by Tamara Gill
Exhausted after the long journey from London and the session with his daughters, the Earl sank back once more into the support of the deep leather armchair which had only just been vacated by Lady Amelia and, sighing, rubbed his temples fiercely. Collins, with his usual backward look at the study doors, which no one was allowed to open unbidden, sat down in the opposing chair, placing his brandy on the small table between the chair and the crackling fire.
“What did you mean by 'prodigies'... Perry.”
“I mean that my daughters, though I love them to distraction, and it's no use pretending otherwise with friends, are prodigies of ill-temper and ill-bred behaviour. Yes, ill-bred behaviour, and yet they are the products of two of the finest families in England? How do you account for it? Not one drop of my sweet wife in any of them, or of their father's... attempts at fortitude.”
“There really is no accounting for taste or character, Perry, in my humble opinion. And while I admit that they each have considerable room for improvement, still, I'd be far from giving up hope in them. You're full of cares too, with your vast load of responsibility, I know that you can ill spare the time necessary to dwell on domestic and familial difficulties.”
“Responsibilities. Indeed I am, and you have only the smallest view of the extent of them. If the populace knew of the true state of the country’s finances, and the depth of corruption in our institutions, all of these troubles and riots across the nation would unite into a single flame of reaction. We will have to take steps soon to get the nation's purse on a surer footing -if you'll excuse a rather mixed metaphor, and, as for the stupidity of these damned Corn Laws, well, let's not even talk about those.”
“As I say, you're full of worries, of state and home, and so, not having had the opportunity to observe your daughters as closely as I do, you despair of them too prematurely. Of course, they have been spoiled hideously, but how many young ladies are not these days? Clara is bossy and over-contemptuous with her sisters, but I'm convinced that once she has come out into society, has officially come of age, a new confidence in herself will eclipse these unpleasant attitudes.”
“I certainly hope so!”
“As for Harriet, she is not essentially bad – none of them are – she is envious of Clara, and takes her spite out on the servants. She certainly isn't a bully by nature, despite much of the talk below stairs. I've seen her looking quite troubled and pensive after giving sharp words to one of the staff, so there is hope. Amelia, well, yes, she is, as you say, quite the 'savage' and her tongue is dreaded by the whole household, but there is also cause for hope here - in her attachment to her personal maid Lizzie. The girl feels the loss of Lizzie very keenly indeed. And I think that she resents you for demoting the girl to an ordinary housemaid.”
“I'll reinstate her!”
“And dispense with Abigail? This is the girl's first post, and she has ailing parents to support.”
“I see.”
“But even if you did, Lizzie's health is not equal to the task of being Lady Amelia's maid again.”
“How so?”
“She seems to be very much weakened lately - the poor creature is racked by a truly disturbing cough. I had our usual doctor look at her, but he could find nothing.”
“I'll have her re-examined by Doctor Thurlwood, he'll know, or there's nothing to be known.”
The afternoon drew in as they exchanged confidences. Their friendship held a depth of care which no one else in the house or in wider society guessed at. Their talk moved quickly on from the state of Lizzie's health, but it was to be this plain ordinary housemaid who would change the Earl's fortunes, and those of his family, for good.
Chapter Two
Blackwood Chase was unique among the country seats of the English aristocracy for many reasons. The house itself - a three-centuries old fusion of architectural styles which ranged from Tudor Gothic to the neo-classicism of Palladio, the whole mellowed by time and constant, loving occupation - was a delight to the eye and the imagination. The judicious implementation of new, innovative farming methods, particularly the use of 'new-fangled' machinery which had been encouraged by the Earl, had eased the burden on his workers and labourers.
Moreover, the Earl ensured that his workers were insulated from the ravages of the post-war agricultural slump by paying them a full living-wage. It was a truly happy estate, a byword in the south of England for prudence, successful economy, and rational order. But it was also unique in that in no other home of the aristocracy would the death of a mere servant interrupt its smooth functioning. A month after the conversation between the Earl and Collins, Lizzie, Amelia's former personal maid, was in her grave. Doctor Thurlwood - a specialist in wasting diseases, diagnosed her case as an advanced form of consumption.
