dreaded speaking to Mrs. Kemp about the cooking arrangements, but that too was easier than I had feared. Mrs. Kemp reacted with such alarm at the thought of entertaining the gentry that I immediately had to reassure her I would be willing to do the task, if she would be so good as to guide me. She readily agreed, offering to cook for the servants on the days that the master entertained. I did not feel it necessary to inform Edward of how easily Mrs. Kemp had been persuaded to relinquish her role, and he seemed in awe of my diplomatic skills and extremely grateful.
My triumph felt hollow as I sat in my room, pouring over
The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy
, trying to produce a menu that was both easy and impressive. The art of cookery seemed far removed from plain and easy to me! I finally settled on leek soup, followed by
filet de bœuf en croûte,
with roast potatoes, vegetables, and thickened gravy laced with port. The dessert needed to be light, so I chose apple trifle.
Edward decreed that three courses was sufficient and gave a cursory glance and nod to my carefully constructed menu. I ordered double the amount required of all the ingredients and practised the meal on the staff, learning by it that the beef took far longer to cook than I had anticipated. The appointed day of the dreaded meal arrived and saw me frantically darting between kitchen and the reception rooms, rolling pastry that refused to roll, blowing a stove that was reluctant to roar, and checking the flower arrangements. My cooking apron soon had the marks of every ingredient in the recipes.
A meal that would take the maximum of one hour to eat took me all day to prepare, but at last it was ready. I wished I could present the food better and in a more decorative manner, but all I could manage was for it to look edible. Mrs. Kemp fussed and bossed around her husband, helping him into his best suit (normally reserved for weddings and funerals), and he was sent to the hall to answer the door and greet the guests. Agnes and the girls looked neat and tidy in their clean black dresses with lacey caps and aprons, while I had traces of pastry through my hair, and sweat stuck my clothes to me. We were all nervous but also exhilarated by the challenge of succeeding.
Mr. Kemp served the wine, while Agnes and Clara served the food. Molly transported the food from the kitchen to the dining room, bringing back used crockery and reports of how the meal was progressing. She had never in her whole life been so close to the gentry and was totally star-struck by the
“an’some men ’n bootiful ladies.”
The empty platters that kept appearing in the scullery were the only indication I received that the food was acceptable.
When the ladies had retired to the living room and had been served coffee, Clara returned to the kitchen, exclaiming her amazement at the appetites of the ladies “
wiv them tight corsets, I dunno where they put it awl,”
which made us all double up with laughter harder and longer than the comment deserved, probably out of relief and exhaustion, although the work was by no means over.
As the guests relaxed by the log fire, we rolled up our sleeves and started the washing up. While we tidied up, we picked at the leftover food and agreed we were too tired to eat the supper Mrs. Kemp had prepared, because, as Agnes rightly pointed out, “eating supper will only make more washing up.” So, saving it for the next day, we filled up with chunks of bread and cheese, eating as we worked.
Finally, when Mr. Kemp shuffled in, having closed the door on the last lingering guests, we all collapsed into chairs around the kitchen table, and Mrs. Kemp boiled up some milk for us all, as if we were her young family, “to relax the mind.” We sat nursing our warm cups, longing for bed, but too tired to move. The maids stayed the night as it was too late to walk home. After a while of girlish giggling, Clara and Molly settled in their beds, and we all slept like logs.
The following morning we reassembled, blurry-eyed, at the breakfast table and ate in a sleepy silence. The maids then set about the task of cleaning the dining and sitting room, expressing surprise at the amount of mess the genteel guests had generated. Crumbs were trodden into the dining room mat, coffee and port had been spilt, chair backs were stained with gentlemen’s Makassar oil, and cigar ash dusted the tables. Even the flowers looked wilted after an evening of glory.
Mid-morning Edward invited me into his study to “dissect” the previous evening. From his point of view, the evening had gone very well, better than expected: the conversation flowed, the guests were agreeable, the staff did him proud, and (finally he said it) the food was superb.
I flushed with joy at his assessment. Forgetting the hours of toil in the kitchen, I said that it was my pleasure. After telling me more about his guests and their conversations, he ended our discussion by saying, “We must entertain again, but, as for tonight, I can’t think of anything I would like more than a quiet evening by the fire with you and a slice of your cake.” This, of course, sent me flying back to the kitchen to bake, with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. The cake would not only be for Edward, but for all the staff, to express my gratitude for making our first dinner party at Biggenden a success.
The next day, as soon as I had organised the maids, I escaped the manor to visit Mrs. Bridges. There was still some leek soup left, and I took a jug of that, along with a loaf of Mrs. Kemp’s freshly baked bread. Since I knew that Mrs. Bridges enjoyed hearing about life at Biggenden, I gave her a full report of the dinner party.
