The Downstairs Maid (23 page)

Yet her taste of waiting on Miss Amy had made her feel that she might prefer to be a lady’s personal maid. Mrs Hattersley had spoken of long hours and Emily knew that was true. Her mother had told her about sitting up to two, three or four o’clock in the morning when there was an important ball. During the London season that might happen for five or six nights out of the week, but against that was the pleasure of handling beautiful clothes and seeing her lady dressed in her finery and jewels. However, Miss Amy would pick Mary unless she advertised for someone new, because Mary knew how she liked her hair.

What was Emily doing, thinking of a future in service? This job was only supposed to be for a short time, just until her father was well and able to earn a living again.

She began to whistle a tune. So far, working at the manor hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared. She walked briskly because the wind was cool, lifting her hand to wave to one of the gardeners. They were all much friendlier now and Emily was used to fetching the vegetables they needed for dinner, getting to know her way about and the people who worked here. Two of the gardeners were older men with families, but there was also a young lad who was learning his trade. He did a lot of the digging and fetching and carrying; a bit like her, Emily thought. At the moment she was a maid of all work, but she didn’t intend to spend the rest of her life this way. She wanted something better – and now that she’d seen a little of the house upstairs she thought she’d rather be above than below stairs.

The house was grand in its proportions with many more rooms than she’d yet seen, the windows small paned but letting in plenty of light because there were enough of them, not dark upstairs as it was in some of the rooms below stairs. The furniture was grand too – at least most of it was. Emily thought some of the wooden-seated chairs she’d seen were not much better than her Pa had in his barns, except that these were in better condition and well polished. Lady Prior seemed to be a hoarder and there were oak hutches, chairs and tables set at intervals all along the landings. On each of the tables stood a tall vase made of porcelain with odd-looking figures Emily thought might be Chinese painted all over them, and there were tall silver candlesticks and big brass bowls that she thought must be filled with rose petals, because there was a lovely smell.

It was a strange household, because everyone seemed to have their own favourite rooms and they furnished them differently. Emily hadn’t seen inside most of them herself, but Tomas had told her what they were like. June did most of the polishing but Tomas helped her do the various parlours and he’d described the furniture in the grand drawing room. He’d told Emily there were far too many objects that needed dusting and June said she spent half her time polishing bits of glass and photograph frames.

‘She can’t need the half of them,’ June had complained. ‘It takes twice as long to get round as it should because of all the clutter. Some of it is precious but some of it’s no more than rubbish in my opinion.’

Emily wondered what it would be like to live amongst such clutter and decided that if she were a part of the family she would sweep half of it away and have new. Laughing to herself, because it was never going to happen, she began to run.

Emily realised she’d taken the wrong turning once more. After her return from the vicarage, Mrs Hattersley had sent her for more vegetables, but instead of the kitchen courtyard she’d ended up in the rose garden. The roses were not yet in flower but she could see the buds beginning to form on the bushes and guessed that they would be glorious in summer. From here she could see the house to advantage, its windows gleaming in the sunshine. The yellow brickwork looked in better condition here at the side of the house and there was something beautiful about the clean lines of its architecture, as if it had been built at a different period to the older buildings at the back. She thought this wing had probably been added on at a later date to the main wing; it looked like some of the glossy pictures of buildings in London she’d seen in books, which had been described as mid-Georgian period with a French influence. She wished there was someone she could ask about things like that, but Mrs Hattersley probably wouldn’t know and Mr Payne never had time to gossip with the likes of Emily.

Dreaming again! She was in the wrong place and she wasn’t sure where she’d made her mistake. When would she learn to tell her right from her left? She’d better retrace her steps and hope one of the gardeners would set her right. Miss Amy had said something about a water butt …

Just as she was about to turn back she heard a voice and halted. Someone was talking – or rather declaiming aloud. It sounded odd and Emily crept closer to the source until she could see the man walking up and down the rose arbour. It was Mr Nicolas. She’d hardly seen him since she’d been working at the manor and her heart took a flying leap as she remembered their dance. Looking at him from her hiding place, she thought he had the most beautiful face of any man she’d ever seen. Thin and sensitive and … just lovely. What on earth was he doing?