There was no hope. The young woman was told the truth of her condition, for Perry could not bear to allow the doctor to lie to her. She was told of its terminal nature - by the Earl himself, in person, with the doctor silently seated in a corner of his study. As in many such cases, Lizzie succumbed to the disease quickly, once told, but she had thanked him 'from the bottom of her heart' for telling her the truth of it and thus allowing her to prepare herself and her family as best she could. Lizzie's last moments were eased, not only by the laudanum which Thurlwood provided at Perry's expense, but by the knowledge that her benevolent employer had promised that her family would want for nothing.
The house was under a pall for days after Lizzie's death and funeral. The Earl himself, though habitually a sombre dresser, wore a black armband and looked as downcast as the servants, most of whom had loved and valued Lizzie for her indefatigable good humour, unfailing energy, and camaraderie.
Lady Amelia was inconsolable, but angrily so, regarding any attempts to placate her sobbing and groaning as clumsy interferences in her 'private grief’.
“'Private' and yet she insists that everyone in the house be made constantly aware of her torment, as if the grief of the rest of us was mere fakery.”
Clara and Harriet were frustrated by their sister, yet, in the end, simply left her be – for they could not deny that she had actually cared for Lizzie.
Collins, once again seated opposite Perry on an evening in early May, was enjoying a brandy and discussing the minutiae of his aristocratic friend's life and affairs.
“Yes, I did think that the shock of Lizzie's death might act as damper on Amelia's temper, that it would perhaps quiet the worst excesses of her behaviour. That she might, though she is, I admit, far too young to fully realise it, see that we are all mortal, servants and... fathers, and should be treated with more consideration. But no... no... What a disappointment the girl is, Edward!”
“She is young Perry, and, perhaps, through Lizzie's death, she is grieving again, feeling the horror again, of her mother's death.”
Perry pulled himself up in the leather armchair, almost spilling his glass in the process.
“I hadn't thought of that! Yes, that could well be the case!”
“And recall, the girl is not good at recognising her own true feelings, or of appreciating their power. Though, when it comes to that, how many of us are?”
“Edward, sometimes I think that our stations in life should be reversed. It should be I wearing that livery of yours and you with the seat in the House of Lords, and this one too.”
Perry, full of admiration for the insightful nature of his friend, patted his own armchair.
“Ach, Perry, you're as full of exaggeration as your daughters! I'm fine at fireside philosophising, but I quail before the mere thought of running an estate or of shouldering one of your even greater responsibilities. The management of this great house is quite enough of a challenge for me.”
“Oh, I don't know Edward, you'd be a huge success at Court – you know how to flatter.”
“And you know how to insult. I do not flatter my friends – or not unduly.”
“Devil take you man, here, quick, a refill.” Perry refilled their glasses, perilous
ly close to the very brim, and sat back down cautiously.
“I think you're right about Amelia's aggressive grieving. She did, does, feel the loss of Lydia keenly. I must, we all must, be as patient as we can with her, and endeavour to distract her. Clara and Harriet have, to my surprise – pleasant surprise – been more than a little affected by poor Lizzie's death also, though they are rapidly overcoming it.”
“I know. In fact, both of them are already becoming insistent that Lizzie be replaced.”
“What! Already?”
“Doubtless they'll be making themselves heard to you very shortly.”
“I'm extremely reluctant to replace Lizzie. I'm economising as it is on the household staff - we can manage well enough here – in order to keep paying our estate workers a full wage! The country is in dire straits economically. I want to continue to set an example to my aristocratic colleagues by paying decent solid wages. My God, the price of bread alone is causing riots! I wish to God those daughters of mine could understand what the wealth they see as a God-given right is built upon.” Perry stopped abruptly, disturbed by the anger his brandy-fuelled reflections were causing him. “No, of course, Clara, Harriet and Amelia are hardly to blame for not appreciating the condition of the country, insulated as all young ladies are – and rightly so – from the brutal facts of life.”
