Authors: Martine Bailey
I begged him to explain, longing to prove my worth in some practical fashion.
‘In all the bustle of the wedding, I have foolishly overlooked the provision of ready money.’ He laughed; an embarrassed little cough. ‘My mother paid the treacherous Mrs Harper for the coming year, but we now face unexpected expenses. If you, dear Grace, could sign a simple paper, we may proceed at once.’
Dear
Grace – so tight-wound were my nerves that the words were like balm to me. I told him I would.
While he fetched the paper, I recalled Mr Tully telling me that I alone must be signatory to any transactions. And, less comfortably, I remembered his insistence that I consult him before raising any loans.
When I glanced at the paper placed before me, I quailed to see the large sum named:
To draw the sum of One Thousand Pounds upon the account of Mrs Michael Croxon, at Hoare’s Bank, London.
‘Of course, such a sum will allow us to begin the building of the mill,’ he said, looking pained at the need to speak of it. I did a rapid calculation. Using one thousand of my three thousand pounds to build the mill would use a third of my capital. Still, I felt a powerful need to prove myself a support to Michael in setting up the business. I signed my name, but remembering Mr Tully’s warning about the value of my signature, I then ensured it had my own seal upon it. I was rewarded with another radiant smile.
‘Now let us get out of this gloomy place. Until more servants are found, shall we stay the night at the George? What do you say to some good food and company, Grace?’
In truth, I should rather have gone up at once to our chamber. But our boxes were still close by, and he was already searching for a better coat. With a heavier step I rummaged in my own trunk for a clean gown. In a dusty antechamber I pulled on a puce-striped gown that his mother had thought fashionable, but that I considered rather bold. When I returned, Michael eyed my costume critically.
‘You need a reliable maid to help you,’ he said, straightening my sash, and then kissing me as lightly as a pecking bird.
So he does care for me a little, I thought. He took my arm and led me to the door, opening it most gallantly. Not since John Francis had left, had I felt the protective care of a man. That morning I found it irresistible, like having a soft-spun blanket wrapped about me, that promised warmth and ease for the rest of my life.
12
Delafosse Hall
September 1792
~ Chicken Pie My Best Way ~
Clean and pick a pair of chickens, cut in pieces as you would for a fricassee, season with pepper, salt and mace; have ready your raised crust, put in the chicken with a little broth, ornament it and bake for two hours. While it is baking, get ready a quarter pint of green peas, boil them till tender, boil a quarter pint of cream for ten minutes then throw in the peas with a piece of butter and flour, a little salt and nutmeg. Let it simmer five minutes, raise up the lid of the pie and pour it in, add a little juice of lemon and serve it up hot.
A wholesome summer pie, as told by Nan Homefray
In the street below Peg’s lodging house the Michaelmas hiring fair had started up. She watched a line of men gather, each bearing a sign of their calling: shepherds bearing crooks, cowmen a tuft of cow’s hair in their hat brims. Farmers moved appraisingly amongst them, questioning and prodding them. Across the street the women stood at the Market Cross: a motley huddle, from sulky girls with their mothers, to crooked old granddames. Most were hardened domestics, women with brawny arms and drab hand-stitched costumes. The only other women carrying ladles were a dirty-looking blubber-guts and a wretch with the look of a gin-biber. Those who met success headed straight to the ale benches, eager to spend their bond money as fast as they might.
Peg was amused by a buxom girl fending off a farmer. ‘Me wife be on her last legs,’ he pleaded, so loudly she could hear every word through the open window. ‘Come wi’ me, and once she’s out t’way, I’ll hire thee for life at t’altar.’
‘Tha’s old enough to be me grandfather,’ she laughed, tossing her head.
Just then the door barged open; it was only Sue, who’d been sharing her chamber.
‘Me feet are murderin’ me.’ Sue flung herself onto the edge of Peg’s bed and started hauling off her boots. Grimacing, she inspected the purple toes peeping out of her stockings. ‘I must have carried near a hundred dinners today. I hate fairs even more ’n market day. I’ve had enough, Peg. I’m going for a place at that Miss Sybilla Claybourn’s. Housemaid, it is, but easy work for just one lady.’
‘That’s a pretty name, Sybilla Claybourn. Who’s she?’
‘The one what has Riverslea out by the river. Next to that Delafosse Hall you was asking about.’ Sue prattled on about her new mistress, the chance to make a life of ease, the petty tricks by which she might add to her own purse. ‘And t’other news is that Harper woman’s gone and bolted from Delafosse Hall.’
‘Where’s she got to?’
‘Got a better place somewhere else, they say. Took her year’s wages, too. Can’t say I blame her, that place’s been empty for years; only them town-bred blockheads would rent it. Oh, and you’ll like this, I seen that Delafosse woman in the square.’
‘What’s she like?’
Sue laughed scornfully. ‘You can’t miss her. Uppish type, wearing a frock made of thin yellow stuff and a straw bonnet crawling with ribbons.’
Peg finally turned around and affected a smile. Sue looked her up and down.
‘I never knew you had such a green gown afore.’
‘This? I told you. I’m going to get a position.’
Sue yawned, showing a mouthful of black teeth. ‘Left it a bit late in’t you?’
‘Oh, there are plenty of positions still going.’
‘Where? That Delafosse Hall?’ Sue smirked. ‘We could be neighbours, Peg. Call on each other for a spot of company on our days off.’
After Sue left, Peg returned to the window to see that the buxom girl had not stood her ground against the farmer. Already he eyed her like a fatted calf. She knew that calculating side-glance; when the loins were hot and the eyes were as cold as flint.