‘
Moonlight in her hair …

I turn and she is there …

But when I reach for her she is gone …

And all the bright pleasures …’

He stopped abruptly and shook his head. ‘No, not pleasures. Shorter – has to be shorter.’

‘
And all the sweet joys of life are gone …

For in her grave my beloved lies …

And my soul in despair cries …

Out and only the dark cold earth may ease …

My pain and give me peace …’

As Emily watched he ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head as if in pain, clearly dissatisfied with his work.

‘No, no, it’s not right … no soul … no soul …’

Mr Nicolas was a poet and obviously he was in some torment over his work. To Emily it was like a play or the pictures, but funnier. She was caught up by the drama of his torment and a sound that was part sympathy, part laughter escaped her.

He whirled round looking for the source of the sound but a bower of rose bushes hid Emily from his view. As he took a step towards her, she ran back the way she had come, not wanting him to know that she had witnessed his struggle to compose a poem he thought worthy. Emily thought the words beautiful – and he was beautiful, so fine and tortured and sensitive – but he thought his work was no good and he would not wish to be overheard. Besides, if she were caught spying on the family when she ought to be at work she might be dismissed. She saw the old green-painted water butt and made a beeline for it as she remembered what Miss Amy had told her.

This time she took the right turning and soon found herself in the familiar kitchen courtyard. An old wooden chair was outside the door and Billy the boot boy was cleaning a pair of gentleman’s riding boots at a bench he’d set up, polishing them with a brush for all he was worth. A cat lay dozing in the sunshine and by the look of it she was expecting kittens soon. Billy grinned at her as she passed and Emily smiled, enjoying the sound of his cheerful whistling. Mrs Hattersley looked at her suspiciously as she entered the large room.

‘And where have you been, miss?’ she asked. ‘You’ve taken your time.’

‘I got lost again,’ Emily apologised. ‘I’ll make a start on the vegetables as soon as I’ve washed the dishes.’

‘You’ll lose your head one of these days, my girl. Get on with you before I lose my patience.’

Emily was laughing as she went into the scullery. It was worth a little scold to have witnessed what she’d seen and heard.

Emily could hear an odd noise in the pantry, a scuffling sound that made her wonder. She opened the door and went in, giving a little cry of alarm as she saw the mouse scuttle away and disappear behind some jars and tins on the floor. It had come from the second shelf and on investigation Emily discovered it had been at a sack of dried fruit. There was either more than one or it had been going on for a while, because a hole had been nibbled through at one corner. She picked the little sack up and took it through to the kitchen to show Mrs Hattersley.

‘Mice!’ the cook shuddered. ‘I hate those things. Filthy little beasts! This ought to have been put in a stone jar. Did you leave it out, Emily?’

‘I’ve never seen it before this morning.’

‘It was probably the last girl. Come to think of it, it’s months since I ordered these. Well, I’ll have to throw this out now.’

‘Only one corner has been nibbled. Could you use just the top half if I put the fruit in a jar?’

‘What are you talking about! Throw it out. I won’t use contaminated stuff in my kitchen – and tell Tomas to set some traps.’

Emily took the sack through to the back room and placed it in a basket. Her mother wouldn’t be so fussy. She’d use the top half and throw the stuff near where the mouse had been out for the birds.

Tomas came in as she was washing the shelf down and making certain nothing else was at risk from the mice. He shook his head when she told him that Mrs Hattersley wanted traps set.

‘The damned creatures seem to know what you’re after. They nibble the cheese and escape before the pin drops. I hardly ever manage to catch one.’

‘You need to find where they get in and block it. That’s what Pa did – and we had a cat that caught any that found their way in.’

‘A cat?’ Tomas nodded. ‘There are plenty of strays in the stable. I’ll shut one in here tonight. Cook will never know the difference.’

‘Do you think you ought?’ Emily looked at him doubtfully. ‘Make sure there’s nothing the cat can get at or we’ll have trouble from Mrs Hattersley.’