“Of course, but a little education along those lines wouldn't go amiss.”
“Perhaps not. Damn it, fatherhood is tougher than dealing with William Pitt! And far trickier.”
“Perhaps, but one day the rewards will outweigh the suffering,”
“Let the day come quickly!... Now, what's our line going to be on hiring, or not hiring a replacement for Lizzie?”
“Well, Perry, I did wonder, if a housemaid wasn’t the wrong hire to be considering. What do you think of the idea of hiring a governess, or a companion – of trying that path again? Surely, with the right person, the girls could make some progress towards being better prepared for society. Surely, there must be a woman somewhere who could make an impression on them?”
“Hah! I’ve had that thought myself – but, given the record in the past, I am not at all sure that it is possible to find someone who fits those criteria. I’d be willing to try – but I do not hold out great hope. The question is, even if I look for such a person, what do we do, in the short term, about replacing Lizzie, or not? Surely, finding a housemaid would be easier than finding a governess. But of course, that assumes that we want to employ a new housemaid, doesn’t it?”
~~~~~
After more discussion, the approach decided upon by the Earl and his secret confidante was that the household had to begin observing a stricter economy than it had been used to, as the expenses of the estate were increasing.
The economic well-being of his Lordship's land took precedence over the domestic considerations of his Lordship's home, for the time being, at least.
“Domestic considerations! Is that what you call them! But Papa my room is a pigsty, none of the upstairs maids know how to handle a duster properly, the covers of my bed are left sticking out like the straw behind some stableboy's ear, and my morning wash-water is cold, rather than tepid the way I like it. It's simply insupportable! We need a new maid immediately!”
“Clara dear, calm yourself.”
But rather than calming herself, Clara flounced over to the French windows of the main drawing room and stared out at the immaculately trimmed sweep of lawn, her back turned to her father.
“Clara's not exaggerating father, my room is in a similar state of upheaval. We really do need someone, and someone good for a change, not the lazy slovens you pity too much to get rid of. We need a good hard-working set of upstairs maids. Couldn't we have some Prussian ones like Phoebe Althorpe has? They're the best, she swears by them.”
“Yes Papa, Prussians, they were on our side against Napoleon remember?”
“And will the martial spirit of these Prussian maids be a match for the daily relentless battlefield which is your, and your sister's, bedrooms Harriet?”
“I'm convinced of it, Papa, Phoebe's bedroom and their whole house is as spotless and well-ordered as... as ...”
“A nunnery perhaps?”
“Oh Papa, don't be ironic, this is serious!”
“So serious that only irony will do my dear.”
“Papa never takes anything seriously. Except keeping the Prince Regent's pockets from emptying of money.”
Amelia's dry tones sounded from her father's favourite armchair by the fireplace, where she sat, morosely stabbing at a cold, unburnt log with the poker.
After the flash of anger that shot through him at the sound of these words, words that, spoken by a gentleman would demand immediate satisfaction, had subsided, Perry realised that anything his daughters took so deadly seriously would not be forgotten so easily. Was it worth it? Insisting on this, more than slightly spurious, 'economy?'
Though he was spared by his position from having to be the one to interview potential servants and retainers at Blackwood Chase, there came a moment when he had to approve the choice of his subordinates, and even this he found, for some obscure reason, onerous, distasteful.
Mistakes in hiring, mistakes that neither Collins or Mrs Temp had been able to correct, had been made in the past, and, ultimately the responsibility was his. He was loath to be responsible for further mistakes at this particularly sensitive time in the family's affairs. But wasn't this mere shirking, he asked himself?
He was head of the house, and if he wanted to 'set an example' he would have to overcome his uncharacteristic failure of nerve when it came to hiring staff, and set the wheels in motion.