Ah, there she was, the woman in yellow who must be Mrs Croxon. All Peg’s senses quickened. What a beanpole, she crowed to herself – stooped shoulders, gown ill-fitting. Why, she looked a born bleater – no match at all for Peg Blissett. She picked up her borrowed ladle, went downstairs, and sauntered over to the new mistress of Delafosse Hall. Then, gathering all her sweetness, Peg smiled at Mrs Croxon.
The woman responded with a slight bow of her head, and then said, so quietly that Peg could barely hear her, ‘I see by the ladle you must be a cook. Am I led to believe – are you—’
Mrs Croxon had a nasty rash, and slovenly-dressed hair. But looking more closely she was not so ill-looking. And her voice was so pleasant and genteel that Peg couldn’t stop herself aping it.
‘I am sorry, mistress. I am bonded to be Cook Housekeeper to Miss Sybilla Claybourn, of Riverslea House.’
‘Oh, what a very great shame.’ The Croxon woman turned aside, then blinked and turned back. ‘And that is a binding agreement?’ Her desperation was writ very large across her face.
‘Well, mistress, Miss Claybourn was most satisfied with my character, given by Mistress Humphries – see, it is here.’ She pulled her fake paper out, pointing at words and distracting her with patter. ‘Miss Claybourn wants a cook with the art of confectionary, you see, she is such a famous one for company and revels. Trouble is,’ she added, ‘I’m to wait here a month – which is a nuisance, especially as there’s been no money yet.’
As sure as eggs, Mrs Croxon perked up. ‘I don’t know if this is irregular, but I can pay you at once.’
‘But what shall I say to Miss Claybourn?’
‘I see. What a shame. I suppose you have given your word.’ She began to walk away.
Peg could barely credit it. Trotting after her, she suggested, ‘If your need is greater, so is mine. I am rather out of pocket.’
‘So if I were to offer you five shillings today, in advance?’
Five poxy bob? She could have got ten times that if she worked the crowd at the tavern.
‘That would suit me well,’ she assured her. ‘Only – Miss Claybourn might think I made it all up, about another offer. Are you acquainted with her?’
‘Not at all. I’m newly arrived here.’
‘Perhaps if you wrote to her? Then we can strike up an agreement here and now.’
‘I believe I shall.’ Mrs Croxon was overjoyed.
From this exchange Peg grasped the key to Mrs Croxon’s character. She was a follower of that balderdash idol – honourable dealing; and her weakness was a wish to please. To a fly-girl like her, these were the lock-picks to the soul.
Peg’s reward was the Croxon’s Letter of Credit. At the butcher’s, the grocer’s, the baker’s, Peg set it down on the counter with a flourish. Dishes and receipts formed like starbursts in her mind, trailing myriad ingredients. For one she needed rosewater, cherries, and almonds, for another pistachios, chocolate, and cream – soon she lost her way, and ordered whatever her whimsy suggested. Unfolding her neat credential, Peg looked eagerly for Mrs Croxon’s signature but found to her disappointment, the ragged scrawl of ‘Michael George Croxon Esquire’.
By noon the kitchen was half-sorted. For her part, Peg had recruited some local women for the laundry and heavy work, and she directed them to scrub every kitchen flagstone and shelf. With gusto she oversaw the delivery of the first parcels and baskets of food. Some part of her that had gaped emptily for years began to grow easy. This is all mine, she crowed to herself. She sniffed and tasted and arranged her jars, baskets, and vats, all the time sketching out long dreamed-of feasts.
Her first botheration was what to serve the Croxons for dinner. The galling truth came home to her that she must make breakfast, dinner, and supper, day after poxy day. Sweet stuffs were no trouble; she had the makings of custards and a medlar tart, and best of all, a gooseberry pudding. But as for savoury dishes, the last time she had cooked meat was out in the Colony, where kangaroo rats had been top bill of fare. She racked her brain-box for how Aunt Charlotte had kept the Palace fed at all hours. There had been lots of pots steaming and bubbling on the fire, and long hours of peeling, chopping, and beating. She would have to find a slavey down at the village to take it on. Then, luck favouring the brave, the answer appeared before her, in the shape of an ancient baggage named Nan, who seemed to think she had a right to the kitchen fireside. Peg looked her up and down. ‘So what can you do?’
To her surprise, the old mopsy mumbled about the workings of the great fire, and how to set the horrible, old-fangled contraption in motion.
‘And the pastry oven,’ Nan wittered, ‘though it’s many years since I had the makings of a pie.’
‘You? Bake, can you?’
‘Aye.’
‘What other dishes do you know?’
The crone scratched her wrinkled cheek. ‘I cannot read or owt, but I do keep them old receipts safe in my noddle.’ She began to recite a surprisingly impressive list. ‘White soup, Roast Meat in Crumbs, Mutton Ragoo, Yorkshire Pudding, Chicken Pie, Mint Sauce, Apple Sauce, Bread Sauce, Marigold Tart—’
‘No need for the sweet stuffs, I’m a dab hand at those myself.’ Peg put on a hard, considering face. ‘I could give you a trial, I suppose. But I won’t have any lazybones in my kitchen, do you hear? I’ll give you a test and we’ll see how you go. Make that Chicken Pie for dinner and I’ll give it a taste. Go on, ready at three o’clock; the makings are in the larder.’
Nan shuffled off, her eyes frightened, but hopeful.
‘And you can move your stuff out of here to the scullery,’ Peg shouted after her.
The only other permanent domestics she employed were two ugly sisters, Bess and Joan, who would certainly keep no delivery boys lingering at the back door. As for the other servants, they must come and go from the village as she needed them. She wanted no inside servants tittle-tattling behind her back.