Tomas glanced round. ‘Nothing here to hurt I can see. Just make sure the meat and fish are on the top shelf and covered. I’m telling you, a cat is twice as good as a trap.’

‘Emily!’ Mrs Hattersley’s cry of anguish brought her running from the scullery the next morning. The cook was staring at the kitchen table and quivering with temper. ‘What’s wrong?’ Emily couldn’t see anything on the table but the plate with Lord Barton’s kippers. ‘What’s happened?’

‘A cat – that’s what,’ Mrs Hattersley said. ‘It sneaked in here and jumped on the table while my back was turned. I caught it sniffing at those kippers. I scared it off but the damage is done. How can I serve those to his lordship now?’

Emily looked closer. She could see one set of teeth marks where the cat had taken a quick bite before being driven away.

‘We could cut that bit off the side and just run the rest under the tap. The heat of the frying pan will kill any germs – besides, it’s only touched a little bit on the edge here.’

‘I can’t and won’t serve those to his lordship.’

‘I’ll have them then,’ Emily said. ‘Kippers are a real treat – but what will you give his lordship?’

Mrs Hattersley looked thoughtful. ‘He’s fond of his kippers and he always has them on a Friday. What am I to do?’

‘Why don’t I just do this …?’ Emily took a sharp knife and cut away a slice down one side, then did the other to match. ‘There – he’ll never know and the cat didn’t touch the rest.’

Mrs Hattersley hesitated, then, ‘You’d better trim the other to match or he’ll wonder why only one has been done.’

Emily trimmed the second kipper to match. ‘They look a proper treat. Don’t be so anxious. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

‘If he dies of food poisoning I shall blame you.’

Emily laughed. ‘Believe me, there’s a good many eat worse and never take sick. Honestly, the cat hardly touched it.’

‘Well, against my better judgement …’

Emily smiled as she picked up the scraps and took them out to the yard. The pregnant cat was hiding under an upturned wheelbarrow. She laid the bits of kipper down for it and returned to the scullery. Three dead mice had been found when Tomas opened the pantry that morning. She reckoned the cat had earned her fish.

‘You’d best get off then,’ Mrs Hattersley said at the end of the week. ‘Take the basket I’ve prepared. There’s some calves foot jelly, which is good for weak chests. Your mother will know how to use it. I’m sending some of my special pickles and a joint of gammon for her to cook. It’s my way of saying thank you to Mrs Carter for letting me have her daughter.’

Emily thanked her. Mrs Hattersley had been complimented on her new way of serving his lordship’s kippers, and this was Emily’s reward, ‘Ma will be pleased with the things you’ve sent. It wasn’t necessary but it’s good of you.’

‘Well, I’m allowed a few perks in my position and I like to share them. You’re not the only one to take home a few bits when you visit.’ She nodded and her three chins waggled with satisfaction. ‘Has Mrs Marsh paid you?’

‘Yes, she has. She told me she has decided to keep me on – and if I give good service my wage will go up to a pound a week soon.’

‘Have a good day then.’

Emily shrugged on her coat and then picked up the basket. ‘I shan’t be late this evening. I’ll tell you what my mother says when I get back.’

The sun was warm. Summer was really here now and it felt wonderful to have the day off and to be going home. She’d settled into the routine of the house and was enjoying her work, but it was still a good feeling to be free for once. She hummed a little tune as she walked across the fields, which were bright with wild flowers. On such a lovely day there was no need to waste money on bus fares; she could easily walk to her home.

There were people in the village as she walked through, women standing outside houses with cream-washed walls, in their aprons, often with a long broom or a duster in their hands, giving the windows a polish to make them shine in the sun. Some of the houses were very old, long and low with thatched roofs and small windows. Two men in working clothes were driving a farm wagon, the horse’s coat gleaming with health, and its tail tied with red ribbons. She saw the milk cart ahead of her and waved, because she knew the man driving it. To her surprise, he halted his cart and beckoned to her.

‘Going home, Em?’

‘Yes, Bill. It’s my day off.’

‘Climb up then and I’ll take you a part of the way.’