After his daughters had gone to the 'pigsties' of their rooms he summoned Mrs Templeton and told her to start the process of finding a new upstairs maid.
~~~~~
Less than a week later Mary, the chattiest, most inquisitive – to put it politely – of the three longest-serving kitchen maids at Blackwood Chase, paused as she was lowering another pile of plates into the huge sink.
“I think we's got a burglar's runner sizing-up the place, Mrs Bell. Look, out by the stables.”
Mrs Bell, the Head Cook at Blackwood Chase, wiped her hands from the innards of the goose she was energetically preparing for that evening's dinner and came over to the sink to squint at what Mary was pointing at.
A flame-haired, very pale-looking young woman in cloak and bonnet was standing ten yards or so away on the cobbles of the stable-yard examining the back of the house, and, more importantly, the steaming sanctum of Mrs Bell's kitchen, nervously.
“What's you two gawping at then?”
Sarah, still polishing a big silver soup-tureen, joined the examination.
“Some tart – look at that red-hair – up from Gin Lane looking for custom. Let's set her on the right road, shall we Missus Bell?”
“Tart or burglar's runner, she's no business gawping at my kitchen.”
Wiping her hands again, the stalwart Mrs Bell yanked open the back door and delivered a volley of her choicest abuse at the red-haired young woman, while Mary and Sarah clutched each other, giggling. But rather than withdrawing, the young woman approached, her face flushed.
“Who on God's earth do you think you are, to talk to a stranger like that?”
Mrs Bell, briefly taken aback, quickly rallied.
“I am Mrs Bell, Head Cook of this here Blackwood Chase, home of His Lordship Peregrine Stapleton, Earl of Blackwood, close confidant of His Majesty the King and The Prince Regent, God Bless them both. And what, may I ask, are you to address me so sharpish?”
With the hint of a smile curling her soft red full lips, doubtless at Mrs Bell's crude but affected manner of speech, the young lady stepped up close to her rude and officious interrogator.
“I have an appointment with a Mrs Templeton, Head Housekeeper of 'this here' house. I was told to present myself at the servants' entrance by the stables, but I can't seem to locate it. I'
d be grateful if you could either point me to the entrance or inform Mrs Templeton that I'm here.”
“She's come for Lizzie's job! Must be!”
Mary hissed at Sarah, who was still wiping the inside of the tureen, unable to remove her eyes from the flame-haired woman who was so obviously undaunted by Mrs Bell.
“Oh, a fine-lady like that... nevaah!”
The girl's clutched each other tightly, as a fresh wave of hilarity gripped them.
But Mary was right, though far from being aristocratic, there was something in the bearing and manner – despite the clean but threadbare clothing - of this pale-skinned young woman that spoke of at least some breeding, and learning. She spoke firmly and confidently, and with a slight, indefinable northern accent, unlike anyone from the area, certainly unlike anyone the denizens of the kitchen had encountered.
“You has an appointment is it? And how do I know that, in short – madam – where's your proof?”
The young woman, without removing a pair of unyielding hard green eyes from the one-headed Cerberus of the cook, slid her long pale fingers into the side-pocket of her coat, and withdrew a folded paper. Mrs Bell, returning her look, held out her greasy palm, like some cynical border-official. The young lady, that hint of a smile returning to uncurl itself, equally as cynically, across her very pronounced lips, paused with the paper above the cook's palm.
“Mrs Bell!”
A door abruptly opened in one of the low stone outbuildings to the left and Mrs Bell, despite her great weight, almost jumped.
“You must be Mrs Leslie. I'm Mrs Templeton, please come this way... Mrs Bell, his Lordship has just informed me that we will have two extra guests for dinner, their Lordships Shenstone and Marsden. You know Lord Shenstone's fondness for game pie and Lord Marsden's attachment to your apple crumbles. They'll be dining an hour early... Mrs Leslie, this way.”