As she sat in her armchair by the stove, sipping her soup, her face looked strained with pain and weakness. She was wearing a woolen shawl and had a blanket over her knees, but to me she looked smaller and frailer than just a few days ago. Whilst our guests had been dining on their copious meal, it was doubtful that Mrs. Bridges had summoned up either the strength or inclination to prepare herself anything. I was resolved that from now on I would bring her food every day. Her good neighbour ensured that her log basket was always full and her stove alight, but she had a large family of her own to care for and could not do much more.
I stayed with Mrs. Bridges until twilight, helped her into bed (which was now downstairs), and sat with her until she fell asleep. As soon as she was soundly asleep, I did something slightly dubious. I went to her small desk and looked through her papers until I found what I was looking for: the address of her daughter. I quickly wrote it down, returned the paper, threw a log on the fire, and crept out of the house.
Late that night, in the privacy of my parlour, I wrote to Elisabeth, explaining that her mother was gravely ill and unlikely to survive a month. I informed her of her mother’s weak, pitiful condition and how she spent most of her solitary time remembering the happier years of her life when her two dear children brightened up the cottage. I begged Elisabeth to hasten a visit to her mother before death would separate them forever.
I wrestled with and prayed over the phrases and wording of my letter, endeavouring to pull on the daughter’s heart strings as much as possible. Many attempts at the letter were aborted and thrown in the fire, but finally, in the small hours, when I admitted that I could not improve the wording, I sealed the envelope and put it out for posting the next day.
After obtaining Edward’s consent, I visited Mrs. Bridges twice a day to ensure she had food and drink. There was a local woman who could be called upon to help with births, deaths, and laying out, but her reputation was somewhat dubious, some even saying that dying patients gave up the ghost early rather than be subjected to her rough nursing. Through the grapevine this same woman had heard of Mrs. Bridges’ condition and came to offer her assistance, but, in unison, the kind neighbour and I dismissed her and said that we would cope, thank you very much. One overpowering waft of her breath convinced us she wasn’t even sober enough to care for our dear friend.
At first I was so convinced that my letter would bring Elisabeth running to her mother’s bedside that I almost told Mrs. Bridges of my actions, but as the days went by, each sapping more and more life from her weak body, I started to run out of hope. As so many things might have gone wrong: the family could have moved, the son-in-law remain unmoved, the post be delayed, and the letter lost, any chance of a happy reunion seemed smaller and smaller.
Each morning Mrs. Bridges’ eyes sank deeper into her face, and her skin stretched tightly over her cheek bones. High doses of opium were necessary to ease her pain. Instead of speaking or at least acknowledging my conversation, she spent most of the time asleep. I sometimes sat reading the Bible to her or singing softly, but most of the time she seemed unaware of my presence. The cord that held her body and soul together grew weaker every hour, and often I had to look hard to detect any sign of life in her as her strength ebbed away.
Then, during one afternoon visit, I found her lifeless body tucked up in bed, her waxen face now free from the careworn wrinkles, her soul released from her pain-torn body to the place where her heart had been for a long time. As I gazed through my tears at her lifeless but beautiful face, the truth that “blessed are they that die in the Lord” hit me with great power. Mrs. Bridges’ sorrows and struggles were over, she was forever reunited to her husband and son, but even more amazingly, she was in the presence of her Saviour, gazing upon His beauty.
As I looked around her poor, damp, sparsely furnished room and thought on her mansion in heaven, I could only rejoice for her but cry for myself, being once again bereft of one I loved. The old grief of losing my parents swept over me anew, and I sat down by the unlit stove, weeping uncontrollably. But the human mind is a strange thing, for as I lifted my head from my hands, it struck me that a painting on the wall was skew-whiff, and it suddenly became important to straighten it.
In times of great sorrow or shock, I have found that I seem to have a strangely heightened awareness of the trivial details, for example, that the hat worn by a bearer of bad news is at a strange angle or the individual’s coat is missing a button! Maybe I am alone in this or maybe it is a thing common to man. These trivial thoughts at a time of great seriousness have annoyed me as inappropriate and distracting follies, but over the years I’ve begun to wonder if they are the mind’s way of gradually processing and coping with shocking news—and somehow actually helpful!
So I straightened said painting, and this trivial action awoke my senses, lifting me from inertia, and I went to tell the neighbours.
CHAPTER 17
AS I TRIED TO CONTAIN
my grief, wanting to help with sorting out Mrs. Bridges’ cottage and the funeral arrangements, Edward was absorbed with preparations for a trip to Scotland with a shooting friend to enjoy the grouse season. A tailor was urgently instructed to produce a tweed shooting outfit, and a number of cases were packed, full of suitable clothes. His excitement infected the whole household, and everyone happily busied themselves on his behalf—the whole household, that is, except me: his enthusiasm could not penetrate my sadness.